Thirty seconds in the life of Ashley and Achilles, Couch Philosophers:
- Ugh, the bombings. Achilles, why do you think people make religion devisive?
- I don't know, Ashley. But I sure don't think God designed it that way.
- "Religions are many and diverse, but reason and goodness are one."
- Makes me proud of my faith, not necessarily my religion.
(curt pause -- recognizing they reached their quota for theological dialogue for the year)
- Oh, Aga (Achilles' brother, Agamemnon, of course) just MMS'd me something interesting (grabbing his video-capable phone). You wanna see Ethel Boobanek-ked? (Fiction)
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2.23.2005
AGENDA
Lino sighed from the back seat as he realized his drive to the EDSA Shrine would take longer than he thought. His town car and a hundred other vehicles were stalled along the misnomer that was the South Luzon Expressway.
"Turn up the radio," he ordered his chauffer. The goings-on along EDSA were fascinating in an I-need-to-know-because-everyone-else-will-be-talking-about-it kind of way. Lino, Vice-President for Human Resources for a giant manufacturing company, was one who people turned to to "know" about important things. Or so, Lino was convinced. He appreciated the commentaries on a.m. stations -- it saved him time to think up an opinion himself.
Lino needed to reschedule some of his appointments. He pulled out the silver PDA he bought during his last U.S. trip and began reviewing the day's agenda.
Twelve noon. Monthly Makati Business Club meeting. Bill will reshedule this, for sure.
One pm. Meeting with the Union President. Scratch. The bastard's claims our employees are "suffering" bores me to death. The rank-and-file are supposed to "suffer". Otherwise, they would be called management.
Three pm. Coffee with VP for Adminstration. No, we need to have that heart-to-heart talk. If I could "advise" the idiot to resign, I can propose that his Division merge with mine, in the spirit of cost-cutting. Then, I can ask for a raise to fund my vacation house in Tagaytay. He congratulated himself for his brilliance.
Five pm. Drop by the President's office. Suck up time. Can't miss that.
Lino clicked the "synchronize" button. Kilometers away, his secretary had just been updated. His car finally passed the turned over truck that caused the holdup. The driver quickly shifted to fourth and sped along the entire length of C5.
Lino's eyes glazed as the urban scape passed his window in a blur and the broadcaster dissected the national sentiment over the President's impeachment with gusto. Reminded of the recent national indignity that has driven the upper middle class to take to the streets one more time, rage brewed in him. Lino felt there was nothing more vile than a man betraying his mission to help others for selfish gain.
"ERAP RESIGN! ERAP RESIGN!" Lino could hear from the end of Ortigas Avenue. He could see a flood of office workers pulling off their ties to join the rally for the Presdent's ouster. He was eager to get off his Mercedes to join the rally and echo the nation's call for change. (Fiction)
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2.19.2005
SOUL FOOD
Boyet dreaded his weekly excursion to town. Not even the thought that his weekly pay as a busboy in the French Riviera was equivalent to his earnings from six months tilling ash in Pampanga was enough to make the chore any more enjoyable.
It bugged him sore how he could not understand the language -- much less, speak it. He is convinced his inability to talk out of his nose will keep him alone and friendless in France. On rainy days when he was forced to take a cab, he would bark "Joe Lipa" and the driver would drop him off at the center of Juan Les Pins from where he could walk. Boyet figured that was all the French he needed, for now.
Boyet's mind often wandered to Lubao where his heart, his tongue and his stomach felt at home. Back there, breakfast meant savoring fried eggs and Nanay's homemade carabao tocino, drenched in cane vinegar and crushed siling labuyo. He remembered how Ate Susan avenged their threatened crops by sauteeing invading mole crickets in garlic, peppers and onions into spicy kamaru. Boyet smiled at how, just before he left home, his little brother Jopet was becoming an expert in catching frogs and stuffing them into betute -- a favorite pulutan with the watered gin bulag they enjoyed in the evenings in the silong of their hut.
Boyet walked in the store, his stomach rumbling. He willed for a can of Ligo sardines or a pack of Lucky Me pancit canton to appear; but all he could find are packages of food he had no desire to taste. In his five months in Europe, Boyet's tongue grew tired of the bland meats, the dry lentils and the hard breads. Boyet wondered how, in a land of abundance, he could hunger so.
Boyet almost jumped at seeing something familiar in the sea of cans he could not read. But the picture spoke to him. "Uy, may aso na pala dito!"
Boyet excitedly stacked the cans in his arms, burdening his small Asian frame with as much of them as he could carry. He dropped his load and his week's pay on the counter.
The cashier piped in rapid French, "So, you own a lot of dogs, huh?"
