Unfinished Manuscript

It was a hot and parched afternoon in the urban jungle of downtown Manila, as carriages packed with people from north of the city head towards Taft station.

It was a Monday, the busiest of all the days in a week and which also happens to be the 30^th of October – the eve of  Todos los Santos or All Saints day to those who prefer the western vibe. To some, it is an opportunity to pay their respects to those who left this worlds graces by lighting candles in graves and offering prayers; but to the forgetful lot, it is a good reason to have a restful leave for 2 days, watch loads of documentaries about the occult and the supernatural (which is quite the bulk of shows around this time), and drink beer as a toast to celebrate the life of a dead loved one.

Normally at 5’ in the afternoon the great transit would have begun. The Train station would be filled and bustling with all sorts of people; nursing their tired spent egos and lofty dreams – patiently standing in their humble chosen space and waiting for a ride that would bring them to some place that feels home. Just minding their own and wishing for a quiet and safe trip; dying to watch occult and supernatural documentaries and think of their own strange encounters (everyone has their strange tales to tell).

For Ino who harbors a special liking for Todos los Santos, it is probably the best Monday he had for the year.

Traffic alerts, stick of cigarette, morning after pill, and black coffee.

The beginning of that day was spent indulging his favorite morbid assortments; just some of the generic things he likes to relish in the morning.

Inhaling deep, he felt the cigarette’s kick in his chest. He held it in longer. He missed the feeling; the grip in his lung, the fleeting pleasure, and the acrid smell it leaves on his fingers.

“Another day in dystopia”, this city dwelling rat told himself. He sipped his bitter-morning brew, and almost instantly felt the crabbiness set in. There he was, sitting in the silence of their kitchen, with his thoughts scattered and floating, just like annoying flies above his head.

A gamut of things appeared unclear to Ino that morning. He also has no vivid recollection of going home after a night of excessive drinking.

Selective Amnesia happens to people who did random acts of stupidity, muttered embarrassing slur, and confessed repressed thoughts both sublime and mundane while inebriated. Probably, it is the minds way of saving Ino from the next day’s cringing and anxiety, or it could just be the alcohol killing his remaining healthy brain tissues. More than that, what troubles and vexes him is the inability to remember or connect events that had led him from his halcyon days to this stark moment – of waking one morning, fighting the occasional blues, amused by both his fascination of everyday usual's and his overbearing hangover.

To say that Ino is a morning person, would be to say that the business section of your daily is a fun and entertaining read. But like a true blue oddball, Ino likes mornings for its quirks, like he enjoys many things for the strangest reasons.

A creature of comfort, he finds his daily dose from things that are trivial and familiar, just like morning routines and habits. As much as he hates the sick sameness of the typical working morn, he is overcome by a feeling of ambivalence. Somehow, a weird soothing feeling and sense of relief is derived, whenever he thinks of waking up again to a morning of themes and stereotypes.

Aware or not, he has a penchant for anachronism and things that follows certain themes. This proclivity explains his small collection of steam punk movies and new wave cd’s; as well as his special liking for holidays, like the coming Todos los Santos. Themes have that romantic appeal to his sensibilities, attracting him as Absinthe attracts a poet. The manner how he self gratifies by indulging his fancied compulsions is quite peculiar and apparent. You see, Ino is a person of humor and temper, and themes allows him to enjoy and capture temporary mood states – mood states that accedes to his heart’s desire to bend time and hark back to the zeitgeist of a loved period and cherished moment.

Celebration. Themes. Life.

Life in general is but an everyday celebration of themes. Either our choosing or a subconscious manic desire; we mimic or live out our biases, a set of favored ideas regarded as sentimentally lovely and desirable.

The music we listen to, T.V shows we watch, newspaper we read, or the book we picked at a nearby thrift shop; truly an existence dependent on our senses.

In between watching, listening, and feeling, occurs a careful process involving selection.

