Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 2
It was the night before Christmas.
After work, I headed to the mall to do last minute Christmas shopping. I didn’t realize that the mall was scheduled to close at 7pm and I only had an hour left to breeze through the shops. I bought myself a book and mom her first mobile phone ever. At exactly 7, I was already checking out.
Outside, I headed towards the FX terminal to catch a ride back home. It took probably an hour more before I finally got to the front of the half kilometer commuter line. And guess what? The blue-violet Adventure arrived and Bloody the driver picked up the first ten tired passengers with already quaky legs. And for no particular reason, perhaps serendipity or part manipulation on his side, he led me to the front seat. When I got in, a girl was already occupying the seat that was supposed to be mine. So I took the space beside her and the door.
The girl between us turned out to be someone he knew. She was probably one of his regular seatmates who asked to be picked up somewhere like a kid waiting for her yaya. I can't help but overhear their conversation for half an hour. But none of those piqued my interest. (What would I expect they’d talk about? The Wall Street crisis?) Feeding Bloody with poisoned chocolate she probably got from a Kris Kringle did not impress me either. C’mon, was that all she’s got? I can give him the entire menu of our restaurant for free you know. Now that’s cocky.
The girl was flirting with him and it disturbed me so much I hid my face behind my hair. My ears were hot and my face was already red. I've got this mental picture of him who seemed so nice to everyone. I wasn't expecting he'd literally take it an extra mile further. How many have he been so "platonic" with? Where do I land on that wait list? Why do I feel bad about this whole thing? I looked up for an appropriate word. Jealousy flashed like an electronic billboard.
When we arrived at the destination, everyone left except for me and Bloody. It has been our unspoken tradition that I would be the last person he had to take to the last stop. I was insanely quiet and forced myself to look out of the window. I would have stuck my head out if it were only open and breathe. Bloody would occasionally glance at me. It took him a couple of minutes before he finally said "Hi" to an iceberg seated a few inches from him. Of course, I responded with a fake smile. I was rather good at that.
Bloody explained himself like a typical boyfriend caught in a lip-lock incident. Even if you feed him to a thousand volt shock from a Meralco transformer, he would stick to his famous line, “We’re just friends!” The girl, according to him, was just his friend. Maybe kissing friends was a little more accurate.
And I, the now irate passenger, assured him it was a secret I won't tell his wife. That “wife” bait worked like “open sesame”. The fish was caught in the hook without much resistance. Revelations came pouring in, one by one, with little less prodding. Bloody is a married man. He’s five years older than I and has three kids. If he could only tuck the word “wife” in the trunk, he would have gladly done so than make it part of his speech. This guy was obviously trapped inside a bad marriage. That explains the front seat girls, which unfortunately already includes me.
It was the first time I heard him talk about his life seriously. When we reached the final stop, he suggested driving me all the way home. I refused. He asked for a kiss. I was completely horrified. He looked amused and at the same time, perplexed. I left him with no explanation to ponder on except for a playful smile I hoped would drive him nuts on a Christmas Eve. That way the playing field was even.
I went home more confused than ever as I tried to make sense out of the whole situation. Bloody was not the only married man who pursued me. There were two others who I avoided like an Ebola plague. But this one heck of a driver of Casanova caliber was the first one who had successfully invaded my thoughts and thawed my icy demeanor with his irresistible charm. He caught me spellbound. Like Christmas.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Terminal
Note: Bloody in many parts - Part 1
I felt relieved to have spotted this FX taxi immediately after I crossed the busiest street on the planet. It was very rare that I chance upon one on a Sunday. Usually, I had to take a jeepney to reach the rotunda and another ride that would take me to the mall. You can just imagine how grateful I was to have spared a calorie from burning. The vehicle, a blue-violet Mitsubishi Adventure, looked new and clean from the outside. I took the vacant front seat and sat still while the air condition blew winter on my face.
Surprisingly, the driver beside me wasn't that bad looking either. He didn't smell the combination of gas, grease and putok. There was no sticky feel every time his arm would brush against mine. I could tell he never missed a bath in his life and knew how to take care of himself. At his age (mid to late 30’s), he was lean and looked younger than most 30-something guys I knew. He was also very courteous to his passengers. When we stopped by the gas station to refuel, he gave few pesos to those kids singing him Christmas carols. He smiled at me when he got back to his seat and gave me my change.