Boyet grinned widely and nodded. He didn't know what the woman said nor did he care. He rushed back to his tiny apartment, anxious for what, in his mind, would be the first taste of home he's had in a long time. (Fiction)
(This story is dedicated to Jorge "Boss George" Rivera -- one of the funniest, kindest, most generous men I ever knew. Years after his passing, I long to hear just one more of Boss George's animated tales of his dakilang pagka-probinsiyano.)PERMALINK
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2.15.2005
TORPE
My eyes watered the moment I entered that artsy Malate bar, my rhynitis looming. Just my luck, I mumbled to myself. I was seeing the woman of my dreams that night, drenched in uhug.
Last Friday, I was walking out the office to buy my morning caffeine fix when I bumped into Jennifer on the sidewalk of Ayala Avenue -- a surprise reunion after 10 years. "A group of friends and I are going to be in 'Denial' on the 14th." She grinned, reading the confusion in my eyes, her number beaming to my cell phone via infrared. "That new bar in Malate? It'll be our very own anti-Valentine's Day group date. You must come!" With a wooing tap on my arm, she made me fall in love with her all over again.
Back in college, she was the only pink skirt in a sea of blue denims. The first time I saw her, my guts churned something midway between a bad breakfast and a bursting bladder. Eventually, I learned she loved the color blue and hated traffic with a vengeance. She drew her hair behind her ears when she was in deep thought and had really short, fat fingers. She was passionate about Greek mythology and architectural history. She sneezed like a kitten. And when a light breeze passed her, the scent of Nenuco cologne came flooding downwind.
Right before the Christmas break on our senior year, she kissed me on the cheek, missing my lip by a hair, and whispered soulfully, "Merry Christmas, Paulo." Through the rest of the holidays, I thought we had an M.U. You know, a Mutual Understanding. We were finally Mag-Un! When she came back to school in January, beaming of a new balikbayan boyfriend, all I could do was flee from her like the hurt, confused boy I was.
Maybe I should have fought for her. Maybe I should have articulated my feelings the way those damn Creek kids did. Maybe, ten years after the fact, she was still the untainted soul I remember and it was not too late to rekindle what could have been.
"Hey, Paulo! Over here!" Jen screamed from a table of the most beautiful people I had ever seen outside the pages of a glossy magazine. She fell over several crossed legs before she got to me.
"You came!" Jen embraced me, wearing a silky tube top that didn't cover much (I could have moved ten paces back, hidden behind a waitress and I would still be able to see her nipples). "Can you believe this? It's ten o'clock and I'm already sooo drunk!" She pulled me towards their circle and began spewing everyone's name fast enough for me to forget two seconds later.
A girl with sunken cheeks screamed above the music, "So this is the legendary Paulo. Jen has told us a lot about you, handsome!" The hooting in the background made me nervous.
"Pare," a guy in a black muscle shirt slapped me on the back. James. Or Jun. Or Romy. Who here knew? "This bitch has been telling all of us that you were the world's biggest torpe back in college." He set a shot glass of tequila in front of me. "It's time to set things right, man."
Jen drunkenly cleared the small round cocktail table and laid her tiny frame on it. She swung her long hair to one side and shook salt on neck until in formed a mound near her collar bone. "Body shot! Body shot!" the crowd of strangers cheered.
I can't remember how long it took before I caved to the pressure and downed the contents of the shot glass. I do remember getting a familiar unease in my gut as Jen whispered "Happy Valentine's Day, Paulo" and tugged my head closer to her neck.
She stank of cigarettes and vomit. No, they don't make Nenuco anymore. (Fiction)
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2.11.2005
GRAFFITI
Joaquin Garcia never liked school. Over the years, he thought he entered these revered halls of education because his mother told him to or he wanted to meet girls or heck, maybe he even wanted to learn something and give something back. But as Joaquin looked at his reflection in the university's men's room, he had simply lost all recollection of why he was there.
Joaquin took the permanent marker he had in his back pocket -- the same one he used in his Advanced Microbiology presentation earlier that day and stared at the off-white tiles above the urinals. He noticed how the janitors had painted over the graffiti he wrote only two days before.
Joaquin bit off the pen cap and wrote the first thing that came to mind, in big bold letters: PROF. LIM: YOU HAVE BAD BREATH BCOZ YOUR ASS IS SO TIGHT FART IS COMING OUT THE WRONG HOLE.
"Ahem." Tony Alinea had walked up behind him, unheard.
Joaquin jumped, realizing he forgot to check the hall. "Tony, I was just ..."
"I saw you write the message." Tony's eyes surveyed Joaquin's crime.
"Oh, shit." Resigned, Joaquin pulled a cigarette from his back pocket and lit up. "Well, you might as well see me smoke in a no-smoking campus then."
Joaquin knew of Tony because he was always topping the Dean's List. He was the President of one of the bigger pre-med campus organizations. And he was definitely the type who was going to rat him out.