Life imitating art. It is in our nature to take in what we think is favorable and ideal. Through sense perception, we are compelled to pattern our lives out of movie scenes and broken lines, from funny strips and moving choruses, out of verses and lovely prose. When we are through sorting and entertaining ideas in its different nuances, we are now finished with an outline, a fine print embedded in our minds that tells us how things should play out, and how existence should be lived. Now that markers are in place, our obsession compels us to follow that carefully laid trail in penance or rapture, and to wherever it may lead us – fanatic to the path that leads to our conceived notion of the ending.

Nothing happened much during the course of the day in the office, aside from what is considered expected. The egotistic showdown and jabber fest euphemistically referred to as Monday catch up meeting, the usual huddle and chit chat at the office waterhole, and the economy sized luncheon eaten at an economy sized cafeteria paid with a single serving wage.

You may now have noticed at this point that Benigno Ponce (or Ino as his friends refer to him), is not really known for his sunny disposition and odious can-do quips; nor will you expect him to be the optimistically silly-grinning fellow you would catch inside a lift or chance upon a queue at a convenience store.

Ino is just not in the business of talking a lot and blurting his ill intentions to butcher a herd of slow walkers on his way to work, for fear of being misunderstood.

He is peeved whenever people try to pique his mind and try to figure him out.

“I got my issues, you got yours. That’s the way it is and the way it should be.” is what he usually say in the most dry and detached tone that he could manage, which roughly translates to “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS”.

He usually fancies himself as a pariah and in his grandest thoughts, a bohemian who ridicules the very principles society stands for.

Ding…Dong….

“Now arriving at Taft Station”, crackled through the train’s overhead speaker.

“Please check your bags and other belongings before exiting the train.”

A rude awakening. Almost instantaneous, Ino’s wandering thoughts was pulled out of contemplation and was hinged to the frigid hand bar, pressed cold to his face.

The train yanked and nudged before stopping at Taft station.

“Well, this is me.”, he whispered nonchalantly, fixing a dead lonely gaze at the still view outside.

It was a silent motionless scene of tired long faces and muted gaping mouths. A familiar living picture of normal day to day commuters and their sulky semblance, anxious in anticipation to reanimate their beat down spirits, by watching dubbed re-runs of Mexican soaps in the comfort of their living room.

To the delight of the weary passengers, the door hissed open. Cheap Pine scent flowed out, while letting warm humid air breeze inside the capsule. Like everyone in that afternoon ride, Ino let out a deep sigh of relief. After all, they reached the last station where the train turns and head back north.

“Finally, time to get off.”

Everyone rushed the door like panic stricken claustrophobes. And it was not long before Ino found himself in the thick of things; caught in a spin cycle, like a dirty laundry. Everything happened in a blur in freeze frame flashing style consisting of package boxes and biscuit cans, altogether with the images of flying elbows and bags with a distinct superimposed visage of a lady about to explode in anger tossed in the hodgepodge.

Struggling for survival and sanity inside the cramped coach he is in, it was odd humor to realize that ethics and pleasantries are acts of convenience that takes the back seat when comfort is compromised.

By the time Ino managed to step out of his coach, he was greeted by a quiet calm. The crowd had dissipate, leaving only rueful sighs and the distant sound of their tired footsteps; wuthering through the immaculate structure of white painted surfaces, unblemished glass panels, and gleaming-polished balusters.

At that point, Ino is standing in the middle of a quaint and reflective scene. Objects lost aspect and betrayed, turning everything into dismal shade of gray and Ino is quite sure that what he is experiencing is an epiphany.

Looking up the sky, he saw a chasm tore through the sea of white fluffy clouds, watching an unnamed winged sadness descend from heaven – finding his mortal heart and settling deep, calling it home.

Ino had gotten his comeuppance. By accident or serendipity, he had found himself in a familiar place almost forgotten – a place of deep thought and profound feelings.

It is an inanimate plane washed in monochrome, where definites and other disambiguation’s are irrelevant. A hidden threshold unknowingly crossed and accidentally revisited. Where movements are unhurried and desires fervently expressed than explained; noises are downplayed and the faintest of heartbeats the loudest sound you would hear.

“Stillness rarely come by these days” as he felt the moment ebbed away, back to the latched repository where imagined scenes ripped from old period movies and other lovelorn fantasies are kept; in hopes of reliving or enacting them one day.

