The Unspeakable Epilogue

Then, a Goth/punk couple. Of course being Goths, they wore black everything; black garb, black nails, black mascara, black bling-blings (Hmm… I like the sound of it, black bling bling), black everything. The guy, taking Goth-ness to a new level, even had black stains on his teeth. Honestly, I’m not sure if it was an accessory/fashion or he’s teeth were just … bad.

But I’m inclined with a second theory since the stains were all over the place; it’s not pantay (evenly distributed). Well, I dunno, I could be wrong. Or maybe he ate really runny chocolates and forgot to floss.

The gothic chick was rather pretty; black wardrobe against her colorless skin, very soft facial features yet a grim expression plastered across her pixie-like visage, her manananggal-inspired hairstyle framed her small, melanin-deprived face. Just think of Snow White not washing her hair for ten years and you’ll get the picture.

She was wearing very thick mascara; so heavy it was almost impossible to tell whether her eyes were closed or she didn’t have any whites on her eyeballs. But she was attractive nonetheless, she looked like Hilary Duck, I mean Duff, with a neck.

But the guy’s a different story, and far more interesting than the girl. He’s so goddam worthy of note, I’m afraid words cannot suffice. How should I put this? He’s so challenging to describe.

Think of a small featherless chicken dipped in black paint; short legs, stretched upper body, small head, round face, bulging eyes, slightly curved back. I’m lost for words, told you he’s a challenge. Look now, I’m not ridiculing anyone here; in fact, I’m intrigued by his appearance. Besides, I’m in no position to lambaste anyone for their looks because I’m no GQ material either.

Around his thin neck dangled a humongous inverted crucifix that must weigh at least a kilo. No wonder his back seemed bent. Also, he’s sporting a mo-hawk so tall (?) you could easily mistake it for a giant black pamaypay. I thought it was cool, really! I remembered my Goth friend, Paulo, and wondered what he’d look like sporting that look. I chuckled at the idea.

Plus, the lower lip ring, hundreds upon hundreds of bangles that reached all the way to his elbows, that black matte lipstick, that black aura; I wondered what else’s black.

As usual, the conios, and the pa-conios. I thought Florita already drowned these vermins into non-existence. With their huge, bloated heads, I had to walk sidewalks like a crab in order to pass through.

(to be concluded...)

“Grande Drip for here, please.”
“Would there be anything else, Sir? Something to eat?” the male barista offered.

“No, thank you. Just coffee.” “That’d be a hundred bucks, Sir.” “Sir?” he continued.
“Are you from the Ortigas area?” “Yes, why?” I answered, a bit puzzled.

“Kaya pala hindi ka na pumupunta dun Sir, we wonder if you’ve already shifted.” The female barista who was manning the other counter interjected. Then I remembered them; they’re the baristas at the Megastrip branch.

“Oh. *soft laugh* Nag-transfer na pala kayo dito?” “Borrowed lang Sir, kulang kasi dito sa Greenbelt. Balik-balik naman kayo dun.” he said smilingly. “Oi, he’s our frequent costumer. Di ba Sir?” Another barista chimed in, speaking in a mock-angry tone. “Hindi kaya, mas frequent kaya si Sir dun sa’min.” the second barista declared.

“Can I have my coffee now? Or pupunta na lang akong Starbucks?” I said. They laughed. I was serious. Then the second barista produced me a humongous mug of boiling coffee, filled to the brim. Honestly, I was a bit flattered.

I’ve never seen anyone being served with that huge mug before, only with those paper cups. “Whoa! Laki naman,” I said embarrassed, it was more than what I’ve paid for. “Thank you.” I smiled. “Anything for our valued customers. Enjoy your coffee.”

I went outside and settled myself into one of their rather uncomfortable chairs. As I was reveling in my semi-celebrity-ness among the barista circle, white urbanite monkeys were yakking behind me. “Akshally, it’s like this kase, you know, like, I made para this taxi, and when I made sakay, Oh my gosh, the driver was like, sooo mabaho.” Then a collective expression of disgust ensued, endless annoying “ewww-ing” filled the air.

I had this sudden overwhelming urge to make buhos my coffee over their like swollen heads, but I made pigil my sarili. Why? Bekuz, like you know, its so sayang naman this coffee.

