LitWit Challenge: Ramen Noir
The rain was falling like dead bullets when we left the Mind Museum last Saturday. Dr. Cuanang gave a talk about the brain. It started with art; almost everything does.
We had nothing to do and the whole night to do it. Freedom spawns uncertainty, uncertainty summons chaos. We ducked into a restaurant for some hot food. The ramen smell was strong enough to build a garage on.
Cherchez la ramen, Buddy. Remember that. Why are we repeating assorted quotes from hard-boiled detective novels? Because Ricky took these photos at Wrong Ramen and they came out looking like Blade Runner. With a guest appearance by Uncle Junior from The Sopranos.
So write us a story, will ya? A story of 500 words or more, based on these pictures. Could be a detective story, a mystery, a comedy, knock yourselves out. Post them in Comments on or before 4 October 2013.
The prize is a surprise. Of course it’s baffling. You don’t need a private eye if you already know the answer. But it’s something to read, maybe write on. Something good.
The LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
September 25th, 2013 at 09:43
haha great post! :)
September 25th, 2013 at 16:24
I love that first pic.
September 25th, 2013 at 16:29
And how is Dr. Cuanang? He was my Neurology professor in med school. It was always a pleasure to do ward rounds with him on his gazillion patients, no matter how sleepless one is.
September 25th, 2013 at 23:07
Dr. Feelgood: Dr. Cuanang is the youngest 74-year-old in town. We wish we had his energy. We had designs on his ancient cracked leather medical bag, but it’s now part of the Pinto museum collection, next to three different paintings of that same bag. His talk was about epilepsy and art, but he mentioned in passing that the left brain-right brain divide has been largely discredited, and that Freudian psychoanalysis/talk therapy is so quaint. (No! The shrink-and-couch thing is so cinematic. Without it there would be much less Woody Allen and no Sopranos.)
Next week we’re interviewing him for the podcast; if you have questions, send them over.
September 26th, 2013 at 05:27
I am in love with Wrong Ramen’s Tantanmen as well as Corned Beef Roll thingie.
September 26th, 2013 at 22:11
Oh wow, that interview would be amazing, I’m sure! That man’s influence on the Philippine medical community is unbelievable. Even the neurologist that I work with here in the US knows him and said he was one of the reasons she decided to become one herself back when she studied at UERM, where he used to teach. And that talk is indeed very Cuanang-esque. Wish I was there.
Speaking of Woody Allen, I just saw Husbands and Wives for the upteenth time last night. That movie was all about Freud and psychoanalysis. How apropos.
Oh BTW, I remember sending this in via text or pager (remember those?! LOL). I requested for you to interview another med school professor of mine: Dr. Agnes Bueno. Her lectures in Psychiatry are probably a big chunk of a small number of classroom lectures I will never forget as long as I live. She was a huge fan of Freud’s. I wonder what she thinks now. Please interview her after Dr. Cuanang! It’s long overdue and would be, again, apropos.
September 27th, 2013 at 00:03
Dr. Feelgood: Great idea! We will seek out Dr. Bueno. She has become part of our daily speech. Whenever the evening has come to an end and we have to part from our friends, someone always says, “Bueno. Agnes Bueno.”
September 27th, 2013 at 01:25
That would be so cool. (That goodbye is hilarious BTW.) I probably wouldn’t be an MD if it weren’t for her. I mean that literally. She was my final interview for admission to med school. I remember those piercing eyes were so intimidating, but I guess I did well and she liked me. LOL
Aside from the questions about – of course – sex (ask her if it is true she worked with THE Masters and Johnson when she was doing her residency, and if she has any stories about them), I’d love to have you ask her about her favorite movies and books. I remember her talking about Silence of the Lambs and how she could diagnose artists by their work. I think she loves Van Gogh and Bergman.
You could probably ask Dr. Cuanang similar questions. Did he really work under Adams (who wrote Neurology’s bible) at Harvard? Any hilarious/horror stories during his internship and residency? What is he hopeful about in the current developments in Neuroscience research?
October 1st, 2013 at 15:41
Lost Childhood Restaurant
Great. The weather and now the décor match my mood. Perhaps the gods are punishing me for being a jealous and miserable chicken shit. I look at my friends and I see happy, shiny people and I wonder how come they get to be my friends.
“Are you sure this is the place?,” Lester asked. “Yeah, I think so, but they changed from Chinese to Japanese,” I said. “You think so?,” mocked Rigor, “we’ve traipsed all over Baguio looking for a restaurant where you ate ‘the most delicious chicken curry’ when you were five years old and that’s the most sure you’re going to get?” “Gimme a break! I was five years old as you said, and all I could remember is that we turned left from off of Session Road and you could immediately see the doorway and formica tabletops that looked like wood.” “I think they’re real wood,” “whatever, let’s just go in, I’m so hungry I could eat that St. Bernard we saw in Mines View.”