The Sun had already set when he exited the train station. The city at night beckons. A pack of stray dogs are foraging down the street.

Another face of the city is showing with its age lines masked and soften by lit up neon lights; casting a glimmer through puddle filled road potholes. It is a bad town and its denizens had come to accept the putrid bog they are in, and had made it the most convenient excuse in carrying on with their ways.

Still a long way from home, crossing a maze of blue and pink overhead bridges to the bus stop.

“A floating labyrinth ending at the Minotaur’s lair.” A cleverly crafted joke that he tells himself. A wry smile appeared at the left corner of his lips.

Like a sore thumb with its garish radiating color, this series of manmade contraption mirrors the thoughts of the very people who regularly passes by the footbridge; confused and full of complications. It offers another vantage to those who have time to look at the purgatory below, while purging the mind of the urge to jump off the railings.

Business is boom. Passing hawkers selling cheroots and candies and pimps selling their hardware’s; one could not help but think the possibility of legitimizing the underground economy. Imagine hookers flashing medical certification, while wearing government issued skimpy statement shirts that say, “SERVICE WITH A SMILE” or “READY TO SERVE YOU”. Probably that is the day when hail and fiery brimstone will fall from the sky to flatten out this city of transgression.

Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead and neck, while climbing down a narrow staircase leading out of that tangled elevated mess. The air was thick with humidity and smog, and stain had smeared his tidy kerchief after wiping the sweat and grime.

He pulled out a cig, plugged his ears, put on his fisherman’s cap, and channeled his best Woody Allen impression. Through constant repetition, repelling street solicitors became a polished act. Arming himself with a stare down, a sullen voice and an adapted magic word; he was able to send the right message across.

“Go fish.” It’s a codeword spoken in a tone that would make Charles Bronson sound silly and gay; unequivocal and unrepentant, delivering the desired effect which is to shame and trample.

Pretty much, everything in the metro is spatially challenged. Small walkway, small roads, inch of patience, concluded by the small bus shed where Ino waits for his ride.

Whistling a long winded tone helped calm his brewing tempest. Patience is his waterloo and he is busy trying to convince himself that bad traffic and decrepit bus stops builds character.

“I think it’s going to rain?!” was a comment cast in a worried breath by a fellow commuter. Roaches started coming out of the urine reeking sewers and moths converge in numbers, besotted by the yellow light of streetlamps. It was all obvious hints of the bourgeoning precipitation and true enough; the sky looks pregnant and ready to pour when Ino peered out of the shed.

III.

It was one summer afternoon during school break, when he heard lola whistling by her lonesome a single tune. It was one of those rare opportunities where lola doesn’t mind letting Ino skip the regular siesta, to venture outside the house and wait for his still napping playmates to wake.

The Sun is at its mightiest and lola is safely tucked in the shade of a big Acacia tree adjacent to the house. Lola was the image of aged wisdom and she held a demi-god status in the eyes of her grandchild. Nothing his teachers nor his parents say mean a thing unless it is in accord to what lola preaches.

“How will you grow tall if you don’t sleep in the afternoon?” this time, lola’s voice sounded more concern than reprimanding. A rare chance where lola is thinking of other things, taking her mind off child rearing.

“La, I can’t sleep and besides, I woke up late in the morning.” a bargaining spiel to reason with the matriarch. Lola does not appear to hear Ino’s persuasion, her eyes still fixed on the road in anticipation of passerby’s, still whistling a long winded tune.

Lola spends every afternoon sitting under her beloved Acacia tree, waiting to exchange gossip with neighbors and chat with passing peddlers. However, the street was empty and everyone seemed to hide away from the harsh sun by choosing to slumber and let the solstice heat pass.

Lola appears unperturbed by the intense temperature and appears not to break a sweat at all. She continues to waive her cardboard fan and whistle her fancied tune which Ino had memorized by now.

“La, why are you whistling?” asked the curious boy.

“I’m calling the wind.” Lola’s words were mysterious and magical, like her generation was the last keepers of ancient esoteric wisdom and knowledge.

