The Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.5: EDSA Stories
THIS CONTEST IS EXTENDED. The new deadline is 21 February 2012 at noon.
EDSA, 7 February 2012
The winner of the Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.4: Which is better, the book or the movie? is——Nobody. Nobody wins. Not just because all the entries gave perfunctory answers, but because they didn’t really talk about the book or the movie, they talked about themselves.
So last week’s prizes will be added to this week’s contest.
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Almost forgot: If there are no other claimants in our Roger-Rafa prediction contest, the winner is Poli. Poli, please claim your your copy of Bossypants by Tina Fey at the Customer Service counter at National Bookstore in Rockwell.
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We’ve been covering Boysen KNOxOUT’s Project Edsa, the world’s first large-scale public art project using paints that can clean noxious air pollutants. The third wall in the series, by the filmmaker and architect, Tapio Snellman, was unveiled last week at the Cubao underpass.
For the Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.5 we’re focusing on Metro Manila’s main artery, Epifanio de los Santos Avenue. In 1,000 words or less, write a story that takes place right on Edsa. It can be a science-fiction tale, a melodrama, a horror story, a romance, a comedy, anything, as long as it happens on Edsa.
Apart from The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo poster and a copy of The Boy in the Suitcase, this week’s winner will receive a tote bag featuring the Project Edsa artwork on Ortigas by Baby and Coco Anne, and two paperbacks: Matterhorn by Karl Marlantes and Kafka on the Shore by Haruki Murakami.
Finalists will receive movie posters and tote bags. Thanks to Boysen KNOxOUT for the bags.
We’ll accept submissions until Tuesday, 14 February 2012.
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
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By the way the Yucch-meter is on board for this one so the over-sensitive need not apply.
The Yucch-meter’s reactions in Comments.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
February 8th, 2012 at 12:16
Uy, Kafka on the Shore. I’ve recently started reading that book but since my roommate got seriously sick, we had to close the lights as early as 9PM so he could get enough rest. I’ll resume reading when he go back to PH next week which means he’s giving me 30 days to read everything I hoarded since New Year — LOTR trilogy, 1Q34, The Elephant Vanishes, The Wild Sheep Chase, Abraham Lincoln Vampire Slayer, The Great Gatsby, Great Expectations, and two other classic titles I already forgot since I had so much to choose from.
February 8th, 2012 at 15:33
Strangers on a Bus
As I mindlessly scroll down my Tumblr dashboard, a split-second movement of pixels attracts my eyes to the lower right corner of my office computer monitor. In a flash, 11:58 PM transformed into 11:59 PM and habit told me that it was time for me to go home. I pack my things, head to the door and swipe my ID on the sensor to log out right at the moment when I imagine 11:59 PM transforms into 12:00 AM.
I step out of the building’s lobby and immediately draw a stick of Winston Light and light up. The cold December air mixes with the nicotine in my lungs, and I shiver slightly as I let out a sigh of jolly grey smoke. As I walk to the bus stop, I gaze at Ayala’s blinking Christmas lights and wonder why I’m all alone on the coldest Friday night right before Christmas. Of course, I know the answer and I masochistically replay all the scenes of shame in my mind over and over and over again.
I spot a bus with an Ortigas Ilalim sign and I immediately drop the half-smoked cigarette and crush it with my left foot. And quickly, my right takes a big step to start my short stride to the bus before it goes off to zoom after a green light.
I pick an empty two-seater comfortably close to the door. After I pay my fare, the bus ambles along an almost empty Ayala Avenue as it picks up tired and sleepy yuppies for passengers. It halts to a complete stop just in front of Rustan’s and that’s where and when I saw the Stranger.
I’d say he was in his early to mid-thirties. He was dressed like an accountant and he had a handsome, manly face. My gaydar, which was always on autopilot, was malfunctioning. The fine needle was jumping back and forth from Straight to Paminta. I watched him as he discreetly studied the half-full (or half-empty, it depends) bus for a seat, and my heart started to race when his steps slowed down as he approached where I was seated. He stopped to my left and I quickly scooted over closer to the window and he sat down beside me just as the driver hit the gas.
I felt his warm arm on mine, and my knees weakened as I felt the pressure of his thighs on mine. We were rubbing against each other — or we were being rubbed against each other, as I’d like to think now — by the bus as it creakily ascended the Ayala-EDSA flyover.
Magically, as the bus rounded the flyover’s curve, the Stranger beside me was suddenly asleep. His head drooped over the backpack on his lap and he became a prisoner of the rhythmic vibrations of the bus as it flew past the Buendia MRT station.
As passengers descended on Estrella, I suddenly felt my cock slowly become stiff as I realize that the Stranger’s elbow was planting itself on my thigh. The bus starts to move again, and with every turn of the wheel and every hit on the breaks, his elbow traces a seismic chart of the vehicle’s every throb and tremor on my thigh.
The Stranger was asleep, I imagined. But his elbow was now discovering new continents as our bus dived the smooth slope of Guadalupe. I looked out the window and gazed intently at the ominous Pasig River, trying to act normal and hoping that no one on the bus would notice that the Stranger’s elbow was grazing my now-throbbing cock.
He wakes up as we screech to a halt on Pioneer to get more passengers. He turns his head to me and our eyes meet for a flash before I awkwardly throw my stare elsewhere. The Stranger falls back asleep, again like magic, when the bus begins to move. But this time I know he is awake. At least I’m sure of it now, I think. What his elbow used to graze, his elbow was now seducing, tempting — inviting to a night of hot and steamy abandon.
He stops feigning sleep as the bus runs past the Shaw stoplight. He puts his hand on my knee, squeezes it and looks me in the eyes. “Ano’ng oras na?” he asks. I answer him coolly, denying the fact of the physical contact between our limbs, “’Di ko alam eh. Wala akong watch.”
He’s silent for a while, but my ears are ringing as my body pulsates from his electric touch. He turns to me again and asks, “’San ka bababa?” I say, “Sa Ortigas.” As the bus zips past Megamall, his hand zips to my crotch, feeling my cock and gently stroking it. “Samahan mo ako sa Cubao,” he whispers to my ears.
I contemplate my options on this cold and lonely Friday night — the last one before Christmas. I imagine myself getting off the bus when it stops in Cubao and aimlessly walking to one of the rotten motels around the shopping center. I imagine him undressing me as I lay in a mite-ridden bed in a motel room that reeks of sex, sweat and semen. I imagine him entering me as I…
As I stand up when the bus conductor yells his pre-programmed announcement: “Ortigas! Ortigas! ‘Ung mga bababa ng Ortigas!” I walk the short distance from my seat to the door, and I try to contemplate my options again. And I realize that I have none. I play again those images of wild sex in my mind with each step I take on the bus aisle. And then I let them go. After a pang of regret, I fill myself with an intense satisfaction when I make that last glance at him as I descend the steps of the bus door. I met a Stranger on a bus and we almost fucked, I told myself. That was enough for me, I realized.
I stand on the sidewalk and stare him in the eyes as the bus pulls from the curb. I get another cigarette and light it up as his face disappears into the incandescently-lit darkness of the avenue’s next kilometer. I take another drag of the Winston Light and exhale. And then I start walking home.
February 8th, 2012 at 16:10
Oh I wish I didn’t miss Weekly LitWit Challenge 8.4, I’m really into Stieg Larsson’s Millenium series.
February 8th, 2012 at 16:11
For a moment we thought it was about strangers meeting on a bus and agreeing to swap murders so the crimes would not be traced to them (no motive).
Disappointment abounds.
This story is leaden with obviousness. The problem with fantasies is that in seeking verbal equivalents something is always lost. Try switching places and telling the story from the other person’s POV. Thank you for joining this contest.
P.S. It reminds us of a story by a Filipino author in which the protagonist boards a crowded bus and feels something squishy in her ear…
February 8th, 2012 at 23:57
ON THE CORNER OF EDSA AND MAIN
There is a corner on Edsa.
It’s now named after a valiant (but rather absent minded lady) judge who meted out the death penalty on an abducted and sexually assaulted an actress. It used to be called Main Avenue.
That name still lives on the bored tricycle drivers who often ferry equally numbed call center agents for the obligatory nighttime additional two peso fare increase.
An old woman, hunched, alone, with silvery hair slowly hobbles her way to that corner.
She obviously needs a cane, but doesn’t look like she can afford it.
She’s wearing a faded house dress, with large red hibiscus.
On her head is a faded black plastic headband. Her feet are shod in relatively new Fitflop knockoffs. One likes to think that at her age, she should have relatives full of vim and youth chattering on her arm. Maybe her companion would be reed thin and female, wearing those cheeky shorts that only a couple of decades ago would have qualified as underwear. Perhaps, a pale and shortsighted lad in spectacles and denim shorts. Grandchildren with a certain fondness for their soft, plump, and sweet grandmother. She is unescorted and alone, in a very unkind corner of Manila.
She is fortunate, however, the cutthroats and thieves have assessed that she is not worth robbing nor raping.
She pauses and wipes a handkerchief on her brow, she shuffles again.
She is shuffling with mincing steps, accomplished in a manner that makes those see her easily turn away. A pained gait is a screaming placard of the cruelty of age.
No one cares. A warm breeze reeking of piss and diesel exhaust confronts her, but she just turns away and blinks.