I looked around and I felt lost. This was The Restaurant, but not the restaurant of my childhood. Cheap formica, spoons and forks dunked in glasses with hot water, white plates at the ready with folded napkins at the center were all gone. It was replaced by those clean, austere lines favored by the Japanese. Now I would never get to taste that chicken curry ever again.
“Huy, you’re looking glum again. You don’t look pretty when you cry. Plus, it’s not crying with you, it’s more like a dog howling when he sees kamatayan,” Rigor ribbed. “Hoy, bakla, I’m just letting out all those negative feelings slash aura when I cry. What’s the use of crying when I can’t get rid of them?” Lester interjected with his favorite topic “you know what? Linda Goodman said to just take a shower to get rid of all the negative aura.” “Yeah, and she also said a lot of tosh about eating yellow foods, red foods at certain times and you will live forever, and the last I heard, she’s dead,” I said. “She’s not, she’s still publishing those sign chorchor!” “Hello, the book says Linda Goodman’s sign chorchor, she’s not the author, she just started it.” Rigor said “people, before you discuss the Art of War, let’s go order. They’ve got ‘good fatty ramen here’.
Look! Bacon in a ramen! Bacon’s one word that would prevent me from being a vegetarian. I’ll order that. Sorry, moaning Ramona, I don’t see chicken curry listed anywhere.” “Yeah, I knew as soon as I saw the décor, no need to rub it in, Mr. Rigor Mortis. I’ll just have what you’ve ordered.” “Me too,” said Lester, “I think coming to Baguio so soon after your Dad… We should have gone to a different place, created a different set of memories.” I silently agreed with him. All the places we’ve gone to were different. I came here expecting to go back to a place where I was so happy with my Dad, thinking that maybe if I could see this place I could recapture part of that happiness. What is happiness anyway? What the fuck does “the world is my oyster” mean? All my dreams vanished because all my dreams were tied up with one person. All the cliches that people mutter to console me mean nothing in the end. If it were not for Lester and Rigor forcing me to go, I would have been content to curl up in my bed and just let sleep be my oblivion.
The ramen arrived and the waitress placed it just so that it looked like it was bathed in its own spotlight. The bracing steam enveloped us and the warmth of the soup killed the cold that the weather instilled. I took a sip and realised how famished I was.
October 1st, 2013 at 18:14
I like the rain. Somehow it makes the city at night feel more real. Helps with the crime rate, too – well, most crimes.
I looked at the people at the next table. They didn’t seem the type. No, they knew better. Not like the guy I was tailing. He knew what he was getting into, and he did it anyway. I was swirling my fork around the soup bowl in front of me, wondering why I wasn’t hitting anything, when I realized I’d finished all the noodles again without touching most of the soup.
The door opened while I was spearing a piece of pork. I fished out a picture from my pocket. Yep, that’s him; Short black hair, clean shaven, predilection for baggy clothes. The face came with just an initial: C. C was supposed to meet someone else here, but if he was reduced to a letter, the other party didn’t even reach the alphabet.
I could feel that piece of pork hit the back of my throat and threaten a choking fit. I drained a glass of water before I could start hacking up a lung and call attention to myself. The waitress came by and filled it up again, and I asked her to hold the ice.
“Sure.” Her eyes flicked down for a moment, then up again towards mine. “Nice gun.” She walked over to another group just sitting down.
I fingered my compliance regulator. I should probably get that concealed carry permit. I’d have to get a less clunky one, though. They’d mostly gotten rid of the nasty side effects, but I could remember when these things were new. That was… almost twenty years ago. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to dislodge that thought, but I couldn’t.
I had a partner back then, old Douglas. We’d cornered a wild one, a woman that somehow slipped through everyone but us. Not that I had much to do with it – Doug was the one who pieced together the little scraps to make the whole picture. I was just the young rookie along for the ride.
“Get the hell outta here!” she screeched, while backing into a wall. “You aren’t stopping me!”
Doug lifted his regulator, and aimed it at her. “Laura, don’t.”
She laughed at us in short barks. “No. No. I can’t help it!” Another shriek. “It isn’t my fault! It was-“
“Don’t! Don’t say it!”
“It waa-aaaaahh!” The world went white, for a second. Douglas had fired his regulator, and hit Laura square in the chest. But instead of being knocked out, she fell and screamed. At the same instant, Doug’s regulator exploded, and he went down too. I was paralyzed, not knowing what to do first. I eventually shook out of it and went to help Doug.