Suddenly, the world around me began to swirl.
I liked the sound of his voice. It was cool and kind, the type you would want to hear before and after bedtime. There was no hint of jologs tone in it. I had learned about his name "Blademir" from that ID on the dashboard. It sort of inspired me to coin an appropriate nickname for him. (“Bloody” or “Bladi”, you bloody choose. Before you readers bloody bash his name, the guy owns and operates the unit.)
All of these quick observations were made while I was busy texting two people. I was smiling not because those two people texting me were funny. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him stealing glances at me the way an Edward Cullen would in real life. When we reached the destination, he whispered “Ingat.”
There was the "kilig" feeling I swear I never had for ages.
I couldn't get him out of my head the whole time I was inside the church. He was this invisible presence that disturbed me all through out, like a poltergeist messing up my brains. There was something about him that attracted me like magnet. Perhaps it was his scent, the car perfume or his voice that got stuck inside my head. I was not so sure what it was that hit me hard.
After church, I went to buy stuff at the mall to distract myself from this confusing possession. It was almost 9 p.m. when I went to the terminal to catch the last trip back home. To my surprise, the familiar blue-violet Adventure was parked at the front line waiting for passengers. That same driver I nicknamed "Bloody" appeared from nowhere. He was all smiles when he saw me and let out a surprised “Hi. It’s you again. How was your shopping?”
I couldn’t remember the exact lines I told him when I took the seat beside him. Everything went dark then light and muddled in between. But every pore in my skin was screaming "Destiny!"
We were quiet the whole time he was driving. I couldn’t think of a good conversation filler to break the silence. If I did, I would have probably squeaked my lines all through out and that was the kind of embarrassment I was not prepared to make. So I feigned sleep to discourage any conversation that could lead us off to topics I might not be able to answer anyway, given my current state of mind.
I was the last person he still had to take to the last stop. After his passengers left, he started asking me questions. Silly questions like how my day went and something about those Christmas shoppers emptying their wallets at the mall. He asked about my husband and looked surprised to find I do not have one even figuratively. It was a very short conversation that lasted 5 minutes. When we reached the final stop, I bid him goodbye and I heard him say “ingat” in a quiet manner. I took off immediately without even looking him in the eye, asking his name or telling him mine. I was afraid my eyes would give myself away.
This story rehearsed itself inside my head as I took the long walk from the village gate to the house. I was not sure if I would still see him on the same time and place tomorrow or next Sunday. But I had this feeling that we would soon.
He'd be there waiting.
I felt relieved to have spotted this FX taxi immediately after I crossed the busiest street on the planet. It was very rare that I chance upon one on a Sunday. Usually, I had to take a jeepney to reach the rotunda and another ride that would take me to the mall. You can just imagine how grateful I was to have spared a calorie from burning. The vehicle, a blue-violet Mitsubishi Adventure, looked new and clean from the outside. I took the vacant front seat and sat still while the air condition blew winter on my face.
Surprisingly, the driver beside me wasn't that bad looking either. He didn't smell the combination of gas, grease and putok. There was no sticky feel every time his arm would brush against mine. I could tell he never missed a bath in his life and knew how to take care of himself. At his age (mid to late 30’s), he was lean and looked younger than most 30-something guys I knew. He was also very courteous to his passengers. When we stopped by the gas station to refuel, he gave few pesos to those kids singing him Christmas carols. He smiled at me when he got back to his seat and gave me my change.
Suddenly, the world around me began to swirl.
I liked the sound of his voice. It was cool and kind, the type you would want to hear before and after bedtime. There was no hint of jologs tone in it. I had learned about his name "Blademir" from that ID on the dashboard. It sort of inspired me to coin an appropriate nickname for him. (“Bloody” or “Bladi”, you bloody choose. Before you readers bloody bash his name, the guy owns and operates the unit.)