She pauses and squints at the deepening dusk, cataracts turning her eyes an elite shade of European blue. With much effort, she sits at the base of a post light.
Every year she does this pilgrimage.
Past the security guards who doze at the gate of her gilded fortress.
Why do they even bother?
She thinks, the furniture is not that valuable. The jewelry has long been sold, converted to cash and has been lost and found in stocks.
Whatever old gold pieces she had, had long been pilfered by kleptomaniac servants. The Amorsolo suffered water damage and is dying a slow death of mold in the attic. The garage is empty, the car long gone, she no longer has the sense of urgency for automobiles.
She has no care for the gizmos that the new generation seem to have acquired in utero. Past the stern, unsmiling portraits of her equally strict parents and the vacant smiles of her brothers and sisters on the narra paned walls.
Past the seemingly happy family portraits of her nieces and nephews now based in some far off land where she could barely understand their accents.
At least, they call regularly every Friday evening.
It is not some filial affection. It is an act of obedient fear.
It is to be understood that their parents made them swear on their deathbeds that they be kind to their sweet old aunt left back in the godforsaken republic.
Even people in first world countries fear the wrath of ghosts.
But not today, this August 31st.
It is the time of the year of the for her to pay her respects.
With the vigilance of a feline stalking her prey.
Her labored breathing escapes from a mouth that has had lost the company of many teeth. The wrinkles on her face belie the fact that her charming visage once graced the pages of magazines.
Some long gone from print.
She has to hurry.
Her caregiver; Jennylyn a sullen, envious chit of a girl who had lofty plans of going abroad was to come home soon from her usual neighborhood jaunt with her fellow domestics. Jennylyn was envious of her ward’s family. Jennylyn regularly pocketed the dollars her nieces and nephews sent her.
Her elderly ward knows though, and finds her audacity comic.
The old lady fishes from her pocket a small garland of sampaguitas she filched from the Lourdes statuette from the altar in the living room.
She thought of the old piano. The one she had never played since 1951. She could sell it, it would be worth something, the thing had ivory keys.
She could sell the wretched thing, had over the money to Jennylyn for the agency placement fees and see to it that she got her ass frozen while wiping spit in Canada.
She smiled at the etched initials she had carved there on the base of the lamp post. SH- for Segundo Hilario.
They were supposed to have eloped.
He made it a half hour early and was promptly run over by her father’s driver who had found out of the plan. She only learned to play the piano well enough for Segundo to hear it, back when Cubao was bucolic and still had butterflies by day and fireflies at night.
Segundo was the son of their neighbor’s gardener.
They had such plans.
They would run away go back to the province, where Segundo would farm and she would teach piano. She chuckled to herself, kisses the garland softly and leaves it on the base of the lamp post.
She shuffles back home.
February 9th, 2012 at 12:07
Aha, following the Tony Perez story! Nothing wrong with imitation as long as one is aware of it and grows out of it. It’s a good exercise, like copying by hand a novel that you love in order to understand the writer’s technique (People do this with Madame Bovary).
This is not yet a short story—the woman has not realized something about herself by the end of it. It is a character study that you might want to develop. Perhaps Jennylyn has a boyfriend who reminds the old lady of the gardener’s son? There are lots of possibilities. The piece needs copy-editing—too many adverbs and shifting tenses. The moldering Amorsolo is a nice detail.
Thank you for this entry. Have you read Washington Square by Henry James?
February 9th, 2012 at 15:39
There it was, peeking between two garish billboards featuring hundred megapixel close-ups of an unmistakable bulge between the legs of a celebrity sports star: a bank announcement of eight percent interest on a car loan. Eight percent! My heart skipped a beat – I was surprised at a reaction that crotch shots couldn’t elicit from my typically frigid body. Eight percent! My mind began to deliciously wander to thoughts of pushing this piece of crap called my car into the Pasig River.
I hate my car. It has oil leaks, water leaks, small gas leaks. I have to push-start it every morning. Its brakes squeak and squeal. There’s a small spring spoke that pokes at my ass constantly. The right side teeters ahead of everything else mounted on this rusty chassis because of a broken suspension. One window is always open an inch – I heard a breaking sound once when I tried to roll it down. I have no air-conditioning – in lieu of, a small fan mounted on the dashboard that pushes gnats into my eye. Heck, my car has cataracts on both eyes, with the right headlight always flickering, taunting, threatening to die on me whenever I find myself traversing some dark side street with a wrong turn.
I hate my car. It’s over thirty years old. I hate my ugly car. It’s older than me!
Eight percent, and a fantasy beckoned – seventeen-inch chrome wheels, cockpit-like controls, automatic transmission, the heady, sexy smell of leather seats. I would go everywhere with my new wheels. I wouldn’t have to take the farthest slot in a parking lot. I didn’t have to feel ASHAMED whenever I pulled into a gas station!
Eight fucking percent. I could finally wear that silk shirt I bought on sale at Zara without the risk of watermarks on my armpits. Eight percent. And with it – dignity. At last.
I hear a high pitched honking rudely interrupting my reverie. Some twerp on a hatchback is impatient for me to move five meters forward. I push the pedal, shift to first from neutral, and lurch two meters before the engine dies on me. More honking. I restart and cover the ten steps between me and the car ahead of me. Neutral, hand brake, creaking, stop.
I stare at the maze of red lights stretched kilometers in front of me. Probably two hours before I reach Cubao from Guadalupe. It’s a Friday night, and traffic is horrendous. I turn on the fan and a blast of hot air brings balls of dust to my face. I’m dying for a cigarette, but I’m scared of opening my window and finding a pair of grubby hands grabbing at my stuff.
I put my car in gear again and lunge two meters. Clutch, brake, neutral, hand brake. Mercifully, the piece of garbage doesn’t die on me this time. There it is again, that eight percent sign. I decide to think about my new wheels to while away the lull between my crawls through EDSA.
I’d really like an SUV. Their horns are more shrill, the better to scare swerving buses and devil cab drivers with. Maybe a sedan is ok – I can’t really afford an SUV on my call center pay. Shit. Truth is, I can’t really afford anything except this piece of crap. Of the thousands of cars in EDSA, mine is probably the shittiest. I should know, I go through here every single weekday.
I drive with that sad thought stuck in my head. An encounter with a pothole pushes the spring spoke up, and I yelp in surprise. It hurts now – but I’m more sad than in physical pain. I can’t afford even to upgrade to a twenty year old car. The realization hurts me. It truly hurts.
Now I’m actually depressed. I can’t breathe. I’m in the middle of a carbon monoxide induced crawl with my windows up. I can’t breathe and I’m dying for a cigarette.
I turn the fan off and fish for a stick and a matchbox in my purse. I light up, and breathe in defiantly with my windows up, thinking if I can’t have new wheels, I can still have a ciggie. God that smoke feels good.
I puff and breathe in, deeply. I don’t know what happened but I choke on a few drops of my saliva. I cough. I can’t stop coughing. The cars ahead move forward and I can’t stop coughing. I hear impatient honking. I turn on the fan, it’s not helping. I need water. I try to open the window but it’s stuck. I can’t breathe. More honking behind me. Coughing, I go to first from neutral and lurch forward.
The engine dies.
I try start and the lights go out. The honking – they sound so hurtful. I try to start again. Nothing. It’s dead. I smell something burning.
My ciggie has fallen to the itchy wool flooring. There’s a spark. I spit on it. There’s a spark of magic in my eyes.
I grab my good morning towel and wipe my armpits. I grab my purse. I unlock the door.
As I step out into the cool air of EDSA, I put another cigarette to my mouth and light up.
God that feels so good.
February 9th, 2012 at 20:29
I took a picture of my response however can’t seem to post it here. Thanks will be looking for that Henry James story and will be hence rewriting good ole Moby Dick.
February 13th, 2012 at 17:44
Please disregard the first one and delete this sentence.
Stops
I insert my stored-value card into the slot, like I have for so many times, and proceed to the platform. The number of commuters on Taft station never seem to dwindle, not even on a Saturday. A lanky man’s hairy arm brushes against mine. Oh the things I have to endure! I reread my messages while waiting for the train.
I step onto the train, in that car reserved for women. It is less crowded here, so I can relax better. I hate crowds. I hate the smell of other people, especially in the late afternoon, and I hate the sensation of a stranger’s skin rubbing against mine. Yours was the only smell I liked, but you knew that already.
The train makes its first stop. The passengers shuffle into the car. They are in neat lines now. I remember when people waiting for the train would just place themselves randomly on the platform. We seem to be getting more urbanized here.
Second stop. I look around. I wonder if any of these people have seen the little drama we have had. They don’t remember our faces, even if they have seen us that day, I think. We remember the character on strangers’ faces, not the exact appearance. That’s why I remember your face every time you would arrive late.
“Sorry, babe. Traffic was hell.” You blinked while you said your lie. The last text you sent was more than an hour old, and I had finished my milk tea. I didn’t mind; I was just happy to see you. We didn’t see the romantic comedy like I suggested. You’d already seen it with your sister, you said.
I put my phone back in my bag. I estimate that I’ll be just in time. The train speeds across EDSA and overtakes cars, buses and motorcycles. I love the train because of that. It cuts through EDSA traffic and makes a punctual rendezvous possible. Through the window, the landscape changes, but the scenery doesn’t. Different vehicles, people and billboards are frozen on the window frame for each second.