Tony reached for Joaquin's Marlboro Lights. "Can I bum one?"
Joaquin nodded, smiling. Inspired, he gave Tony a stick and signalled him to follow. He leapt out the window onto the third floor ledge. Tony took tentative steps after Joaquin until they reached the old fire escape which was hidden from view by leaves of the century-old narra tree in the parking lot. The two sat on the rickety ledge and enjoyed their cigarettes in comfortable silence.
"See that car?" Tony pointed to the Honda with the steamed windows. "That's Manolo and Ric in there. They're probably talking about our classes so enthusiastically, making the car shake like that. They're best friends, you know."
"Of course." Joaquin added, "And Professor Hortaleza sleeps in his office because he is so dedicated to his job. His wife couldn't have thrown him out of the house when she caught him cheating with the maid. You see, they're the perfect couple."
"Most certainly." Tony continued, "And I will be a heart surgeon -- just like my parents. My teachers, my friends and damn, even my dog agree it's my fate. It's exactly what I want in life."
Joaquin looked at Tony for the first time in years and saw a kindred spirit, "We are both just as we appear to be then?"
"No question." Tony drew deep from his stick. "Everyone's been talking about your messages on the wall since summer term. Does getting caught mean you'll stop writing graffiti?"
Joaquin shrugged, "I suppose so. Especially since you'll be telling on me."
"Who will I report you to?" Tony laughed, "You're the freakin' Dean of the College of Science, Professor Garcia!"
The Dean flicked his cigarette butt onto the parked car below. "You have a point." (Fiction)
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O mighty gods of earth, wind, fire and heart who have given me (and the Planeteers) superhuman powers, I pray:
While I may not have many friends because of my little "tick" (the unconscious sai-weilding when I walk around the neighborhood), I am thankful I know, not one, but two extraordinary blind men -- Matt Murdock and Stick -- who excel in hand-to-hand combat, gravity-defying vertical leaps and pool hustling. Computing the statistical probability of that happening to any one person continues to geek out the OC in me. Thank you.
I thank you for my superhuman packing skills. The ability to fold and pack my red bustier assasin get-up, my favorite red pashmina, my black sweater, my black bikini, my Dolce & Gabbana trench coat, 3 pairs of boots, my hair iron, my make-up kit, 2 sai's, 6 back-up sai's and 1 foldable archery kit in one sling bag really comes in very handy when I'm travelling. Thank you.
I thank you for giving me, above all else, strong ankles. How many assasins can walk around in 3-inch hooker boots, not make a sound when they walk, and jump from second-story windows and stuff? Thank you!
Also, I humbly ask forgiveness for my pride. I know the bright red silk outfit is pushing it, considering I need to be stealthy in my line of work; but I want my enemies to notice how great a shape I'm in before I skewer their hides. Again, I think it's because I don't have many male friends and I crave the attention. Not that I'm complaining -- Typhoid Mary, with that killer breath of hers, definitely has it worse than I do.
Lastly, I pray for strength not to hunt down that irritating 13-year old copycat and shish kebob her skinny *ss. I must have been hormonal when I brought her back from the dead with my kimagure. Or more likely, I just had the hots for her father. With all due respect, o gods, I should be the "Treasure"! I think the guys down at Marvel will agree -- "Abby" is just not a heroine name.
Leo told me it wasn't going to hurt. I suppose he didn't know he was wrong -- as that pain is one he could never feel.
"You will experience something like a bad menstrual cramp; so take deep breaths," warned the old man in the dingy lab gown, as a humming from what sounded like a pump filled the small window-less room in the basement of the hole-in-the-wall maternity clinic Leo spent weeks finding. As the pain heightened, I kept my eyes were glued on the dove pin on the doctor's lapel -- the exact kind my novena-praying aunt wore. Part of me wanted to yank it off; but my hands were too busy shaking. "Do you want you boyfriend to sit by you?" -- the doctor's voice was void of true concern.
"Okay." I managed.
"Babe?" Leo walked in a second after the man peeked out the door. This was the same Leo who told me I had lips like Angelina Jolie. The same Leo who had grand plans when we graduate in March. The same Leo who told me our little set-back could never change what we have. After this mess, he said we would still watch movies like we used to. We would still splurge on those overpriced vendi caramel frappucinos which were my most favorite things in the world. We could finally drive his dad's SUV from Luzon to Davao like we planned. He said if I wanted the world, he would have it giftwrapped.
Leo sat beside me and held my hand in silence, waiting for the pump's wailing to fade. Soon, the doctor nodded, signalling it was done.
"Babe, how do you feel?" Leo brushed the hair from my eyes. "Are you okay? You want me to get anything for you, babe? Just tell me what you want. Anything."
I wanted ... nothing. Even the world Leo promised could never fill the void I bore inside me now. Ever. (Fiction)
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