Update: I’ve just learned that they serve it in a mug by request. But I didn’t make a request, in fact I was a bit cranky at that time since my blood-to-coffee ratio not stable yet. Still, I was grateful. Thanks Starbucks! Uh, I mean, Seattle’s Bucks. Oh, Seattle’s Best.

Then the air thickened, the lights flickered, a number of heads turned as a flock of attention-grabbing, good-looking, aesthetically-superior humanoids glided through. They seemed as if they just leapt out of the covers of Vogue and GQ.

I suddenly felt like a repulsive platypus amidst a drove of graceful swans. Two members of the “gorgeous-ness squad” caught me looking at them and flashed me the you-can-never-look-as-good-as-me stare, I spontaneously turned into mud.

Consoling myself, I began chanting my mantra: “Had God made me gwapo, I would’ve been perfect. But no one’s perfect, so He instead stuffed a little extra gray matter to compensate for the lack of aesthetic appeal.”

Then, a group of old Indian women, the “dot” kind, not the “feather” kind of Indians, walked past me. Wearing the traditional Sari, they looked so beautiful despite the age. One even looked like Aishwarya Rai (the supermodel). A 350-pound Aishwarya Rai, that is.

The world suddenly turned black-and-white. I spotted a couple ever so publicly displayed their affections, smacking every five seconds. Get a room people! I almost screamed. Tightly clinging on to each other, they reminded me of two leeches sucking each other dry.

Or were they just conjoined twins? Perhaps not, the lady was Caucasian, while the guy was … well … overcooked. (What do you call “tutong” in English? No, not overcooked or burnt rice. A trivia I always forget.) I wondered what they’re offsprings would be like. Dalmatians?

(to be concluded…)

Shelling out a few hundred bucks of your hard-earned money for black powder and water is utterly insane. Venti, Macchiato, Frappuccino; what the hell do these words mean? I roll my eyes on people who utter them. But little did I know; I was unaware, little by little these words slowly crept into my daily vocabulary.

I live for coffee; black, strong, no-nonsense coffee. Aside from helping millions of coffee farmers, it sets everything in harmony and maintains world peace (around me, at least). Guzzling tons and tons of this bitter juice has been my life for more than half a decade now. And I couldn’t be any happier (my concept of happiness, that is).

I am somewhat a peaceful human being, which to say that I am a pacifist. I try to keep things balanced, and am usually the conciliator between my combating friends. But, denying me of a caffeine fix and I’m off to a killing rampage. Did I mention coffee preserves peace and order? I mean just that.

Every morning when I wake up, the first thing that pops up into my mind is … well … coffee. Getting up, crawling to the dispenser, stirring black powder into the mug of boiling water, taking a sip and eventually scalding my tongue; the first set of chores I perform every waking moment. And after killing all my taste buds, that’s the time I dart towards the bathroom to relieve my close-to-exploding bladder. Coffee comes before pee.

When people ask me why I’m hooked, I don’t reply with the usual “It keeps me awake” or “I like the taste” or (and this is true with some people) “It’s fashionable!” In fact I don’t reply at all. Coffee is way beyond human comprehension; it’s the same as asking birds “Ya got feet, why fly?” Just because.

That coffee keeps you awake. True. But soda keeps you awake also, because of its sugar content. And apples too, which according to studies (and this is true), have a higher I-forgot-the-name-of-the-wakefulness-chemical content than coffee. So why go for the bitter-tasting, sewage-water-looking, nerbiyos-inducing liquid? Not reason enough, unless you’re ignorant with the soda and apple scientific researches.

That the taste is pleasant. Are you kidding me!? It’s no less than drinking amplaya juice. Well, unless you find the idea of grinding amplaya, sieving the pulp, and downing slowly the green substance pleasant, then … But still, are you kidding me!?

That drinking coffee is fashionable. Fashionable my ass! Need I say more?

(to be concluded...)

“Hey! Wait up!”
“Huh?”

“So… You’re new here?”
“Uh…”

“Freshman. You’re freshman?”
“Yeah…”

“Me too. So… What are you taking up?”
“Psychology.”

“Me too! So… Do you like the Philippines?”
“Excuse me?”

“Haven’t been around yet, huh? Where are you from?”
“Wha—?”