All of these quick observations were made while I was busy texting two people. I was smiling not because those two people texting me were funny. Out of the corner of my eye I could see him stealing glances at me the way an Edward Cullen would in real life. When we reached the destination, he whispered “Ingat.”
There was the "kilig" feeling I swear I never had for ages.
I couldn't get him out of my head the whole time I was inside the church. He was this invisible presence that disturbed me all through out, like a poltergeist messing up my brains. There was something about him that attracted me like magnet. Perhaps it was his scent, the car perfume or his voice that got stuck inside my head. I was not so sure what it was that hit me hard.
After church, I went to buy stuff at the mall to distract myself from this confusing possession. It was almost 9 p.m. when I went to the terminal to catch the last trip back home. To my surprise, the familiar blue-violet Adventure was parked at the front line waiting for passengers. That same driver I nicknamed "Bloody" appeared from nowhere. He was all smiles when he saw me and let out a surprised “Hi. It’s you again. How was your shopping?”
I couldn’t remember the exact lines I told him when I took the seat beside him. Everything went dark then light and muddled in between. But every pore in my skin was screaming "Destiny!"
We were quiet the whole time he was driving. I couldn’t think of a good conversation filler to break the silence. If I did, I would have probably squeaked my lines all through out and that was the kind of embarrassment I was not prepared to make. So I feigned sleep to discourage any conversation that could lead us off to topics I might not be able to answer anyway, given my current state of mind.
I was the last person he still had to take to the last stop. After his passengers left, he started asking me questions. Silly questions like how my day went and something about those Christmas shoppers emptying their wallets at the mall. He asked about my husband and looked surprised to find I do not have one even figuratively. It was a very short conversation that lasted 5 minutes. When we reached the final stop, I bid him goodbye and I heard him say “ingat” in a quiet manner. I took off immediately without even looking him in the eye, asking his name or telling him mine. I was afraid my eyes would give myself away.
This story rehearsed itself inside my head as I took the long walk from the village gate to the house. I was not sure if I would still see him on the same time and place tomorrow or next Sunday. But I had this feeling that we would soon.
He'd be there waiting.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Flat line
John and his two sisters go to church at 8am without fail. Come hell or no water, you’d find them there at the last row of the balcony, all by themselves and sometimes joined in by other relatives. After church, they would all scurry down the hall to the terminal that would take them straight to home, rarely taking time out to check fellow human beings invading the nearby mall.
Having read and watched Twilight, his family’s semblance to the Cullens are pretty close except for the fact they go to church and they don’t grow fangs. They don’t eat at the restaurant because they prefer dining at home. John is neither that pretty to be Edward. Pale maybe. The rest of the brood are just as ordinary as anyone else in the Philippines try to be. Pleasant, nice, kind and quiet.
Everything about him and his family are perfectly orchestrated in such a way one could easily distinguish black from white. Home-school-work-church routine is the way of life. It is one straight line doctors interpret as flat line. For a spectator like me, he is safe, boring and dead.
I am what he perceived a complete opposite of his being, a genetic anomaly that came across his realm one fine day. I am likewise a boring person but I tend to differ from known stereotypes. Like Barrack Obama, I like change. John is McCain. Somehow, those occasional chatroom dramas and 30-minute gossiping during church breaks helped melt down the iceberg between us.
John is flat line no more.
Having read and watched Twilight, his family’s semblance to the Cullens are pretty close except for the fact they go to church and they don’t grow fangs. They don’t eat at the restaurant because they prefer dining at home. John is neither that pretty to be Edward. Pale maybe. The rest of the brood are just as ordinary as anyone else in the Philippines try to be. Pleasant, nice, kind and quiet.
Everything about him and his family are perfectly orchestrated in such a way one could easily distinguish black from white. Home-school-work-church routine is the way of life. It is one straight line doctors interpret as flat line. For a spectator like me, he is safe, boring and dead.
I am what he perceived a complete opposite of his being, a genetic anomaly that came across his realm one fine day. I am likewise a boring person but I tend to differ from known stereotypes. Like Barrack Obama, I like change. John is McCain. Somehow, those occasional chatroom dramas and 30-minute gossiping during church breaks helped melt down the iceberg between us.
John is flat line no more.
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