Richard had to stop for a moment until the mirth waned. “Wait—even worse. The whole thing—all caught on tape! Some guy passing by taped the whole thing on his iPhone then, kani nah, post on the Internet! Wuahahahaha—the rich fucker so embarrassed he can’t even drive his ten-year-old son to school anymore, you know! The moment he show up, the parents, teachers, even his son’s friends all laughing, pointing pointing at him for being such a no-balls fucker. This type of loser, better just do the world a favor and drown himself, lah.”

Jackson had to wipe his eyes on his rolled-up sleeves. He hadn’t laughed so much or for so long in many years. Could it be the ganja? Looking at Seng and Richard, clinking their beer cans now, he felt such love for them. How could he have wondered whether or not to come out with them? They would be brothers forever! He raised up his can and clinked it to theirs.

Seng started chuckling softly as he pulled out another piece of paper and began intently rolling. Richard opened a new packet of Twisties and passed it over to Jackson, who popped a few in his mouth and slowly chewed. He hadn’t eaten Twisties in more than ten years—they were nowhere to be found in Chicago, for starters. But feeling the crunchy salty bits in his mouth and licking the yellow chicken-flavored dust off his fingers, he vowed to make sure he didn’t go another ten years without eating Twisties.

“Guys,” he said solemnly, “Twisties, I tell you, are really the best, man.”

Seng looked at Richard, who looked back at him. Both of them directed a middle finger at Jackson and started giggling wildly again.

Jackson wondered if perhaps he’d had enough, but when Seng handed him the joint, he just took it and puffed. They grew silent, staring up at the glowing night sky and the skinny streetlamps nearby, sighing occasionally as they passed the joint around until it was dead.

In the sweet haze, Jackson felt himself getting carried along—chuckling at the rhythms of a life he had forgotten. He hadn’t felt this free in ages—so open, so happy.

“This one—even more best,” Richard said after a moment. “Recently, ah, in Singapore, people all kau beh about this new homeless problem, lah. I guess, in recession, some people lost their homes or these foreign workers can’t afford their cheap housing anymore, so they just sleep on those long stone benches at night. You look outside kopitiams, all also got one. So, government got no choice, lah—minister of home affairs make a speech, all, tell everyone don’t worry, he has a plan. So, we all wondering, what is this plan? Put all these guys in a home? Or give them training, help them find jobs? Or what?

“Then one day,” Seng continued, “Singaporeans woke up and went to their kopitiams for breakfast—and realized that, eh, very funny, but the benches all suddenly looked different. The government overnight had installed these metal arm dividers so now people cannot lie down! This is their brilliant plan, man—make the benches so uncomfortable that homeless people cannot sleep there anymore! Must find somewhere else to sleep. Wah, this one—really smart, man! In the government’s eyes, problem solved.”

This couldn’t possibly be true! They had to be making it up. Jackson looked at Seng and Richard and just wanted to hug them. He couldn’t ask for better friends. Why hadn’t he moved back to Singapore? No one in Chicago made him feel as carefree and full as they did. He had never missed home before—after leaving for college in the States, his main mission had been to stay away from a world that had never quite made sense to him. He rarely thought about home, never felt guilty about not looking back.

“Eh, okay, one more,” Seng said. “Then I take you to see something funny. Richard, tell him about the army guy—I need to take a piss.”

As Seng wandered off toward some trees in the distance, Richard opened another three cans and passed one to Jackson. “Okay, there was this soldier, doing that compulsory military service shit, lah. Skinny guy, young kid. Apparently, one day on his way to reporting to duty, the guy was walking from his flat texting on his phone or some shit—and his scrawny maid is walking behind him, carrying his gigantic heavy army rucksack for him! The girl was so tiny that the rucksack was half her size and she was all bent over! Some other guy took a photo of this and posted it online—wah, crazy times, man! The photo went viral, everyone angry. The army had to launch investigation into who the no-balls soldier was, apologize all. Everyone laugh until crazy.”

Unbelievable! Jackson was in hysterics now—he could hardly breathe. Seng, who had returned halfway through the story, was bent over and laughing too, even slapping Jackson on the back. Jackson didn’t even care that the bugger had probably not wiped his hands.

Seng took his beer, downed the entire thing, crumpled the can in his fist, and said, “Come, we have to show you something.” Richard and Jackson drained their beers as Seng rolled another joint, slipped it into his shirt pocket, then swept all remnants of their evening into the red plastic bag.

Seng didn’t live far from Zouk, a nightclub that many teenagers and twenty-somethings packed on weekends when the three of them were kids. So when he started wending the familiar path that had taken them toward Zouk many a night after they’d spent a good hour at Seng’s flat gelling up their hair and making sure their patterned silk shirts were untucked just so, Jackson knew where they were going.

“Eh, bugger, I’m not sure if I feel up for clubbing tonight,” Jackson said.

“Aiyoh—just trust us, lah,” Richard said. His mood had shifted so much that he hadn’t even pulled out his phone since they’d sat down. He and Seng were periodically erupting into giggles for absolutely no reason. “This one, you really must see.”

When they got to the club, Seng walked to the front of the line packed with about fifty teens in miniskirts or drainpipe-tight jeans. He had a quick chat with the bouncer. When the man unhooked the velvet rope, Seng told the guys to follow him in, through a labyrinth of dark narrow hallways and up a flight of steps, toward a second-floor terrace overlooking the vast dance floor.

Leaning over the metal railing, the three of them mashed together, peeping down, just like they’d done in the past when they would play the which-girl-would-you-pok? game. (Only Seng had actually gotten lucky that way.)

“Look,” Seng said, pointing toward the floor and the four raised cube podiums anchoring each corner of the large room, as the first beats of Belinda Carlisle’s “Summer Rain” started up. The five hundred or so people packing the dance floor all started making the same hand gestures, entirely in unison—jazz hands fluttering downward for “rain,” pointing toward their heads at the word “dream.”

This might be what a North Korean military dance would look like, Jackson thought.

The precision dancing continued through “Square Rooms,” and Bananarama’s “Love in the First Degree,” when, to their credit, the teens got slightly more emotive as they mimed the words, “Guilty! Of Love in the first degree …”

“Don’t even try to actually dance to these songs,” Seng said. “Those kids will push you off the fucking podium and spit on you for not knowing the right move.” The three of them burst out laughing so hard they had to hold onto one another so they wouldn’t fall onto the zombies below.

Seng pulled out a joint and lit it up. When Jackson looked worried, Seng pointed toward the crowd around them—everyone was smoking and ashing on the floor. “Smoking section,” Seng mumbled, inhaling and then passing the joint to Jackson.

Soon they noticed a tall guy standing next to them. He had nicely gelled hair and a small scar on his forehead. And he was staring at the joint that was now in Richard’s hand.