“Heard you’re Burmese. Our classmates, they talked about you. But its okay, you’ll get used to it. Besides, we have a lot of foreign students here, they can help you adapt. Know what, for a Burmese guy, you speak good English.”
“I’m not Burmese.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Indonesian?”
“No! I’m…”

“Malaysian?”
“Filipino!”

“Really? Cool!”
“Uhm..”

“Which side? Mother’s or Father’s side? Or both?”
“Bisaya (stress on the last syllable) ko. Taga-Mindanao. Budlat. Itom!

* * *

People always come up to me (sometimes they stop me, like in the aforementioned anecdote) to inquire if I’m Burmese, Malaysian, Indonesian, Singaporean, or Thai. The first time I encountered the question, I just laughed at it and coolly said “Dili (No)”.

So I can pass for a foreigner. Then came the second, still I was fascinated. Then came the third, dismissing it as mere coincidence; having three different people, on three different occasions, in three different cities.

When the fourth came, I wondered if these people were blind, or just nuts. Fifth time, I was beginning to suspect that I was on Just For Laughs (or its Filipino equivalent, Wow Mali.) Five times, it’s alright. But more than 10 times!? (Yes, I keep track.)

More than ten times; more than ten different individuals on more than ten different occasions in more or less 4 different cities, I’m beginning to wonder if I’m really Filipino, or some clumsy nurse switched me in the nursery when I was an infant.

* * *

When I was still at Silliman, I had this report on Japanese literature. Halfway through my presentation, I noticed these two giggling girls in the front row. When one girl says “jiyehp-niiis” the other would reply “li-ri-chr” and they’d burst into quiet laughter again.

I wondered what the commotion was all about. So being the semi-chismoso that I was, I pranced around the room while giving my lecture in hopes of uncovering the mystery behind the giggles.

The first girl would go, “The JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr is the blah-blah-blah. The blah-blah is one of most important blah-blah of JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr. JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr.” propelling the second girl to snigger. They were unaware of my presence, that I was near, that I could hear them. And then at the exact moment the first girl said, “Taga-asa diay na cya!? OA pud!” our eyes connected.

I was looking at her, she was looking at me. Then I realized they were mimicking (and making fun of) me. JIYEHP-niis LI-ri-chr = Japanese Literature. Who was more embarrassed? I don’t know, I think Miss Jiyehp-niis, because she lowered her eyes first.

But I didn’t want to embarrass her so I just pretended I didn’t understand what she said and continued with my lecture. “The Jiyep-neez end thu Cha-neez went ta Astraya ta kill Bri-ish chi-kuhns!”

* * *

Earlier this evening, after school, I went to this Korean-Chinese-Japanese internet café. The place was nice; the workers were polite, giving me three Good-Evenings in less than ten seconds; and best of all, you can smoke inside. It’s in Ortigas, along Pearl Drive, fronting the University of Asia and the Pacific.

Anyway… as soon as I entered the shop, the guard warmly greeted me with a smile. “Gohd ebneeng Ser!” I just nodded. That’s odd, I thought. After a second or two, one of the attendants approached me.

“Good evening, Sir! Internet or gaming?” he inquired.
“Internet…” I answered.
“This way Sir.” he said, ushering me to the cashier.

“Hi Sir! Good evening!” the plump cashier greeted me. She welcomed me so energetically as if greeting customers makes her horny. I was frightened with her up-to-the-ceiling enthusiasm. I reciprocated the greeting with a faint “Hello”.

“English? Korean? Or Chinese?” she asked, words rapidly spewed forth from her mouth.

“I’m sorry?”

“We have Korean and Chinese language-ready computer stations. So … English, Korean or Chinese?” the flab under her chin jiggled with every word. She’s still smiling, flashing me her toothy grin.

“Tagalog, meron?” I asked jokingly. I chuckled, she did not. This time her smile disappeared; her thick eyebrows converged at the middle. She stared at me for awhile, like a student staring at a very complicated mathematical equation. From me, she shifted her eyes to another attendant.

“Bobby! Station twelb!”

Knock… Knock… Knock…

I awoke with a jolt. As if an elephant landed on top of me, my eyes flew open. I glanced groggily at the door and lifted my cell phone from the headboard. I checked the time, 9:05 am, scratched my head, groaned “Uhm, hangover, and shut my eyes again.