“My life feels monotonous,” you said. “I can’t bear to think that I’m dragging you down with me.”
“You’re not dragging me down. You know I love you, right?”
You studied the pattern on the floor. The gray concrete looked even more boring coupled with the dull yellow tiles on the edge of the platform.
“Say something, babe,” I followed-up. More people were cramming themselves on the platform.
“Come on. Let’s go over there.” We moved away from the crowd. The few benches the station had were occupied. My eyes were welling up, but I didn’t want you to see. I looked at the shoes of the people going down the stairs.
“I can’t be with you when I’m like this. I need time to straighten myself out. We should take a break.”
I almost delete my sent messages, but some part of me decides against it. The train stops. A lot of people try to squeeze themselves in, even though only a few have gotten out. A middle-aged woman lectures the passengers on the virtues of giving way to others and not pushing. The crowd in this part of the route is always thick; there is a continuous flow of passengers from the nearby squatters’ area. They are constantly reminded to purchase clothing items, and worship the celebrities that endorse them, by the billboards on the riverbank.
I stared at the multivitamins ad featuring a guy with a beaming smile. You looked around and felt uncomfortable with the glances we were getting.
“Your train is coming. Take care.” With those words you left me and proceeded to the opposite side of the platform.
“No!” Everyone looked. I froze.
The woman beside me stares. I realize I have just said “No” audibly. Her body language tells me she might engage in conversation. I clutch my handbag tighter and look away. Just a few more stops and I would be at the last station, the one that leads to a mall. While the train is moving the passengers are fed trivia by the voice on the intercom. The trivia are senseless chatter meant to fill the silence created by the commuters not talking, as if the noise of EDSA and the moving train are not enough.
The sound of the incoming train rose as it approached the station, and then slowly quieted down as it came to a halt. Three trains had come and gone. No one among those who had seen you and me together on the platform were still in the station. I went inside a car and stared blankly through the window. The view changed from a gray blank wall into cars, buses, trees and houses.
The time on the text says it has been sent more than an hour earlier. He does not reply to my texts nor answer my calls. Meeting on the mall at the north end of the tracks is convenient for both of us. He lives in a subdivision not very far from the mall. I live near Taft, so I can hop on the train and avoid the traffic.
He walks in through the door. “Hey honey. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was hell.” He doesn’t make eye contact as he tells his lie. I sip the last of my milk tea. I pause and take in my surroundings. They look a little different, but I can’t quite tell how.
“I have to go.” I feel different as I walk out of the café. I feel for my stored-value card in my pocket.
February 14th, 2012 at 00:50
8 AM
I’m sitting on a bus in EDSA. As usual, traffic is horrible and I entertain myself by imagining stories in my head. Today, I’m standing in the middle of Centre Court. I have just won my 1st grandslam and I’m basking in the roars and applause of people when suddenly, this gorgeous guy (preferable one of the top 3 players in the world) comes up to me and gives me this wonderful, sweet kiss and professes his love to me – ala-Never Been Kissed – but on a grander scale. I salvage those precious time in traffic by daydreaming which, in my opinion, is a much better use of my time than watching bus drivers try to kill each other.
I’m in the middle of one of my lovely ‘creations’ when something catches my eye. Did one of those buff guys in the billboard just wink at me? Absolutely not! My hyperactive imagination’s probably just hung over from its last adventure. I tried to shake it off when suddenly, it happened again. This time, it smiled at me. I looked around to check if anyone else has noticed this weird occurence aside from me. People are either sleeping, or busy with their gadgets – PSP, ipod/itouch, tablets, etc. Things I don’t have the luxury of buying, hence, the daydreaming. No one else seems to have seen or noticed it. I look back at the billboard, out of curiousity more than anything else. The billboard guy is still looking at me, smiling. Hmm…he looks harmless, and he’s cute anyway, so I smile back. He beckons me to come to him. What the…even if I wanted to, how am I supposed to scale a 100-foot tall billboard? I don’t know what came over me, but without thinking, I got off the bus and found my way down the riverbanks where the base of the billboard was. Now what? I thought to myself, feeling stupid. Frustrated, I closed my eyes for a moment when suddenly, I felt a sudden lurch upwards. I immediately opened my eyes and found myself standing in the palm of the billboard guy as he scooped me up from the ground into the billboard. I was still in shock when he put me down inside. After a few seconds, I was finally able to recover and as I looked around, I found myself in awe. It was pretty nice, actually. It’s just like what we see in the billboard, but real. The fresh air, the white sand, the blue ocean. For a second, I felt like I was in paradise. And then I saw him. I approached him, and I can see he’s still smiling at me. I asked why brought me there. He said, “I always see you everyday as you pass by EDSA. You seem…lost in your own world. Like you wanted to be somewhere far from where you are. Plus it’s lonely out here. You don’t know how long I’ve been craving for some company.” “I don’t wanna be here.”, I said to him, “Could you please return me now? To the real world?”
“I thought this is what you wanted.”
“No, it’s not. Dreams are nice for dreaming, but I want to live in the real world.”
“Well, I’m sorry but I waited a long time to finally find someone. You’re not leaving. We’ll build a life together here.” He said, still smiling.
NO!!! I was caught in panic. I can’t be trapped here. I started screaming and punching him. “Bring me back!”, I kept telling him. I continued to scream, kick and punch. And just like that, I suddenly find a couple of MMDA guys holding both my arms and trying to restrain me. I was back in the bus, and this guy seated near me had this panicked look in his face. His nose was bleeding and his shirt was all torn up. I was brought to the police station where I was questioned. I didn’t know what to do so I just told them everything – starting from the bus, the billboard, the guy. The whole time I was telling my story, the policeman just kept looking at me with this sorry and pitying look in his eyes.
5 PM
I’m alone in this small, white room. There’s a bed, some food in the corner table, and a small window in the door. I guess I have all the time in the world to daydream now. I slowly close my eyes, and I see the billboard guy still smiling at me.
February 14th, 2012 at 18:53
Wala naman talaga ‘kong naramdaman nung sumakay kami sa FX mula Novaliches –Bayan papunta sa MRT North Avenue Station. Kaya akala ko magiging normal lang ang lahat; pero akala ko lang pala ‘yun. Mali ang kasabihang marami ang namamatay sa maling akala. Dahil kung ‘yung shit lang na nangyari sakin ang pagbabasehan, mas marami ang natatae sa maling akala.
North Avenue Station.
Siksikan sa tarangkahan ng yellow lane. Eto ang isa sa pagpapatotoong sa panahon ngayon, pantay-pantay ang tingin sa mga lalake’t babae. Boy, girl, bakla, tomboy – pantay-pantay pagdating sa karapatang-pantao. Kaya kung may tinggel ka, wag kang aangal na sexist ang mga kasabayan mong dambuhalang betlogs kapag tumilapon ka dahil sa pumuputok na beer belly nila.
Quezon Avenue Station.
Mas dumami ang pumasok kesa sa lumabas. Siksik-liglig at umaapaw na ang tao sa loob ng tren. Pinagpapawisan na ‘ko. Hindi ko alam kung dahil ‘yun sa SRO peeps sa loob o dahil sa suot kong long sleeves na may neck tie na may polo jacket. O dahil may iba pang mas malalim na dahilang kelangang hugutin sa kaibuturan. Basta ang alam ko, pinagpapawisan na ‘ko ng malagkit at hindi ko gusto ang mga pangyayari, Ate Charo.
GMA-Kamuning Station.
Dahil unang work day, parami nang parami ang kinakarga ng sardinas na kahon patungo sa pinakahuling south-bound station. Pucha, patay-malisya pero alam kong kaniya-kaniyang gitgitan na ang mga puwit sa loob. Mabuti na lang at nasa gitna kami ni kasintahan – malayo sa pintuan kaya malayo sa gitgitan.
Araneta-Cubao Station.
Pinagpapawisan pa rin ako. Tangina, ibang tama na ‘to! Sinubukan ko namang mag-deposit bago kami umalis ni kasintahan pero walang lumabas. Ba’t ngayon ay mukang puma-planking ang kupal na intestines ko?
Santolan-Annapolis Station.
Binilang ko kung ilang MRT Station pa ang dadaanan. Ortigas, Shaw, Boni, Guaalupe, Buendia, Ayala. Anakngpukengpalatae! Anim na stations of the cross pa pala ang papasanin ko bago ko malampasan ang kalbaryo kong ‘to! Kelangang i-focus ang chakra at baka mautot ako ng tae tulad ni Naruto. Breathe in, breathe out.
Ortigas Avenue Station.
Shit, shit, at isa pang malasadong shit! Malayo pa ba? Napansin ni kasintahan na muka na ‘kong balisang pusang gustong makaiskor sa bubong sa kailaliman ng gabing malibog. Okey ka lang? Tipid na ngiti; malapot pa rin ang pawis ko sa muka. Okey lang ako, Dude. Liars go to hell; mabuti na lang hindi ako naniniwalang may impyerno.
Shaw Boulevard Station.
Putangina, masamang kumbinasyon pala ang spaghetti at kape! Fuck Hunt’s Spaghetti Sauce! Fuck you, Coco Martin; ‘yung kape mo, hindi yummy sa tummy.