His hand was useless after that. But he came out of it a whole lot better than Laura; she wouldn’t stop screaming. When Doug had shot her with the malfunctioning regulator something happened to her that made her feel nothing but pain. They’d put her out, but when she woke she’d start yelling again. She didn’t live long – maybe a day or so, but it would’ve been a kindness to have killed her just then.
It was raining then too, but not like it was now. The downpour had gotten stronger, and still no sign of C’s mystery contact. My soup had gotten cold, and apart from us there was only one other customer. C was looking out of the window when he suddenly got up. I could see someone outside, their back to the door, standing in the rain holding a huge black umbrella. C went out the door and got underneath the umbrella, and said something to the other party. I was just getting up from the table when a passing car flashed its high beams and illuminated their faces. I froze.
“Elena,” I said to myself. Of course it would have to be her. I was working so hard on not thinking about her that I willfully ignored all the signs.
She turned and looked right at me, a corner of her mouth raised in a mocking smirk. She then turned to C, mouthed the word “go”, and C ran. I debated whether to chase after him or not, but he was going and Elena was still here. I decided to take the path of least resistance.
I stepped outside the shop. “How did you know it would be me here, and not someone else?”
“Well hello to you too, Stella,” she answered. “Pity about him, hmm? You know, this reminds me of a story.” She smiled. It was a smile so devoid of warmth it could turn the rain into a blizzard. “Do you know how it started?”
“Don’t.”
She was three steps away from me, and she took the first. “It was…”
“Don’t.”
“…a dark.” Step.
“Please.”
“And stormy.” Step. I shut my eyes.
“Night.” I could feel her finger trace a line down my jaw.
I opened my eyes, and her face filled my view. “You know the articles of the seventh Geneva Convention,” I started. “That line–“
“Yes. And now that I’m here, in front of you, what are you going to do about it?”
“I…” I sighed. “I can’t let you go again.” I reached for my regulator, but only managed to grab thin air. My eyes went wide, and I looked down at her hand pointing my own weapon at me. She stepped backwards, still smiling.
“I’m afraid that isn’t written in the stars. Not tonight.” Her smile vanished. She pulled the trigger, and the world followed suit.
October 1st, 2013 at 19:38
Ejia: Excellent story. Captures the spirit of the photos. Thanks for sending it in.
October 1st, 2013 at 19:44
Ronigurl: Weird. In a good way. But not noir.
October 3rd, 2013 at 22:36
Hello, I’d like to submit a different entry. I hope this would qualify as noir. :)
The Wrong Lead
The rain drove him inside the restaurant, just as he decided to give up the chase and go home. That fucking bastard is as slippery as an eel, Benito thought. He cast a furtive glance at the other patrons, and satisfied that they looked innocuous enough, found himself a seat with a view of both the entrance and the back door.
He has been chasing his latest lead through the streets of Quiapo, weaving from garbage-strewn alleys to fetid-smelling sidewalks. His pursuit was not made easier by the throngs of people still believing in miracles, congregating on Quiapo church every Friday. Miracles were for people who still believed, not people like him who have long given up. Maybe God finds people like him repulsive, that’s why every prayer that he has ever uttered has not been answered.
His dark thoughts were interrupted by the waitress handing him the menu. “I’ll just have a beer. No, on second thought, no beer, just your special Ramen, thanks.” He realized all the exercise he got from following the man made him famished. Two long years of searching, and this is the closest he got. He and Lorna are no longer even speaking to each other, unable to go beyond the pain of losing their only daughter. He doesn’t even know where Lorna lived now. Truth to tell, their relationship has been breaking down ever since she found out just where he was getting the money to provide her the high life.
He was the best at what he did, but what he did was kill, and kill without leaving any clues. But all his skills at groundwork faded before the enormity of where to start looking for Didi and the why she was kidnapped.
The entrance of a man made him tense up but he was prevented from looking him over by the waitress delivering his order. He absentmindedly appreciated the steam from the soup as it was set down while he sneaked a peak at the newcomer. He felt slivers of ice slide down his spine when he saw it was the erstwhile vice-mayor, now Mayor Rudy Calimlim, a one-time client. Rudy slid down the opposite bench, and Benito could see his bodyguards waiting outside. “That could kill you,” he remarked, pointing at the bacon swimming in the soup. “Vice-Mayor! Este, Mayor, do you think this is a good idea?”
“I hear you’re still looking for your kid. I have it on good authority that she is well, she’s not being victimized by any crime ring, and whoever it is that has her, wants her to be happy.”
