Today, I received a text message from a friend informing me that one of my oldest friends, Melissa, had passed away in California this past Saturday.
When I received the text, I was holding my phone in one hand, and slowly pushing my house gate open with the other hand, tottering across my driveway in my heels, late for work yet again. The automatic gates have been acting up, and now instead of just pressing that handy little clicker to open and shut the gates, I had to painstakingly get out of my car and shake the stubborn gates until they yielded open each time I entered and exited the house.
I stopped and leaned against the gate with one hand, re-reading the text message on my phone. "Melissa passed away last Saturday. I’m sorry to break it to you guys through SMS."
I was sorry as well. I was sorry that Melissa and I had grown so apart from each other that I would have to hear about her death through a text message from a common friend, 3 days after she passed away. I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw her.
I met Melissa in Middle School. We were as alike as Night and Day – me the goody two shoes with my tucked-in shirts and hair bands, and her with her silver jewelry and clunky black Doc Marten boots, which in retrospect, must have looked ridiculous on her lithe adolescent legs. But for some reason, despite our stark differences, while sitting in 6th grade Spanish class, furtively passing written notes to each other when Señora Forsgren wasn’t looking, we became the best of friends.
I was the shy and quiet girl who did her homework, obeyed the rules and was liked by teachers; I had figured out that being vanilla was the easiest way to survive the social maze of judgmental kids that was Middle School. Melissa’s big personality, infectious silliness, her blatant disregard for school rules and teachers, and rebellious antics were exciting and thrilling. She was so very different from my vanilla friends, girls I had known since my Girl Scouts days who wore neon-colored shoelaces and ate Fruit Roll-up for lunch. Melissa wasn't afraid to talk to boys or talk back to teachers (followed by many hours racked up in detention), but she was also fearlessly loyal and wickedly funny.
We recorded our pre-pubescent ideals, hopes and dreams for the future, and crushes on Middle School boys in letters to each other, written in thin notebooks which we would exchange, signing off as Tequila (me), and Gin & Tonic (her). The nicknames were her idea of course, a precursor to how much faster than me Melissa would grow up in the years to come. I had no idea what Tequila was at the age of 11, but would draw a pretty little picture of a tall drink with ice cubes and a cocktail umbrella next to my given moniker, my idea of what a Tequila drink looked like.
When I received the text, I was holding my phone in one hand, and slowly pushing my house gate open with the other hand, tottering across my driveway in my heels, late for work yet again. The automatic gates have been acting up, and now instead of just pressing that handy little clicker to open and shut the gates, I had to painstakingly get out of my car and shake the stubborn gates until they yielded open each time I entered and exited the house.
I stopped and leaned against the gate with one hand, re-reading the text message on my phone. "Melissa passed away last Saturday. I’m sorry to break it to you guys through SMS."
I was sorry as well. I was sorry that Melissa and I had grown so apart from each other that I would have to hear about her death through a text message from a common friend, 3 days after she passed away. I couldn’t even remember the last time I saw her.
I met Melissa in Middle School. We were as alike as Night and Day – me the goody two shoes with my tucked-in shirts and hair bands, and her with her silver jewelry and clunky black Doc Marten boots, which in retrospect, must have looked ridiculous on her lithe adolescent legs. But for some reason, despite our stark differences, while sitting in 6th grade Spanish class, furtively passing written notes to each other when Señora Forsgren wasn’t looking, we became the best of friends.
I was the shy and quiet girl who did her homework, obeyed the rules and was liked by teachers; I had figured out that being vanilla was the easiest way to survive the social maze of judgmental kids that was Middle School. Melissa’s big personality, infectious silliness, her blatant disregard for school rules and teachers, and rebellious antics were exciting and thrilling. She was so very different from my vanilla friends, girls I had known since my Girl Scouts days who wore neon-colored shoelaces and ate Fruit Roll-up for lunch. Melissa wasn't afraid to talk to boys or talk back to teachers (followed by many hours racked up in detention), but she was also fearlessly loyal and wickedly funny.