Boni Avenue Station.
O mahal na patron ng skid mark at pagtatae, huwag mo po akong ipahintulot sa poso-negro at ihadya mo po ako sa masamang tiyan. Amen.
Guadalupe Station.
‘Yung tite kong maugat, umurong na sa sobrang pagpipigil. ‘Yung tumbong ko, para nang kamay ng one-year-old na kumu-close-open-close-open. Tiningnan ko si kasintahan; bumulong ako sa kaniya. Dude, natatae ako. Sabay ngisi para kunwari cool; pero alam ng diyos kung gaano na kainit ang pwet ko sa mga oras na ‘yun.
Buendia Station.
Diyos ko po, hindi naman porke tapos na ang beerday ko ay bigla-bigla mo na lang ipaparamdam sakin na tapos na nga talaga ang beerday ko. Let’s make a deal: huwag mo ‘kong gawing Grade 1 na nakatae sa salawal at hindi ako manlalait ng mga bobo ng isang linggo. Sige na, make that a month’s worth of civil obedience.
Ayala Station.
Putangina raised to the nth power! Hindi ko na talaga kaya. ‘Yung tumbong ko, parang nursery rhyme na sasara at bubuka at dadaan ang reynang pakembot-kembot pa! Shit na malasado’t malagkit, hindi na ‘to aabot sa office! What to do, what to do. What the fuck am I supposed to do?!
Dude, natatae na talaga ‘ko!!! Kelangan ko nang tumae rito!!!
Pay a sizeable worth of attention to the use of triple exclamation points in the sentences. The overwhelming punctuation is but a testament to the dire urgency of the shitty situation. Pun half-heartedly intended.
Sige Dude, may CR sa taas. Tara!
Totoo ang sinasabi nilang kapag nagmamadali ka, napakabagal ng takbo ng oras. ‘Yung escalator, buwakanginang shit, parang mas mabilis pa maglakad ang lola ko (sumalangit nawa ang kaniyang kaluluwa)! Pagdating sa taas, alanganing lakad-alanganing takbo na ang paa ko.
Mahirap na, baka biglang tumagas ang tinitimping tae.
Men’s CR. Punung-puno ng mga lalakeng nakapila para dyuminggel at pagkatapos ay manalamin. Sinipat ko ang nag-iisang kubeta. Punyetang pwet na palatae! Nakasara ang pinto at nakabalandra ang isang malaking drum na pinatungan pa ng dust pan, timba, at floor mop.
Kung bibigyan ako ng pagkakataong maging Pangulo ng Republika ng Pilipinas, isa sa magiging pet projects ko ang rayabilitation ng mga kubeta sa MRT stations. Para makapagtrabaho nang maayos ang milyun-milyong manggagawang Pilipino, sisiguraduhin kong dapat ay merong kasilyas sa bawat pampublikong lugar na pwede nilang gamitin lalo na kung emergency ang tawag ng tanghalan. Tapos gagawin kong 1:1 ang ratio ng kubeta sa gagamit para hindi magka-skid mark ‘yung nasa dulo ng pila.
Dude, sira ‘yung CR samin! Pano ‘to, Dude?! Lalabas na talaga!
Ha? Wait lang, Dude. Check ko samin.
Sa puntong iyon, handa ko nang lamunin ang pagkalalake ko, handa na ‘kong bumalik ule sa pagka-Grade 1 kung kelan hindi masama ang makatae sa salawal dahil wala kang pakialam kung makatae ka sa salawal.
Pero kung kelan handa ko nang isuko at iwagayway ang brip kong may skid mark, tsaka naman ako gugulatin ng pagiging maabilidad at mapagmahal ng babaeng itinatangi ko. Maraming babae sa loob ng Ladies’ CR pero wala siyang pakialam; mahigpit na hinawakan ni kasintahan ang kamay ko at dali-daling pinapasok ang lalakeng pinakamamahal niya sa libreng kasilyas na naroon.
At nagsibulungan ang mga babaeng nakapila at nainis sa sumingit na natataeng may lawit. At bumula ang maraming bibig na naka-lipstick at kinalampag ang pinto kung saan kumukuta ang lalakeng may diarrhea.
Pero hindi natinag ang babaeng nagpapasok sa lalake at nagpaliwanag sa mga nang-aaway na babae.
At ang lalake ay patuloy sa pagtatae at ang babae ay naghintay sa kaniyang paglabas tangan ang isang tabo at balde.
February 14th, 2012 at 18:55
please ignore the first two comments and instead count the last one as my entry. apologies for the multiple comments.
February 14th, 2012 at 21:23
Call him Ishmael. Or dumbass. It doesn’t matter, really. People have been calling him names since he became a vegan.
“Boss, bayad ninyo.” said the bus conductor.
Ishmael slid his hand inside his pocket, pulled out twenty pesos and handed it to the conductor.
“M.C.U.” he said.
The conductor gave him his change and move on to the other passengers.
He was in Trinoma, the mall he preferred than SM North because not much jologs can be seen there. The travel from EDSA to M.C.U. will take more than thirty minutes so he decided to pass the time by reading. He slid his hand inside his bag (What, you’re wondering why it doesn’t have a zipper? Of course, he used eco bag. It’s earth-friendly.) to get his “So You Want To Be A Vegan?” pamphlet. Instead, he got out a leather wallet. It was not his.
“I don’t know how it got here.” he said, swearing to himself that he was totally clueless.
He opened it and found a picture of a family. “This man is lucky. I don’t even have a boyfriend.”
He checked the cash compartment and found bills amounting to five thousand pesos. He searched his pocket and found two hundred pesos and some change.
He checked the wallet’s card compartment and found some IDs and credit cards. “So, he is thirty-five years old.”
He remembered he didn’t even have a wallet. Much more, five thousand pesos.
Meanwhile, at the back of his seat, a biology student was seated beside an old man. She was reading a novel about the first woman doctor. The old man accidentally touched her thigh. She didn’t feel it. The old man accidentally placed his hand on her thigh. She didn’t feel it. The old man accidentally slid his hand inside her pants. Again, she didn’t feel it. How could she? The story of the first woman doctor was so beautiful, it touched her feminist heart. She was so moved, actually, that there was even tears in her eyes. Nothing unusual here. Let’s go back to Ishmael.
“This guy will be so lucky,” he thought, “When I bring it to the mall’s customer service. They will contact him. He will not know me, but he will be happy.”
Ishmael could just take it away with him and own it. But he didn’t. Advocates of change should always be exemplary.
“Come to think of it,” he said, “I might even be the Human of the Year.”
He stood up and walked to the bus’ door.
“Para po.”
The bus stopped.
He merrily hop out of the bus and was about to cross the street when he was hit by a speeding black Honda Civic.
He died.
Rumor has it, the car driver was in a bad mood because he just lost his wallet.
February 15th, 2012 at 10:12
Araw-araw na lang, ganun pa rin ang eksena. Sa umaga, magpapahatid iyan sa school. Dadaan kami ng Guadalupe dahil mas mabilis daw iyon, at iwas trapik pag may number coding. Sa hapon naman, dadating ako sa school, mga alas kuwatro, alas singko, para mag-abang sa kanya. Lalabas iyan sa gate, tapos sasakay na siya. Minsan kasama niya yung mga kaibigan niya, yung mga high-class na magyayayang magpunta sa mall para mag-sine – drop-off ko na lang sila daw, tapos babalik na ako sa bahay o sa opisina ni Sir para maghintay kung kelan ako kailangan.
Pero minsan, kami lang talaga sa loob ng kotse.
Minsan mapapatayo iyan para magpalit ng cassette, o estasyon sa radyo. Dati, nabaduyan siya sa Magic tapos inilipat niya sa NU yung estasyon, at inunahan ko na ng sindak para mahawakan ko ang kamay niya. Ang lambot ng mga daliri niya. Palibhasa palaging pinagsasabihan ng Mama niya na gumamit ng lotion araw-araw para hindi siya palaging nangangagat ng patay na kuko.
Anim na buwan na akong driver para sa kanila. Wala pa akong nagagawa, naghihintay na lang. Sabagay, kasisimula pa lang ng 1994.
Minsan, sinadya kong dumerecho sa EDSA. Tamang-tama, trapik na nung mga oras na iyon.
“Birthday mo pala kahapon?”
Ngumiti lang siya, parang bale wala. “Oo.”
“Happy birthday,” sabi ko. “Ilang taon ka na?”
“Sixteen po.”
Sweet sixteen, hindi na bata. Tapos gagamitan pa niya ako ng “po,” na parang lolo na ako. Kwarenta pa lang ako pero mukhang 25 naman pa rin, di ba? Kuhang-kuha pa iyan.
“Nakita mo na ba yung regalo ko para sa iyo?”
“Opo.”
Alas kuwatro y medya pa lang, hindi pa iyan hinihintay nila Sir.
“Alam mo, mahilig kasi akong mag-drawing.”
“Talaga po?”
“Talaga.”
Nakatingin siya sa Ilog Pasig sa may Guadalupe habang nagwo-Walkman. Nakatunganga lang doon sa mga karatula, lalo na yung sa San Miguel na pag umiilaw sa gabi eh parang nagbubuhos ng bote ng beer sa baso.
