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A House Is Not Necessarily A Home
In 1971 I was transferred from Brunei to Sumatra and needed a place to stay in
Singapore. Ben Lage invited me to move into his Pacific Mansions flat on River
Valley Road, a move that changed my life forever. There were four apartments on
each floor. Ben's had one the 11th floor, the other three were whore houses.
I quickly discovered that Ben had a simple formula for keeping the cost of rent
low, the more people that shared the rent, the lower the cost for each. At one
point there were eight or nine of us sharing a three bedroom apartment.
Everyone was working hitches on crews scattered all over Indonesia so the
chances of everyone being in town at the same time were slim, although every
now and then things got a little cozy. Among the crowd were Lindsey Horn, Jim
Cebuliack, Ian Urquhart, and Tony Gutierrez. My apologies to
the many other names I've forgotten, age has taken a toll on the gray matter.
Other than the proximity of the whorehouse, the apartment was no different than
any other in Singapore at the time, almost no furniture, a couple of chairs, a
sofa, and 3 beds. The one difference was the stereo system. Stacked in the
living room was about US$3000 (70's dollars) worth of stereo equipment. There
were huge speakers all over the place. We were young, single studs with money,
and we each needed our own full size stereo system. Not the "all in one" boom
boxes the kids have today. We had five or six amplifiers, three or four
turntables, several reel-to-reel tape units, resonators, and speakers the size
of boxcars. We had more power than most major league stadiums. Our woofers
could crack windows six blocks away. There were a dozen speakers stacked around
the living and more in the bedrooms. Every time one of us came to town we'd see
what one of the other guy's had bought & run down to Peter Chew's to get
something bigger or better. Peter had a little shop a few blocks away. We had
more equipment in our flat than he had in his show room. His salesmen would
often bring customers over to our place to show him the latest stuff 'cause we
bought if off his shelf faster than he could stock it. People were impressed.
Most apartments and houses in Singapore had thick steel cages on the doors and
bars on the windows to keep out thieves. Not Ben's place, you could open the
lock with a nail file. Because a triad ran the cathouse, we had protection.
The triad didn't want any trouble around the place that would involve the cops,
so the word was out – don't mess with the 11th floor of Pacific Mansions. It
was a symbiotic relationship. Every now and then the cops would raid the
place. The triad would get a tip off that the cops were on the way, and the
bouncer and hookers would move all the roll away beds into our place. The
hookers would spend the next few hours in our kitchen playing mahjong and
servicing anyone who happened to be at home with a free poke. When the cops
showed up all they found were three empty apartments and a fourth with an expat
at the door telling them to piss off.
Life was good in Ben's place. If you struck out at the Pink Pussy Cat (a
virtual impossibility) you could always get "take out" next door. Our rules
were simple:
Rule 4 needs some explanation. Ben Lage was the ultimate cocksman. Born in Cuba
he fled to the USA when Castro took over. Ben was older in years but younger in
heart and mind than most of us. He truly loved being around and with women all
the time. He had a line of bullshit that was almost embarrassing. Lines like
"your parents must have been truly in love when they made you sweetheart
because you are so beautiful"….. Overheard coming from a bedroom in our flat
one night "lagi! lagi!" (Malay for "more, more"), "Just call me Ben sweetheart"
When Ben was in town there was a steady stream of beauties coming through the
door day and night. The phone never stopped ringing. A normal guy would need a
social secretary just to keep up with Ben's roster. A typical day would see him
sending off a young lady in a taxi in the morning another arriving around noon
and a couple more lined up for the evening. These were not "working" girls. I
have no idea where he met all of them but the guy was a master. He would
explain that getting them into bed would often take time, so over a period of
weeks / months, Ben would progress from a cup of coffee at a restaurant to
Polaroid pictures of a mirror with an image that usually included at least one
naked young lady and Ben's hairy ass. People could always tell when Ben liked
them. He'd bring out his Polaroid collection. His roommates never bothered
looking at them, we'd witnessed the spectacle first hand.
When Ben was out of town we'd often try and get in on the action by calling the
ladies listed in his address book. It seldom worked, we just didn't have the
finesses that he had. However, there was one occasion when Ian
Erquhart answered a phone call for Ben. One of his sweeties was looking for
him. Ben was in Sumatra and Ian jumped at the opportunity. He told her Ben was
in the shower and after a pause, told her that Ben said she should "come right
over". While he was waiting for her to show up, he thought he'd run down to
the store & pick-up some beer. He came back with the beer & had a few while he
was waiting. After awhile he figured he'd struck out & went into one of the
bedrooms to take a shower. Lindsey Horn was on the bed hammering the chick that
had called. He'd met her in the elevator when Ian went out for the beer.
Another time it was turn about. While Lindsay Horne was phoning his latest
sweetie, Hubbell (visiting with
Urquhart), memorized the numbers as they were
dialled, and gave them to Ian. The diminutive Australian made off with
Lindsay's squeeze.
Such was life in Ben's house. Where ever you are Brother, thank you.
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