KNOCK… KNOCK… KNOCK…

Again, I opened my eyes, checked my phone which s now resting on my chest. 9:32 am. I went back to dreamland.

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Once more, I was awakened by the barrage of knocks at my door. I picked up my cell phone, which is now lying on the floor, and checked the time, 9:46 am. “Man! It’s still early.” I muttered to myself.

I closed my eyes again, and hoped the knocks would just go away. But before Mr. Sandman could sprinkle the dust, I was again bombarded with louder knocks.

“What do you want!?” I yelled in a very exasperated tone.
“Lyle!? Naa ka dinha? (Are you there?)” a dorm mate’s voice inquired.
“Of course you jerk! It’s room Sp1a! Now go away! Trying to sleep here!”
“Someone’s looking for you! Jools daw! And she’s been sitting in the sala for almost an hour now!”
“Tell her I’m still asleep! Away nakog tuktuka balik ha!” I replied irritably.

“LYLE!!!” another voice exclaimed, sending reverberations down the hallway. I’m certain it was a female voice. And it’s coming from the visitor’s lounge.

“Gawas na dinha! (Get out of there!)” My eyes swiftly fluttered open. It was her. She must’ve heard me.

Oh man! I thought. I’m dead! We were supposed to meet at the Luce Lobby an hour ago. I totally forgot.

“Coming…” my voice shifted from irritated to melodious. Quickly, I jumped out of my bed and scoured my face with a tissue so intensely my nose almost fell to the floor. I sprinted towards the door nearly smashing into my mountain of filthy laundry.

“Coming…” slamming the door behind me, I darted towards the sala.

And before I reached the opening of the passageway, I saw her. She was standing in the middle of the foyer, with arms interweaving with one another. With a harsh look on her face, she just stared at me with those piercing chinita eyes; the world suddenly stood still.

I panted as I reached my destination. She’s still motionless and did not utter a word. Instead, she flashed me that You-Jerk (!) look, with which I reciprocated with an embarrassed smile.

I stretched out my arms to give her a good-morning-hug. “Goooood Mooooor…”

“Dayon!? (And so!?)” She interjected with so much sarcasm, not letting me finish my greeting. Speedily I drew my arms back. Clearly she was not delighted.

“Unsa man? (What now?)” She asked in a very cold tone, I just froze.
“Aaahh…” my voice quivered. No words came out, my throat clogged up.
I cleared my gullet, “Ahem” and feigned a cough “Cough, cough!”
Her right eyebrow instantly went through the ceiling; she hated it whenever I go cough-cough.

“Soooohhhriiiiihhhh…” in a sing-song voice, I managed to croak nervously.
“Abre nang Memento! Kaligo! Pagdali! (Memento’s already open! Take a bath! And fast!)” She snapped back. And at lightning speed, I ran back in.

* * *

To My Santaria, one of my few reasons why waking up every morning is still worthwhile. Thanks for adding brightness into my otherwise desolate life. We may be miles apart, but you are still here … deep inside my *points to chest* Keep singing, keep writing songs. I miss you. I’m coming back, soon. Wait for me… (3:52 a.m., awake and reminiscing…)

First, I passed by a mother-daughter tandem. They wore identical shirts, they both had pigtails, and both were rather bursting with corpulence. They were the perfect definition of cute-ness!

Mommy was carrying tons and tons of shopping bags, while her equally fleshy daughter was screaming “Mommeee! Ais Kriiim! Mommeee!!” to which Mommy retorted, “Anong ice cream!? Eh kakakain mo lang! Tumigil ka! Sipain kita diyan eh!” The round girl fell silent. For some reason, I remembered the corny joke, Bakit nahihiya ang mga biik? (Ans: Eh kasi yung nanay nila, baboy.)

Being stuck in heavy traffic for several hours is agonizing. Having your molar extracted without an anesthesia is excruciating. But having coffee alone, on a cold Saturday afternoon and being surrounded by a thick mob of cheery people, happy friends and schmaltzy couples, is just painful; pure, unadulterated pain.