“Napapansin ko kasi na palagi kang nakikinig ng music pag magkasama tayo. Sa kotse.”
“Uh-huh.” Binalikan niya ang sing-along sa Walkman. “Don’t call me daughter” daw.
“Kaya iyon, idinu-rawing kita na nakikinig ng music.”
“Ganoon po?”
“Ganoon.”
Hindi na siya umimik pagkatapos non. Hindi man lang nagpasalamat.
Nalampasan na namin yung mga bodega sa magkabilaang dako ng EDSA, yung bago mag-Pioneer at Shaw. Mabagal naman talaga pag ganitong oras ng hapon. Hindi na nga gumagalaw yung mga sasakyan, tapos amoy na amoy pa yung mga tambutso ng mga sasakyan doon. Aircon na yung sasakyan pero parang nasasakal ako sa sama ng hangin.
Ginalingan ko na lang ang diskarte. “Siguro may boyfriend ka na, ano?”
Wala na naman siyang sinabi.
“Sayang naman,” sabi ko pa. “Sixteen years old ka na, ang ganda-ganda mo pa. Siguro pinaghihigpitan ka ni Sir, ano?”
Ilang kilometro na lang, Shaw Boulevard na. Pagkatapos nito, Ortigas. Derecho na lang kami sa office ni Sir para kunwari sabay lang kaming naghihintay sa kanya.
Bigla niyang pinatay yung Walkman niya.
“Ihatid ninyo po ako sa Galleria.”
Aba, wala sa plano iyan. Isumbong ko kaya ang batang ito sa Mama niya. Tapos hindi na siya papayagang maglakwatsa para ako na lang ang hatid-kaon sa kanya. Parang bodyguard lang.
“Bigla ko lang naalala eh,” dagdag pa niya. “Magtatagpo pala kami ng friends ko doon.”
Ngayon ko lang napansin na magkaboses pala sila ng Mama niya pag inuutus-utusan nila ako. Wala na akong pakialam, basta mapa-oo ko lang siya…
“Siguro may date ka, ano?”
“Meron po,” sabi niya. “Di ba kinuwento ko na siya sa inyo?”
Teka, akala ko ba hanggang kras-kras lang yung sa kanya? Tapos date na kaagad?
“Si… ano po, si Jeremy Buendia. Taga-Xavier po siya.”
Wala siyang binanggit na Jeremy Buendia sa akin. Yung mga alam ko, mga conyo at Intsik na nirereto ng mga kaibigan niya – mga Jaime or Lance or Bobby – pero wala akong narinig na Jeremy Buendia. Diese-sais anyos lang, lumalandi na…
“I-drop na lang po ninyo ako sa harap ng simbahan,” sabi niya. “Alam na nila Mama ito.”
Aba, kunsintidora pa pala ang Mama niya sa paglalakwatsa. Yan ang problema sa mga kabataan natin, naii-spoil na ng mga magulang. Puro Walkman na lang nang Walkman, tapos hindi na nababantayan. Wala na silang pag-galang…
“Basta,” sabi niya habang iniimpake ang Walkman sa bag niya. “Lumiko ka na dito sa papuntang Rosario.”
Lumiko na ako oras na nakita ko na si Mama Mary sa harap ko.
“Dito na,” sabi niya noong nakahilera na kami doon sa harap ng Galleria. “Wag na kayong maghintay, tawag na lang ako sa bahay kung kelan ako uuwi.”
Hindi ko alam kung saan ako maghihintay: sa bahay, o sa parking lot ng Robinson para kunwari pinadala ako kaagad ng Mama niya. Dumaan na lang ako sa office ni Sir. Tutal, mag-aalas singko na.
Nabigla na lamang ako noong nakita ko yung mag-asawa na nag-aabang sa akin. Sa harap umupo si Sir, si Ma’m naman sa likod.
“Kagagaling lang ni Misis sa bahay ng dati mong amo sa Valle Verde,” sabi ni Sir. “Pinakita niya sa asawa mo yung drawing na iniregalo mo para sa birthday ng anak namin…”
Parang sinakal ako ng hangin sa loob ng kotse noong oras na iyon.
February 16th, 2012 at 05:19
Nag-ring ang phone ni Don. May text. Binasa nya ‘to, and sabi – M.U. Ingat na lang. Galing kay Mike. Kanina pa nya na-received, mga 30 minuto ng nakakalipas, pero ngayon lang nya nakita kasi na-trapik sila sa may Ortigas dahil sa banggaan. E di ugali ni Don na maglabas ng cellphone sa byahe, lalo na sa ordinary na bus.
Dalawang Oras Nakaraan
Nag-park sila sa may EDSA, sa may kanto papasok ng Aurora. Galing sila sa isang gimik, aalis na si Mike kinabukasan papuntang London, so parang despedida ng matuturing yung paglabas nilang mag-kumpare. Bababa na sana si Don ng biglang nagsalita si Mike.
Mike: Uy, email mo yung Resume mo ah, wag mong kalimutan. Saka yung passport mo pa-renew mo na, pwede namang i-tawag yun sabi ko naman sa’yo eh.
Don: Oo, ako na bahala dun.
Mike: May cut off, sana by Friday ma-send mo na at least yung Resume mo, ako na bahala sa cover letter.
Don: okey… (iba ang tono, medyo padabog)
Sa konting sandali, parehas silang di nagkibuan. Nagsalita uli si Mike.
Mike: ayaw mo ata eh
Don: alam mo namang ayokong nag-aasikaso ng ganyan
Mike: kaya pala yung SSS ng girlfriend mo ikaw ang nag-asikaso
Tahimik lang si Don. Nakahawak sa handle, handa ng sumibat palabas ng kotse.
Mike: ako na bahala sa placement fee. mabilis na yun, wala ka ng po-problemahin. kahit tirahan sagot ko na
Napa-iling si Don, at na-pangiti ng bahagya, yung reaksyon na parang natawa siya sa sarili niyang joke, delayed nga lang.
Don: tapos ano? magli-live in tayo? ano to Brokeback?
Mike: so ayaw mo nga?
Don: sabi ko naman sa’yo, trip lang to. pampalipas libog. ayoko ng seryosohan. di ako nakikipag-relasyon
Lumingon sa papalayo si Don. Iniwisang makita ang reaksyon ng mukha ni Mike. Sinubukang maghanap ng matatanaw sa labas. Stoplight lang ang andun. At saka ang maluwag na kalsada pag ganung alas 3 ng umaga
Mike: sige ingat na lang. baka lumabas na GF mo, sunduin mo na
Pero hindi magawang i-unlock ni Mike ang pinto ng kotse. Madalas automatic, pag sinasabihan niya ng ingat si Don, ina-unlock nya yung pinto ng kotse. Ilang beses na rin silang lumabas, at laging ganito ang routine, hatid-sundo sa kotse ni Mike. At sa loob ng 2 buwan nilang paglabas ni Don, ngayon lang nangyari na hindi niya in-unlock yung pinto.
Nakatingin lang sila parehas sa kawalan. Nakailang ikot na ng red light yung stoplight, pero naka-park pa rin sila sa kanto.
Don: o sige na, text mo na lang ako pagdating mo sa airport. gising na ko siguro nun. wag ka ng mag-load, sayang, ako na lang tatawag
Di sumagot si Mike. Walang kibo. Walang imik. Blanko ang mukha. Reaksyon ng taong nabalitaan na nanalo yung numero niya sa lotto, pero na-realize niya nawawala yung ticket niya.
Akmang hihilahin na ni Don yung handle para buksan ang pinto ng biglang magsalita sa Mike.
Mike: ‘lam mo, ang sakit mo sa sikmura
Don: baka puson? nabitin ka kasi kanina
Mike: di yun. sikmura. sakit sa sikmura
Don: ha?
Mike: yung tipong sa sobrang sakit ng nararamdaman mo emotionally, nangangasim sikmura
Don: parang butterflies in the…
Mike: stomach? hindi, iba pa. yung… yung… (nagkatinginan ang dalawa) tipong dahil sobrang mamimiss kita, sinisikmura ako. ganun yung pakiramdam.
Don: drama mo!
Sabay bukas ng pinto at labas. Pero bago pa tuluyang isara ang pinto, dumungaw si Don at nagsabing
Don: pag nagka-time pre, e-email ko sayo lahat ng papeles. thanks nga pala. ingat sa flight bukas.
Sinundan ni Mike ng tingin si Don habang naglalakad papasok ng Cubao. Nang mawala na si Don sa paningin niya, ini-start na niya yung makina, at nagmaneho.
Ilang minuto pa at nagkita na si Don at ang GF niya. Hinahatid ni Don gabi-gabi mula trabaho ang gf niya papuntang bahay nito sa Alabang. Medyo natagalan pa nga at may banggaan sa may Ortigas. Bus at itim na kotse. Nung mga panahong nag-iintay si Don sa pag-out ng GF niya sa trabaho, saktong nagtete-text si Mike habang kumakaripas sa pagpapatakbo ng kotse sa may Ortigas. Saktong pagpindot niya ng send, may bus na mabilis na sumingit sa lane niya, at tumilapon papalabas ng kotse ang cellphone, dahil sa lakas ng bangga sa bus.
February 16th, 2012 at 10:38
Thank you, keep those stories coming. The Yucch-meter is online this weekend.