We recorded our pre-pubescent ideals, hopes and dreams for the future, and crushes on Middle School boys in letters to each other, written in thin notebooks which we would exchange, signing off as Tequila (me), and Gin & Tonic (her). The nicknames were her idea of course, a precursor to how much faster than me Melissa would grow up in the years to come. I had no idea what Tequila was at the age of 11, but would draw a pretty little picture of a tall drink with ice cubes and a cocktail umbrella next to my given moniker, my idea of what a Tequila drink looked like.
I moved away to Hong Kong at the end of 7th Grade and Melissa moved with her Mom to Chicago in 8th Grade. But every summer, we would regroup in KL and spend our summer doing stupid things. When we were younger, it mostly involved spending weekends at her Dad's apartment in Sri Hartamas, swimming, throwing water balloons to innocent bystanders from her apartment window, walking to 7-11 to buy Slurpees and junk food, dancing and singing along angstily to Tracy Bonham, watching horror movies in her living room, and watching her smoke in the playground at night while sitting on the swings. Back then, the road to Sri Hartamas was so far away from my little hamlet of Ampang, my father would insist on me spending the whole weekend at her place to make the car ride worthwhile.
Once, we followed her father and his girlfriend for a weekend retreat to Frasers Hill. We stayed in an old colonial mansion and shared a room with a large four poster bed. When night falls in the remotely located hill retreat, it is pitch black; you can’t see your hand in front of your face. In that creepy colonial mansion, we heard creaks, footsteps and strange unidentifiable noises, amplified by the stillness of the night. I remember us huddling together in the corner of the bed, scared out of our wits, and clutching each other until we finally fell asleep, our heads on the same pillow.
As we grew older and entered High School, our summer vacations were spent a little differently. Melissa continued to chain smoke despite my one person anti-tobacco crusade, and instead of spending our time fooling around her apartment complex, we snuck out at night under her father’s nose to go to clubs and house parties. After several summer vacations spent with her family, her father had decided that I was an innocent, someone to be trusted who could do no wrong, and with me by her side, Melissa would manage to keep out of trouble. Her father slightly underestimated how headstrong and persuasive Melissa could be, and equally, how easily I could be swayed. My first ever drink, unbeknownst to me at the time, was handed to me by Melissa. We were at The Jump, a relatively happening establishment in the mid-nineties on Jalan Tun Razak, dancing to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing in front of the deejay booth with her older cousins. Melissa handed me a glass of water which I gulped down thirstily.
“Hahahahaha, that was Vodka!”
I was appalled, but soon shrugged it off as the drink began to take its effect. We would sneak back into her apartment, a bit tipsy and giggling madly to ourselves. But that night while trying to fall asleep on the mattress on her bedroom floor, the guilt clawed on the edges of my semi-consciousness, of not living up to the promise I made to her father, of trying to keep Melissa out of trouble, let alone myself.
One summer in KL between sophomore and junior year in High School, Melissa decided to come out to me. In all honestly, I wasn’t surprised. Though she had had boyfriends in school, Melissa was just a little too headstrong, a little too vibrant and had just a little too much energy to play the demure girlfriend role to a teenage boy. I can say it out loud now - Melissa was a crazy and passionate person. She would have extreme highs and lows; one minute she would be flying, like a kite, the next, upset with the world which she believed had done her wrong. We had been friends for long enough for me to handle her moods, to know how to take care of her and coax her home when she had a little too much to drink. Melissa had clearly always been the dominant personality in our friendship, and while I was still relatively innocent, a bystander as opposed to a participant in her rebellious wild ways, I would still dutifully accompany her to clubs and parties, all those summers spent together. But as I grew older and slowly crawling out of my shell, we started growing apart.
It all came to a head the summer before my first year in university. She had dragged me from gig to club to house party, just so she could spend time with a girl she had developed a crush on. The girl happened to be going out with the lead singer of some local rock band, but had been suggestive enough to make Melissa believe she had a chance with her. After the first gig we went to, surrounded by a sea of local rockers and groupies, I decided, dressed in my sneakers, track pants and a bandana (it was a look at the time) that I clearly did not belong at a gig. I didn’t get the music, it was too hot and crowded, and I didn’t have the requisite unwashed look like the other groupies. All I could see was my precious summer vacation slowly dwindling away before me.