One balmy afternoon… Since I have just recovered from a psychosomatic illness, I decided not to go to work, and phoned in sick. Also, I didn’t go to school in the morning. I just stayed in the comforts of my own cave, reading the whole day. Besides, it rained an hour ago and I don’t want to wet the seams of my newly-purchased pants.

So there I was, cuddling under the sheets, reading my Hosseini book, while music from MTV filled the background. And while I lost myself in 1980
Afghanistan, boredom clobbered me in the head. I waved it off like an obnoxious fly; it bounced off the walls and boomeranged towards me again.

Alright, I said, heaving a sigh of defeat. Besides, I’ve wasted almost the entire day chasing kites with Amir and Hassan. Maybe it’s time for me to crawl out from my cave, and let the world behold the biggest loser there is — me.

I dragged my bored-stiff carcass inside this small, white-tiled, four walled box they call the bathroom. Sluggishly, I washed my deflated-balloon-like face and limply ran the toothbrush across my teeth. I looked at myself in the mirror and tried to smile. But the reflection didn’t budge. Smile, I said, smile! Show me those goddam pearly whites! To no avail.

After what seemed like a century and a half desperately coaxing the skeletal guy in the mirror, I emerged from the bathroom; chopstick-legs dragging underneath me. I undressed and re-dressed, grabbed my jacket and cellphone and slipped on my running shoes.

Twisting the doorknob, I walked two paces, hesitated, turned back, paused, reconsidered, turned towards the door, opened it, and at a snail’s pace, crossed the threshold. Still holding the doorjamb, I admired the overcast skies and the lovely scent of the after-rain, when – Bam! – the friggin’ door bit my friggin’ fingers! “Fffff*ck!”

I screamed, and for the first time that day I heard my voice. Massaging my fingers, I realized that I’m still alive. My heart beat for the first time, palpitating so hard it almost leapt out of my chest. I didn’t know shouting expletives could be so therapeutic. F*ck, being the day’s first word. Hurling curses can be so liberating. Try it.

I flagged down a cab but it just zoomed past me. Then came another one; flagged and zoomed. Was I invisible or were the cabbies just blind? I stood by the curb for the next five minutes, waiting. I lit a cigarette and slowly puffed on the stick, arms interweaving with each other; getting cold now.

As soon as I took my second puff, a cab materialized before me. I found myself trapped in a dilemma of great magnitude: the taxi or the freshly-lit cigarette. After a nano-second of thorough deliberation, I crushed my cigarette and got into the cab.“Sayang…” I muttered.

“Ano ho yun?” the cabbie inquired.
“Ah, wala.
Makati tayo manong.” I ordered the cabbie.
“Singkwenta po, traffic po kasi sa Edsa.” The meter-calculated fare plus fifty bucks, he meant. Under normal circumstances, I could’ve threatened to hurl the cabbie’s butt to court.

But I wasn’t in a combative mood, so I said “Fire!”

True, traffic’s so severe along Edsa that you actually see the air, diesel fumes painting it brownish-gray. And except for the cabbie’s striking resemblance to Tado on steroids, the drive was long yet uneventful.

I reached my destination with the same expression plastered on my face, the same look as the skeletal guy in my bathroom mirror. Slamming the door behind me, I headed toward the escalator. The guard ran his black electronic palo-palo through my body. Beep! Oh, did I forget to leave the grenade at home? But the guard just nodded and said “Welcome to Greenbelt, Sir!”

Boy was that close!

There goes another one...

You never fail to surprise us Nins. You surprised everyone when you straightened you hair, when you posed ala-FHM in your Friendster pics ... and now your biggest surprise yet.

Remember 2007? Remember our deal, that we have to graduate together in 07? Hmm, guess that wouldn't be possible now would it? You graduated WAY ahead of time, way ahead of us.

For so little a time, you had touched a lot of lives, Nins, especially mine. Remember History-something? The only subject I passed during that semester. Thanks to your 'stare-that-bites', I was really obliged to come to class. Kung dili, imo nakong gi-iruk.

I'm still in denial Nins. It's so hard to believe that someone so full of life and radiates beauty, now ... gone. I guess I'll just have to comfort myself that your in a much much better place now. Pain is temporary; memories live on.

The world will never be the same without you Nins. You'll be sorely missed. See you next class, Big Momma!

(to the Estacio Family, my heartfelt condolences..)