February 20th, 2012 at 15:44
Wala si Fidel sa tabi ng main gate ng POEA nang dumating sya. May usapan silang magkikita dito ngayong ala-diyes ng umaga. Magsusumite lang ito ng kanyang mga papeles bilang balik-manggagawa at pagkatapos ay kakain sila sa labas. Walang patid ang pagdating ng mga taong gustong magtrabaho sa ibang bansa. Nakisabay na rin syang pumasok sa loob ng gusali at baka nandoon na si Fidel. Nasa kanan ang Assistance and Information Center at sa itaas nito’y ang malaking tarpaulin ni PNoy na nagsasabing “Kung walang corrupt, walang mahirap”. Nasa kaliwa naman ang Balik-Manggagawa Processing Center. Sinipat nyang maigi ang mga nakaupong naghihintay na tawagin ang kanilang pangalan. Wala si Fidel sa mga ito kaya’t lumabas sya. Tumayo si Manding sa isang tabi at tinitingnan ang bawat papasok. Natanaw nya ang dambana ni Mama Mary sa kanyang kinatatayuan. Naalaala tuloy nya ang ayaw pabuksang dollar account ni Chief Justice Corona. Ganon din noon sa impeachment ni Erap. Ayaw pabuksan ng labing-isang senador ang pangalawang envelope na syang naging mitsa ng pagsiklab ng EDSA 2. Palagay nya’y sawa na ang mga tao sa People Power. Kahit naman sya, ayaw nya ng rally-rally. Naniniwala syang kung talagang tadhana ng Pilipinas ang umunlad, manyayari ito kahit walang mga kilos-protesta.
Mga kalahating oras ding nagnag-abang si Manding bago nya namataan si Fidel. Tumaba ito. Nakamaong lang at puting T-shirt na walang kuwelyo. Walang suot na mga alahas na karaniwang mapapansin sa mga nagbabakasyong OFW. May pagka-baduy si Fidel pero wala syang maipipintas sa ugali nito. Kahit taga-Pasig na’t nakaririwasa na sa buhay, di pa rin sya nakakalimutan. Sinalubong at niyakap nya ang kaibigan. “Kumusta na ang bagong bayani?”, biro ni Manding. Tumawa lang si Fidel sabay abot ng isang duty-free shop bag at isang sobre. Nagpasalamat si Manding at nagpatuloy sila ng biruan at kwentuhan. Nag-sorry si Fidel dahil hindi raw matutuloy ngayon ang lakad nila. Dumating kasi ang bayaw nyang galing probinsya at kailangang asikasuhin. Papasyal na lang daw sya sa San Andres kapag nakalibre. Nagpaalam na itong papasok sa loob para maagang makatapos Muling nagpasalamat si Manding sabay sabing “ingat ka” sa kaibigan.
Natuwa si Manding nang binuksan nya ang sobre. May laman itong tig-iisang libong piso. Ang swerte talaga kahit hindi mo hanapin, kusang darating kung talagang sa iyo, nasabi nya sa sarili. Hinalungkat nya ang laman ng bitbit na bag – isang kahong Mars chocolate bars, isang Victoria’s Secret body lotion, dalawang kahong Red Marlboro at isang boteng Black Label. Para talagang namili sya sa duty-free shop. Nadagdagan ang tuwa nya dahil pati ang asawang si Tina’y may pasalubong. Hindi sya nagkamali sa kanyang pinakasalan. Maasikaso’t maayos sa bahay si Tina bukod pa sa mahusay magluto. Higit sa lahat, tahimik ito. Walang rekla-reklamo. Tanggap lang ito nang tanggap kung ano ang hatid ng kapalaran. Tanggap ang kahirapan nila. Tanggap ang pag-inom nya. Tanggap din ang papetiks-petiks nyang diskarte sa buhay.
Sumakay si Manding sa isang bus na naghihintay ng mga pasahero sa gilid ng POEA. Air-conditioned ito at biyaheng Alabang. Umupo sya sa unahan dahil malapit lang naman ang kanyang babaan. Wala pang sampung minuto’y humaharurot na ang bus sa kahabaan ng EDSA. Nang maningil ang konduktor, nag-abot sya ng dalawampong piso at nagsabing sa Guadalupe bababa. Labing-dalawa piso ang tamang pamasahe pero anim na piso lang ang isinukli sa kanya. Sinita nya ang konduktor sa maling sukli at walang kibong inabot nito ang dalawang pisong kulang. Naasar si Manding dahil ayaw nya sa lahat ang mga manloloko at ang mga magnanakaw. Kahit gipit sya sa buhay, hindi sya nanlalamang ng kapwa. Para maalis ang init ng ulo, inisip na lang nya ang magiging eksena sa bahay kapag nakita ng tatlong anak nya ang tsokolate. Ano kaya kung uwian nya ang mga ito ng chiken joy? Siguradong riot! Napagpasiyahan nyang dumaan sa Jollybee mamya. Bumaba si Manding sa Guadalupe. Binagtas nya ang makitid mna sidewalk papuntang foot bridge na pagtatawiran nya para makarating sa kabila ng EDSA. Nasa gilid ng palengke ng Guadalupe nakapila ang jeep na sinasakyan nya pauwing San Andres. Naghigpit na naman marahil ang MMDA dahil wala syang nakitang mga vendors. Mga apat lang silang umakyat sa footbridge. Nang marating nya ang kalagitnaan ng mataas na bahagi ng tulay, narinig ang malakas na sigaw ng isang babaing habol-habol ang isang snatcher. Rumaragasang pasalubong ang snatcher sa kanya. Hinarang nya ‘to at buong lakas na inihampas sa mukha nito ang dalang bag. Nabuwal ang lalaki at akmang tatadyakan ‘to ni Manding nang biglang may sumaksak sa kanyang tagiliran. Napaharap sya’t napakapit sa nakaabang palang kasabwat ng snatcher. Isang saksak sa kanyang tiyan ang muling pinakawalan nito at malakas syang isinalya. Matuling tumakas ang dalawa at naiwan syang nakataob sa semento. Nang tumingala sya, tumambad sa kanya ang nagtatayugang mga gusaling tila gustong abutin ang langit. Sumunod nyang nakita ang malaking bakanteng lote na dating kinatitirikan ng mga nasunog na barong-barong ng mga eskwater, at sa tabi nito ay ang Loyola Memorial Chapels & Crematorium. Muling napasubsob ang mukha nya at napansin nya ang nagkalat na tsokolateng basa ng dugo at ang basag na bote ng alak. Maya-maya’y nabanaagan nya ang maraming paa, may naka-sapatos at may naka-tsinelas. Napapikit si Manding sa kirot ng kanyang mga saksak sa katawan at ang hul nyang narinig ay “Ma-epal kasi”.
February 21st, 2012 at 03:25
It was one of those mornings.
When the train doors hissed open, her fellow passengers took seats so far from each other you would think they did not live in Manila, this city of households sharing cardboard-thin walls and illegal cable TV subscriptions. She was alarmed after surveying the faces of the other passengers. If these people, hair dripping wet from the morning bath, clothes proudly advertising their recent foray under the flat iron, looked embattled, then what about her, who just endured a gruelling 10-hour shift?
She craved for the softness of her bed, of freshly washed sheets against face. Yet she knew that once she got home and collapsed unto her bed, sleep would not come. Like a cruel joke, she would be so sleepy but her mind would refuse to decelerate, jumping from one woeful affair to another, the stagnation in her job, the electric bill that was unusually higher, the seemingly insatiable parents. On lucky days she would have two hours to rest before her alarm clock rang – a sound she’d grown to associate with misty eyes, cold showers, and tasteless leftovers from last night’s dinner – signalling the need to set out for battle again.
But she managed, and she always pushed herself.
She had not been fond of Americans to begin with, initially chuckling at the irony that she worked for them now. She remembered being a naïve, scar-less sophomore when her anthropology professor, a communist, recounted to her class with much fury and saliva an episode in Samar. The Americans, after suffering an embarrassing rout, came back and massacred an entire town. No one was spared, he thundered, women and children, goats and dogs, gunned down summarily, slashed in the gut with their own rusty machetes. To signify their conquering of the brutes, the Americans pilfered the town church’s humongous bells, which signalled the attack, and until today refused to return them to Philippine authorities.
She recalled this little anecdote with fondness.
Even more when she remembered how, earlier, her team was visited by the ubiquitous white guy, how her teammates and, occasionally, she fawned over the white guy for being so nice and endearing in that Robin Williams type of way. How could they not? The white guy was dishing out profuse thanks for staying in the company and even more profuse apologies for the unbearable nippiness in the operations floor. She flinched at the memory, no matter how fleeting, of being enamored with the American.
It was certainly a battle of sorts in her head, her mouth ajar and her eyes vacant, as the train reached Boni station. Payday was a week away.
Only then did she notice an old Caucasian guy a few meters away from her. He wore a loose Chinese-style barong and white cotton pants. He carried a bulky black laptop bag on his right shoulder and a black binder brimming with paper in his arm. His free hand occasionally pushed his thin glasses up the bridge of his steep nose.
Another Robin Williams, she mumbled to herself.