“She will be happy only with me, her father!”
“She was only two when you lost her, I don’t think she will remember you anymore. If you know what’s good for you, you will stop looking for her.”
“Or else, what?”
“Do you really want me to spell it out? I want you back in Laguna by tonight. I know you’ve amassed quite a nest egg, here’s more, go find a new wife and build a nice life for yourself and move on.” He stood up and walked out without looking back. He left a thick brown envelope and if that was filled with new thousand peso bills, he guessed it would contain about 2.5 million pesos. 2.5 million pesos for his precious child. Fury filled him as he realized just where Lorna and his daughter was all this time.
He walked out of the restaurant and he knew he would go back to Laguna that night. What the Mayor forgot was that he was also a dangerous opponent and he has now given him additional ammunition. He turned left and was confronted with his second surprise of the night. Blood spattered the restaurant’s window and quickly became pink as it mixed with the raindrops still sliding down toward the gutter.
“Why?,” he asked Lorna as she stood looking down dispassionately at him.
“I followed Rudy as I knew you would never leave us alone,” she quickly took the brown envelope he still clutched and quickly disappeared into the night.
October 4th, 2013 at 19:53
A Grey Sky
A sky the color of ghosts.
It matched the aura of most everyone these days, so many corrupted souls, trading morals for money.
They regard nothing sacred.
Occasionally one or three show a flicker of white, or blue, when they think twice about taking a bribe or overpricing a toilet seat.
I’m not fooled.
The hue, along with that sentiment almost always vanishes under a shroud, like the sun and sky do behind storm clouds that soon stretch from one horizon to the other, leaving the world a drab, immoral grey.
Like tonight.
I’m waiting for someone, she’s supposed to be rare, ‘one-of-a-kind’ I’m told. No further details, agency doesn’t work that way. I don’t see her. Looking out across the parking lot what I do see is a couple with flecks of green following them like a trail of bad perfume.
Irritation.
Another’s aura pulsates a sickening yellow. His head cranes left and right with every crack of thunder, reminding me of a newbie at a cosmo bachelor bash.
Worry.
‘Someone late bud? If you know she’s safe why worry? If something happened to her worrying won’t help’
A man stomps past, barely avoiding me. He’s mashing his phone’s buttons like a drug addict on a morphine drip. I struggle to blink away the red rage haze away.
Something else does.
Her aura flares brighter than the lightning throwing her shadow on the ground. Even at this distance it’s beautiful, the glow wrapping around her like a trenchcoat of light. I’m hired to protect her, she’s not supposed to see me but I can’t help it. I watch her abit longer as rain falls with the sound of a billion dropped marbles.
She keeps her head down but her eyes lock forward. I see there: determination, intellect.
Courage.
That’s right though kid, learn to keep your head down.
I put out my cigarette before stepping into the restaurant. Quaint little place, ‘Wrong Ramen’. Someone up there has a sense of humour. I run through the mission. ‘Keep an eye on her, watch for any threats, remain unseen unless necessary.’
Right. This place looks like a pudgy 50-something’s haunt.
I scan the restaurant. Between the rough hewn stone walls decorated in Tokugawa-era reproductions people were showing blue, aquamarine, pink and silver.
Joy, relief, affection and…what was silver again? Determination? Patience?
Everyone’s busy so I choose a seat on the far edge of one long table, staying carefully beyond the cozy pools of light cast from above. A customer is already going for it. I mutter a few lines under my breath and a bowl of steaming Ramen spills on her skirt. Auras flash crimson.
Sorry bout that, don’t worry, can’t do that much these days.
My girl barrels in as soon as I take a seat, leather briefcase clutched to her chest like her life depended on it.
It kinda does.
She seats right where I want her. Just off center enough that I don’t have to move my head to watch her. A man suffused in baleful dark green comes in soon after. He declines the waiter’s offer to take his coat, pointing with his nose to where my target’s seated.
I focus.
He’s carrying…forms of power, a picture of her son, a cheque, a gun. Nothing I can do against those.
His aura suffocates hers like black ink dropped in water. They begin to talk. Her white flickers then dims amidst the patter of rain on glass.
I want to text her a message, tell her to run, just get away from this man. Scream to her it isn’t worth it. I can buy her time, I can…
It ends quicker than I thought.
‘I’m turning down your offer.’ She rises, aura flashing the warm white-orange of a new dawn. Before I can move three or four mean are standing around them.
“By the way my grandfather’s death anniversary is 8 years ago today. He always told me ‘some things are forever sacred’. He died soon after, from a drive by shooting.’
That’s my girl