[Previously -- a long time ago...]

I reached Allan Chia's office at five minutes to two. There was nothing special about the building -- or the company itself, for that matter. It was one of those small firms barely surviving the economic crisis and not yet having recovered fully. From what Chia had told me, I knew there were twenty-three people currently employed. Of those, eight were contractors and only five had been with the company for more than two years, Chia included. Just one of those companies, indeed.

A young, attractive girl -- Nancy, I later learned -- put me in a vacant meeting room and asked me to fill out a form. "Standard employee-particulars form," she said. "Hon Kong will meet you shortly." With that she left me alone, closing the door behind her.

Hong Kong? That's interesting, I thought. Then what, Macau? I tried to concentrate on the form. I hated forms. Unfortunately, this country seemed to love them. This had to be the 1,037th form I had encountered since stepping on the island.

As agreed previously with Allan Chia, I only filled in compulsory fields, which, thankfully, were not that many. Also as agreed, the details were all correct. I could not afford to get kicked out of this country because of some irrelevant a-few-day adventure.

The door opened and a man not much older than myself stepped in. I stood up. "Hi, I'm Hon Kong." Instead of shaking my hand, he offered me a his name card. I slightly shrugged and took it. So it's Hon Kong, HR Manager, I thought, taking a glance.

"I'm Suma," I said, then risked a joke, "Sorry, no name cards yet." I smiled. He did not. "I'm afraid we don't issue name cards to our contractors." I muttered a weak, "I see," and sat back down.

Minutes later, having highlighted important details of my employment terms (no meal allowance, no matter how late you stay at work; no medical claims for contractors unless specifically arranged and approved by your immediate supervisor; you are expected to tidy your desk before leaving for the day) my new HR manager led me out and showed me around. I was introduced to a John, a Regina, an Arul, a Jenna (Jerena, it would turn out later), two Peters, and a handful of Chinese names that I had no hope of pronouncing let alone remembering without the help of the name tags on their cubicle walls.

Eventually, we stepped into what would soon prove to be my favorite spot. "Pantry," Hon Kong duly announced. I nodded, agreeing that yes, it was a pantry. "We share the fridge," he indicated a simple refrigerator in a corner. "You can put your stuff in there, but please don't leave it for too long." Indeed, "Food left for more than 2 weeks will be thrown away" was printed across a sheet of paper stuck to the fridge door. I stifled an urge to ask, "How do you know it's been there for more than 2 weeks?" Plenty of time to be smart, boy.

After the machine room, the men's room, and the meeting rooms I (big) and II (small), Hon Kong fixed me in a cubicle adjacent to that of one of the Peters. He gestured to the pile -- a CPU, a monitor, a keyboard, a mouse -- on the table. "Yours. Please ask Chinan for the cables. You'll be all right assembling them yourself, won't you? You're the MIS guy after all."

MIS, I had learned over the course of my extended stay on this island, referred to a network slash hardware management in a company. To date, I was still unsure whether this MIS was the same as the MIS that was Management Information Systems.

The HR Manager saw me nod, was satisfied, and turned to go. "Fine, then. Welcome aboard, err..."

"Suma," I helped him. No harm in assisting one's HR manager.

"Right. I'll talk to you later." Gone was Hon Kong, leaving me with the lifeless, cable-less computer -- and no idea as to which one Chinan was.

I shrugged. Well, I signed up for this. So, walking around the shoulder-high cubicle partition, I came to Peter. "Hi. I'm so sorry, can you point out Chinan for me, please?"

Peter One -- Peter Pang, his name tag read -- looked at me. "There's noone called Chinan here."

"Oh. Can you tell me who I should see for computer cables, then?"

"Ooohhh, I see! That's Ching Han. Ching. Han. He's over there, near the pantry." He saw my face and grinned. "The name's on the cubicle, don't worry."

I liked Peter Pang immediately. "Thanks!" Don't worry would have to be my mantra from now on. And off I went to find Ching Han the cable guy.

[BTW, of all the VDay-inspired entries my good dudes and dudettes wrote yesterday, I like Bondol's best.]

Current music: Bob Dylan - Mr. Tambourine Man
Current mood: happy