This white guy, who also stood, clutched the pole opposite her, two meters away. The train buzzed with cheery early morning conversations as it negotiated Manila’s main artery. She fixed her gaze outside the window. Ortigas’ skyscrapers loomed in the distance, haze-covered and tiny, while grimy medium-rise structures, one after another, sometimes blocked her view. The white guy looked in the same direction, a minute but unmistakable furrow erupting in his forehead, like he felt sorry to see this Third World destitution up close. She watched him bow his head in what she guessed could only be shame. Rightful, well-deserved shame.
The train kept a steady pace even as it neared Shaw station. The more animated passengers arched their eyebrows, wondering why the train, indeed, was not slowing down even as it entered the station’s premises. When it did at the last possible second, those who didn’t hold on to anything were thrown forward in a daze.
Half-asleep but with the alertness of youth, she managed to grab on to a railing.
The white guy, whose wrinkly, pink hands gripped a pole with little vitality, was thrown to the floor in the center aisle. A loud thud, the sound of a small firecracker, caught everyone’s attention. He landed on his elbows, and now leaned on his right hand. His bag was flung across the coach, and his glasses hurriedly left his nose. A fountain of paper in all direction.
A tardy bell signalled the arrival to the station. There was a token apology from the train’s PA system, but the doors, for some reason, remained shut. Stunned, the Caucasian laid helpless for a few seconds, until he started groping around for his things.
Her laughter rose above the confused silence. What started as tiny chuckles quickly grew to howls. The other passengers, some of whom laughed a little at first, now furrowed their eyebrows, unable to hide their disgust.
In her head, the bell that declared the arrival to the station triggered a stampede that caught everyone off guard. The white guy was thrown around as everybody hurried to the suddenly petite exits. A hundred brown feet, wearing cheap rubber slippers and ten-year-old sneakers, trampled a Caucasian mouth that couldn’t even shout for help.
Zombie-like, she went against the imaginary flow of people, readied her tired, tired foot, and gave the fallen a final kick in the shins. There was an audible gasp from the horrified passengers and interjections invoking deities. A scream called the attention of a passing security guard, who quickly went between the combatants, restraining her still flailing foot with his own.
The train doors finally opened. The security guard helped the white guy to his feet. He gathered his things, his bag, his glasses, ignored the sheets of paper, and scampered toward the nearest exit. The doors closed, and the train whistled merrily to its next stop.
February 21st, 2012 at 10:09
Maam Jessica, heto ho ang entry ko matapos kong iwasto ang mga typos. Maraming salamat.
Wala si Fidel sa tabi ng main gate ng POEA nang dumating siya. May usapan silang magkikita dito ngayong alas-diyes ng umaga. Magsusumite lang ito ng kanyang mga papeles bilang balik-manggagawa at pagkatapos ay kakain sila sa labas. Walang patid ang pagdating ng mga taong gustong magtrabaho sa ibang bansa. Nakisabay na rin syang pumasok sa loob ng gusali at baka nandoon na si Fidel. Nasa kanan ang Assistance and Information Center. Sa itaas nito’y nakasabit ang malaking tarpaulin ni PNoy na nagsasabing “Kung walang corrupt, walang mahirap”. Nasa kaliwa naman ang Balik-Manggagawa Processing Center. Sinipat nyang maigi ang mga nakaupong naghihintay na tawagin ang kanilang mga pangalan. Wala si Fidel sa mga ito kaya’t lumabas siya. Tumayo si Manding sa isang tabi at tinitingnan ang bawat papasok. Natanaw nya ang dambana ni Mama Mary sa kanyang kinatatayuan. Naalaala tuloy nya ang ayaw pabuksang dollar accounts ni Chief Justice Corona. Ganon din noon sa impeachment ni Erap. Ayaw pabuksan ng labing-isang senador ang pangalawang envelope na siyang naging mitsa ng pagsiklab ng EDSA 2. Palagay nya’y sawa na ang mga tao sa People Power. Kahit naman siya, ayaw nya ng rally-rally. Naniniwala syang kung talagang tadhana ng Pilipinas ang umunlad, mangyayari ito kahit walang mga kilos-protesta.
Mga kalahating oras ding nag-abang si Manding bago nya namataan si Fidel. Tumaba ito. Nakamaong lang at puting T-shirt na walang kuwelyo. Walang suot na mga alahas na karaniwang mapapansin sa mga nagbabakasyong OFW. May pagka-baduy si Fidel pero wala siyang maipipintas sa ugali nito. Kahit taga-Pasig na’t nakaririwasa na sa buhay, di pa rin siya nakakalimutan. “Kumusta na ang bagong bayani?”, biro ni Manding. Tumawa lang si Fidel sabay abot ng isang duty-free shop bag at isang sobre. Nagpasalamat si Manding at nagpatuloy sila ng biruan at balitaan. Nag-sorry si Fidel dahil hindi raw matutuloy ngayon ang lakad nila. Dumating kasi ang bayaw nyang galing probinsya at kailangang asikasuhin. Papasyal na lang daw sya sa San Andres kapag nakalibre. Nagpaalam na itong papasok sa loob para maagang matapos ang nilalakad na mga papeles. Muling nagpasalamat si Manding sabay sabing “ingat ka” sa kaibigan.
Natuwa si Manding nang binuksan nya ang sobre. May lamang dalawang tig-iisang libong piso. Ang swerte talaga kahit hindi mo hanapin, kusang darating kung talagang sa iyo, nasabi nya sa sarili. Hinalungkat nya ang laman ng bitbit na bag – isang kahong Mars chocolate bars, isang bote ng Victoria’s Secret body lotion, dalawang kahong Red Marlboro, at isang boteng Black Label. Para talagang namili sya sa duty-free shop. Nadagdagan ang tuwa nya dahil pati ang asawang si Tina’y may pasalubong din. Hindi sya nagkamali sa kanyang pinakasalan. Maasikaso’t maayos sa bahay si Tina, bukod pa sa mahusay magluto. Higit sa lahat, tahimik ito. Walang rekla-reklamo. Tanggap lang ito nang tanggap kung ano ang hatid ng kapalaran. Tanggap ang kahirapan nila. Tanggap ang pag-inom nya. Tanggap din ang papetiks-petiks nyang diskarte sa buhay.
Sumakay si Manding sa isang bus na naghihintay ng mga pasahero sa gilid ng POEA. Air-conditioned ito at biyaheng Alabang. Umupo sya sa unahan dahil malapit lang naman ang kanyang babaan. Wala pang sampung minuto’y humaharurot na ang bus sa kahabaan ng EDSA. Nang maningil ang konduktor, nag-abot sya ng dalawampung piso at nagsabing sa Guadalupe lang. Labing-dalawang piso ang tamang pamasahe pero anim na piso lang ang isinukli sa kanya. Sinita nya ang konduktor sa maling sukli sa kanya. Walang kibong inabot nito ang dalawang pisong kulang. Naasar si Manding dahil ayaw nya sa lahat ang mga manloloko at ang mga magnanakaw. Kahit gipit sya sa buhay, hindi sya nanlalamang ng kapwa. Para mabawasan ang init ng ulo, inisip na lang nya ang magiging eksena sa bahay kapag nakita ng tatlong anak nya ang tsokolate. Ano kaya kung uwian nya pa ang mga ito ng chicken joy? Siguradong riot sa tuwa! Napagpasiyahan nyang dumaan sa Jollybee mamaya.
Bumaba si Manding sa Guadalupe. Binagtas nya ang makitid na sidewalk papuntang footbridge na pagtatawiran nya para makalipat sa kabila ng EDSA. Nasa gilid ng palengke nakapila ang jeep na sinasakyan nya pauwing San Andres. Naghigpit na naman marahil amg MMDA dahil wala syang makitang mga vendors. Mga apat na tao lang silang umakyat sa matarik na footbridge. Nang marating nya ang kalagitnaan ng mataas na bahagi ng tulay, narinig nya ang sigaw ng babaing humahabol sa isang snatcher. Rumaragasang pasalubong ang snatcher kay Manding. Hinarang nya ‘to at buong-lakas na inihampas sa mukha nito ang dalang bag. Nabuwal ang lalaki at akmang tatadyakan ‘to ni Manding nang biglang may sumaksak sa kanyang tagiliran. Napaharap sya’t napayakap sa nakaabang palang kasabwat ng snatcher. Isang saksak sa kanyang tiyan ang muling pinakawalan nito at isinalya siya nang malakas.
Matuling tumakas ang dalawa at naiwan syang nakataob sa semento. Nang tumingala sya, tumambad sa kanya ang nagtatayugang mga gusaling tila gustong abutin ang langit. Sumunod nyang nakita ang malaking bakanteng lote na dating kinatitirikan ng mga barong-barong ng mga squatter. At sa tabi nito ay ang Loyola Memorial Chapels & Crematorium. Muling napasubsob ang kanyang mukha sa semento at napansin nya ang basag na bote ng alak at ang nagkalat na tsokolateng basa ng dugo. Maya-maya’y naaninag nya ang maraming paa, may naka-sapatos at may naka-tsinelas. Napapikit si Manding sa kirot ng kanyang mga saksak at ang huli nyang narinig ay “Ma-epal kasi”.
February 21st, 2012 at 11:57
He’s actually an Ernesto but prefers going by Earnest, as the latter sounds more befitting of a young, mobile man, the type with a hot girlfriend and drives a convertible. The kind he aspires to be.