I think what upset me the most was not that I didn’t understand what Melissa saw in this straggly haired new age looking permanently stoned girl, but that our time together was now spent trawling the city chasing a girl rather than spending quality time together, like we use to. Perhaps I had believed the best of our friendship was rooted from when we were kids, hanging out in her apartment doing stupid adolescent things. In retrospect, I was probably tired of tagging along, being the shy and quiet friend in the background that kept an eye on her at parties, tired of going to places and meeting people I had no interest in, of playing that role.
I eventually confronted her about it, telling her how I felt. She understood, if not taken aback by my newfound frankness, but told me, we weren’t kids anymore and we couldn’t go back to playing like kids. I told her that perhaps we had to grow up, but growing up meant that we were also growing apart.
When we were younger, our differences complimented each other, my cautious moderation to her wild abandon, like yin and yang. But as we grew older, our differences just ended up drawing a chasm between us.
That was the last summer we spent together. I moved to England to study, and back to KL to work, and Melissa spent less time in KL, making a permanent base in Chicago, and eventually, California.
With the advent of Facebook, we managed to stay in touch, from a distance. I liked seeing pictures of her life; happy, in love, on the beach, with funky dyed hair and piercings. But we had grown apart and were living such different lives that trying to reach across the chasm to revive a friendship would seem contrived.
Once, we followed her father and his girlfriend for a weekend retreat to Frasers Hill. We stayed in an old colonial mansion and shared a room with a large four poster bed. When night falls in the remotely located hill retreat, it is pitch black; you can’t see your hand in front of your face. In that creepy colonial mansion, we heard creaks, footsteps and strange unidentifiable noises, amplified by the stillness of the night. I remember us huddling together in the corner of the bed, scared out of our wits, and clutching each other until we finally fell asleep, our heads on the same pillow.
As we grew older and entered High School, our summer vacations were spent a little differently. Melissa continued to chain smoke despite my one person anti-tobacco crusade, and instead of spending our time fooling around her apartment complex, we snuck out at night under her father’s nose to go to clubs and house parties. After several summer vacations spent with her family, her father had decided that I was an innocent, someone to be trusted who could do no wrong, and with me by her side, Melissa would manage to keep out of trouble. Her father slightly underestimated how headstrong and persuasive Melissa could be, and equally, how easily I could be swayed. My first ever drink, unbeknownst to me at the time, was handed to me by Melissa. We were at The Jump, a relatively happening establishment in the mid-nineties on Jalan Tun Razak, dancing to Marvin Gaye’s Sexual Healing in front of the deejay booth with her older cousins. Melissa handed me a glass of water which I gulped down thirstily.
“Hahahahaha, that was Vodka!”
I was appalled, but soon shrugged it off as the drink began to take its effect. We would sneak back into her apartment, a bit tipsy and giggling madly to ourselves. But that night while trying to fall asleep on the mattress on her bedroom floor, the guilt clawed on the edges of my semi-consciousness, of not living up to the promise I made to her father, of trying to keep Melissa out of trouble, let alone myself.
One summer in KL between sophomore and junior year in High School, Melissa decided to come out to me. In all honestly, I wasn’t surprised. Though she had had boyfriends in school, Melissa was just a little too headstrong, a little too vibrant and had just a little too much energy to play the demure girlfriend role to a teenage boy. I can say it out loud now - Melissa was a crazy and passionate person. She would have extreme highs and lows; one minute she would be flying, like a kite, the next, upset with the world which she believed had done her wrong. We had been friends for long enough for me to handle her moods, to know how to take care of her and coax her home when she had a little too much to drink. Melissa had clearly always been the dominant personality in our friendship, and while I was still relatively innocent, a bystander as opposed to a participant in her rebellious wild ways, I would still dutifully accompany her to clubs and parties, all those summers spent together. But as I grew older and slowly crawling out of my shell, we started growing apart.