In reality he lives in a small, derelict apartment he shares with five others. Someday when fate smiles upon him he swears he’s going to buy a property in the South, because from what he sees in the ads that’s where the rich live. He wonders how much their gas bill is considering the distance they have to drive just to go to the city. Those people probably never worry about such trivialities.
Earnest is a traffic enforcer. He fancies himself as the master of the streets, the God of peace and order as he presides over his tiny patch of concrete at the corner of Ortigas and EDSA. With a wave of his hand he can stop a vehicle and make up a violation the driver may or not have committed. The hapless mortal will then attempt to placate his ire with sweet words and offerings of money. Earnest often accepts the donations as times are tough, dreams do not come cheap and if you’re earning minimum wage and dealing with this crap all day he figured he is entitled to some class of compensation.
This isn’t what Earnest wanted for himself. He longs to be a police officer, his childhood dream, but he does not have a college degree. Chances are he’ll die as a traffic officer, probably from some lung disease from all the smoke he’s inhaling as a consequence of his work. Sometimes when a pricey looking car passes by he wonders what kind of life the man driving such a vehicle has and how different his is. How many lifetimes would it take to become the rich bastard driving the coupe with a fold-down top? Why wasn’t he born wealthy? Would he ever get out of this relentless stream of rusty buses and their heartless drivers, of grimy streets and carbon monoxide?
He mulled over these things over his lunch—fried fish with rice, the cheapest meal on his favorite turo-turo stand. His thoughts drifted to the silver Vios he stopped earlier. It was in violation of the number coding scheme. A sizeable rack greeted Earnest when the window rolled down. The girl was a classic butterface but was genuinely apologetic so Earnest let her off the hook. He wondered if he should be ashamed of changing his tone when talking to female drivers depending on the size of their breasts.
Ah, women. He thought about the last time he had a girlfriend. It was a year and a half ago when Malou left him for a richer man. It was inevitable. If he were Malou he would’ve done the same. What sane woman would pick his pimply face over the promise of a secure future? It was nothing more than an act of self-preservation. Malou wasn’t a remarkable woman, but Earnest does miss her soft caresses, the kind you could not buy from any of the girls in the cheap beerhouses that dotted Pasay. Earnest realized for the first time in years that he was lonely and more than a girlfriend or a car or a gated house somewhere in the South, he needed just one thing: a friend.
As he was walking back to his post Earnest heard a faint meowing coming from the side of the road. Curious, he looked around and saw a very tiny kitten trying to climb the curb. It was not there yesterday, he noted. He thought nothing more about it and continued walking.
The following morning Earnest remembered the cat as he was leaving for work. Would it still be there, he wondered, and decided he would leave something for the creature when he eats his lunch if he happened to chance upon it. He wasn’t counting on it, though; it was likely that a swerving bus crushed it.
To his pleasant surprise the cat survived the night. It managed to reach the sidewalk and is now curled up in front of the POEA. As he promised he gave it something to eat and as if giving thanks the kitten rubbed its face on the side of Earnest’s patent shoes.
There was nothing special about the poor thing. Earnest couldn’t explain what drew him to it. The kitten was cute, but all kittens are. He thinks he’s merely being charitable when he started bringing leftovers for Orange on a daily basis. Yes, Orange. He called it Orange because… well, the cat was ginger.
The cat eventually became healthier and Earnest found no reason to continue looking after it but realized he couldn’t stop. In naming the cat he staked ownership. Upon seeing Earnest around lunchtime Orange would follow the man towards the turo-turo stand. This was their routine and it comforted Earnest. For once he was doing something else in his life other than direct traffic for a living.
All the regulars of that place knew Orange as Earnest’s charge, and sometime his fellow traffic enforcers even chided him about him. Isn’t that a little gay, taking care of a cat, they jeered. Well, you do call yourself Earnest.
One day Earnest realized it was probably time to take Orange home. After work he approached Orange and it meowed affectionately. Orange has always been a sweet cat. He wrapped it in newspapers and slid it in a paper bag. Orange seemed indifferent. He took the non-aircon bus home and thought how his housemates would react to Orange. They possibly won’t care—they don’t care about him, why would a cat make any difference.
The lights were dead when he reached the house. He unlocked the door and gently removed Orange from the bag. The cat jumped to floor, looked around then looked at him. They stared at each other for a while. The house doesn’t seem so empty after all.
February 21st, 2012 at 12:18
“Come back here!”, the mother shouted.
The young woman continued to run, all the while trying to calm her baby who is now bawling wildly.
“I won’t let her Dimitri. We’ll be alright I promise you. Don’t hate mommy”
A few days ago, she had an argument with her mother who wanted to give away her baby. She was only 16 and the father of the baby denied that it was his and didn’t want to get involved.
That night, she woke up and caught her mother trying to take the baby from his crib. She lunged at her mother, took her baby and ran away.
“Come back here!”
The young woman looked back and didn’t notice a car going straight at her direction.
She woke up from the hospital. She didn’t ask for her baby.
The mother smiled. The young woman didn’t remember anything.
* * * * *
“Knowledge of history enables us to understand and appreciate what we have in the present”
My teacher answered when I asked why we had to study history.
I clutch my diary and write: Arrived at Ortigas station. I sat on the bench and waited…
“Thank you for asking that question. It’s a good introduction to our class. What is your name?”
“Dimitri Mam”
She stopped. Then, smiling, she tilted her head and said, “That is a nice name”
It was a seemingly trivial gesture, but it enamored me nonetheless.
After class, I was in Ortigas station waiting for the southbound train when I saw her on the other side. She saw me and waved. I hesitated, looked behind my back and when I saw that no one was there, I shyly waved back.
I was 15 she was 31. But I was in love.
Since then, after class, I would wait for her to arrive at the station and wait for her to board train before I do.
15 minutes passed. I’m still waiting
History became my favorite subject and I almost always get the highest grade. When I got the lowest grade in one of our exams I was devastated. When the class ended I stood and was already walking towards my next class when someone wrapped her arms around my shoulder. I looked and saw that it was my teacher. She walked with me and said, “Its fine. It’s just one exam”. She removed her arms and patted my head. I stopped and wondered what it means: Was her trying to console me a sign of affection? But maybe it’s the same affection that a man feels towards his pet who pats its head to show his fondness?
30 minutes gone. Just 30 minutes more and I’ll go
All throughout my last year in high school, she had been my inspiration. All the things I did, I did to impress her.
45 minutes passed.
Last day of Graduation practice: I was standing near one of the benches and was talking to my friends. I saw her giving instructions to one of her class. I stared at her. She stared back for a few seconds, smiled and then walked towards me. I got tense and sat on the bench looking away from her. She passed by my seat and I thought she’ll continue to walk away. But then she stopped, turned around and faced me. Without saying a word, she touched my chin and slightly nudged it, smiled then walked away.
That was the last time I saw her.
5 more minutes and I’m going home
I was miserable during the summer leading to my first year in college. I felt that everything went too fast and I was slow to comprehend what was happening. Do her actions meant anything or was it all just a young boy’s fancy? Should have I done something to confirm my speculations? Maybe I was just too afraid that the truth will perhaps end my happiness.
Nevertheless, I felt that our story should not yet end.
I once went back to our school. The other teachers saw me and called me
I asked, “Where is Ms. E– ?“
“Moved to another school.“
“Where? “
“We don’t know. “
“Do you know how to contact her? “
“She didn’t leave a number. “
I got exasperated and hurriedly went away. I went to Ortigas station and waited for her.
The next day I again waited.
And I resolved to wait every day for that is the only place I had the greatest chance of seeing her.
Years passed
I had a girlfriend in college but I would still go to Ortigas station and wait for her.
I had my first job. Even if it was out of the way, I would still go to the station and wait.
I was about to get married but backed out the day of our marriage. I knew it wasn’t the ending I wanted. I waited in the station the whole day wearing my tuxedo.
It has been ten years.
Times up
I am about to go when I see her. I stop and stare at her.
Should I wave? I might look like a fool if she doesn’t recognize me. Should I shout? She might think I’m a lunatic.
The northbound train will be coming soon and I will lose my chance. Should I jump on the track and cross?
I run towards the exit, frantically climb down the stairs, cross the overpass then climb back up to the other side. I am buying my card when I hear the northbound train approaching. Hurry up! I shout at the teller. I run to the platform but just missed the train.
Dejected, I sit at the nearest bench.
“Just missed the train huh?” a woman beside me says
I look at her and I almost faint. It is her.
“Mam!”, I say.
She looks at me and looks as surprised as I am.
“Oh, Dimitri”
I smiled at her recognition
Silence
A little boy is pulling at her dress
I did not notice him before.
“Im sorry, This is Dimitri my son”
Silence
“I named him after you, I hope you don’t mind”
She pats his head and nudges at his chin.
Then a man approaches us. She stands and hugs the man.
The northbound train arrives.
“This is S—my hus..”
I board the train without looking back
Strangely though, I hate her son more than her husband. Must be that gesture I thought was solely for me.
* * * * *
A beauty contest question: If you could change anything in history, what would it be and why?
Contestant: I wouldn’t change anything because we wouldn’t be where we are now if not for the events in the past
That’s bullshit.
If I could change history, I would not go to that school so I wouldn’t meet her