It all came to a head the summer before my first year in university. She had dragged me from gig to club to house party, just so she could spend time with a girl she had developed a crush on. The girl happened to be going out with the lead singer of some local rock band, but had been suggestive enough to make Melissa believe she had a chance with her. After the first gig we went to, surrounded by a sea of local rockers and groupies, I decided, dressed in my sneakers, track pants and a bandana (it was a look at the time) that I clearly did not belong at a gig. I didn’t get the music, it was too hot and crowded, and I didn’t have the requisite unwashed look like the other groupies. All I could see was my precious summer vacation slowly dwindling away before me.
I think what upset me the most was not that I didn’t understand what Melissa saw in this straggly haired new age looking permanently stoned girl, but that our time together was now spent trawling the city chasing a girl rather than spending quality time together, like we use to. Perhaps I had believed the best of our friendship was rooted from when we were kids, hanging out in her apartment doing stupid adolescent things. In retrospect, I was probably tired of tagging along, being the shy and quiet friend in the background that kept an eye on her at parties, tired of going to places and meeting people I had no interest in, of playing that role.
I eventually confronted her about it, telling her how I felt. She understood, if not taken aback by my newfound frankness, but told me, we weren’t kids anymore and we couldn’t go back to playing like kids. I told her that perhaps we had to grow up, but growing up meant that we were also growing apart.
When we were younger, our differences complimented each other, my cautious moderation to her wild abandon, like yin and yang. But as we grew older, our differences just ended up drawing a chasm between us.
That was the last summer we spent together. I moved to England to study, and back to KL to work, and Melissa spent less time in KL, making a permanent base in Chicago, and eventually, California.
With the advent of Facebook, we managed to stay in touch, from a distance. I liked seeing pictures of her life; happy, in love, on the beach, with funky dyed hair and piercings. But we had grown apart and were living such different lives that trying to reach across the chasm to revive a friendship would seem contrived.
Outgrowing friendships, unlike relationships, is difficult. Breaking up with a lover is relatively straightforward – you use to be in love, now you aren’t. But breaking up with a friend, how does one do that? Especially when there is no tangible reason to sever ties, other than the looming reality that you have absolutely nothing in common anymore? It is an ugly truth to face and even uglier to try admit to each other. So instead, there was silence.
The last I heard from Melissa was over a year ago, when she came back to KL for a visit. I regretfully didn’t make enough effort to meet up with her, and instead sent her a text message to say I couldn’t make it to her house party.
A year later, I received the long awaited response to my text message, with the news of her passing.
I don’t know whether we would have ever reconciled had she not passed away. In an ideal world, I want to say, yes, that perhaps in a few months time we would have met up for coffee, reminisced about the crazy things we got up to during those blistering summers in KL, than hugged each other tightly, promising to stay in touch. But I can’t, and it’s not an ideal world, for if it was, Melissa would still be alive today.
All I can do is hold on to those thin books with our countless letters written in our messy handwriting, look at pictures of us during our summer vacations as kids in our crazy outfits, and remember and love the Melissa I knew from our childhood.
The last I heard from Melissa was over a year ago, when she came back to KL for a visit. I regretfully didn’t make enough effort to meet up with her, and instead sent her a text message to say I couldn’t make it to her house party.
A year later, I received the long awaited response to my text message, with the news of her passing.
I don’t know whether we would have ever reconciled had she not passed away. In an ideal world, I want to say, yes, that perhaps in a few months time we would have met up for coffee, reminisced about the crazy things we got up to during those blistering summers in KL, than hugged each other tightly, promising to stay in touch. But I can’t, and it’s not an ideal world, for if it was, Melissa would still be alive today.
All I can do is hold on to those thin books with our countless letters written in our messy handwriting, look at pictures of us during our summer vacations as kids in our crazy outfits, and remember and love the Melissa I knew from our childhood.
Rest in peace, old friend.
Tequila
1 comment:
Hey Yan,
This was a beautiful post :) Still in complete shock. The last time I saw Mel was during her uni days at Taylors and I was back in KL for uni. The gig story just brought me to tears cuz I remember us going to gigs too to meet up with the girl she fancied. We stayed in touch every now and then via emails and facebook but wish I made more of an effort. I spoke to her a month ago online though about catching up which is why I couldn't believe it when I read Gin's text this morning. She will be missed.
Hope you are ok and enjoying things in KL :)
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