Hearing her lola’s answer made the boy’s eyes open wide with wonder. How the old lady delivered an unflinching answer without batting her lashes or taking her eyes of the road made the statement all too convincing.

“Can I also call on the wind lola?” “Can I give it a try?” Ino blurted his enthusiasm.

“But of course you can, but of course you can.” assured lola with her casual warm smile. Only that the wind was not akin to Ino and even after he worked his lungs whistling, not a single leaf fluttered and no chime was heard singing. It was Ino’s first brush with failure and this particular childhood incident have a special place in his bucket list of frustrations, alongside growing a beard and acquiring superpowers.

IV.

The wind passed the street bringing damp air and just as soon as Ino climbed up the bus, the rain poured. People looked for shade, running to and fro and jumping over gutters and water pools in choreographed frenzy.

Ino walked the bus aisle and decided to sit beside the window, enamored with the probability that he got his whistling right this time and his tune called more than the desired breeze.

The rain beat on the window and he watched thin streams slither, cutting across the pane. It hadn’t poured this hard for three straight months and the sound of the rain kissing the pavement echo’s the ground’s strong longing. The bus began to move. An action flick with an unfamiliar dubbing was playing. Ino sank deep in his seat, trying to get warm and cozy in his damp garb.

Looking out of the bus, the motion creates an illusory diorama of actual life. Actions and scenes are seemingly captured as the bus passed by, in spliced sequence viewed from the framed windows. Images hurriedly pass before Ino’s eyes making him wonder if memories of his experience will playback in the same coherent spliced presentation when he leaves his mortal shell.

His fixation of the road scene and the sound of the incomprehensible Chinese movie playing in the background made his thought wander and his eyes heavy. He leaned his head to the window and closed his eyes to catch forty winks.

He woke up chilly emerging from what feels like a deep 20 years sleep. Most of the lights onboard were dimmed, the telly turned off. The bus was almost empty except for some characters that can be heard snoring in the dark corners.

The stars seem to be dancing that night and at times appear to form a well missed name. The road now cuts across the country side prairie like a seam and in Ino’s many home bound commute, he has trouble remembering passing this strange yet familiar swath of land before.

“Bus stop!” calls out the conductor mimicking a sea dog seeing land.

The land looked vast and foreign, yet he is quite certain that it is indeed his stop.

The conductor traced his seat from the aisle and gave him a curious stern look, as if saying “This is your stop scallywag!” in the meanest sailor tongue he could imagine. The thought made him got off his slacking and jump off the bus without considering uncertainties.

The bus journeyed further down the road leaving Ino in an uncanny world. The moon hanging in the night sky resembles a punctured cheese shining its yellow light radiantly while the air smelt of damp soil. He was hobbling between the stretch of Earth and the dark ridges of the sky. Mooning, while he playfully trod along an old country road while dragging his feet each tired step; his muddied boots complaining each arduous gait, perhaps wondering why the ground give so much resistance.

Nothing made sense that cold hallowed night and everything appeared nothing short of magical. The fields in its expanse were haunted by phantasms of ghastly undulating horses. Watching in horror and amazement, their gossamer form writhe, their despotic and powerful hooves struggling in the moors seems an effort to escape. Mouths gaping and twisting with interesting flexibility, a dire display of agony or mouthing a muted prayer for deliverance.

The plains are witness to the fickle weather and fast changing atmosphere with clouds forming and swept away. Lightning flashed and the sky once more warned of foreboding rain. A Zephyr had slipped pass Aeolus stable and combed the reeds and willows of the moon swept vastness blowing a brutal cold wind, stabbing Ino’s inflamed pores.

“Hi there!” said a small boy. He was standing by the road’s shoulder under the faint glow of a street lamp that does not really look like a physical street lamp, but more like a Yellow bell tree with a single shining flower that shines like ember. Ino was quite sure that he saw a swarm of fireflies taking a dip at the Yellow bell’s flower serving as a reservoir of an unidentified luminescent liquid, before hovering away with rejuvenated lighted bumps.   

“Hi! It’s been awhile Ino! Nice of you to visit at the eve of our favorite holiday!”

Everything about the boy was familiar from the silly worn brown Aviator’s cap atop shiny and curly black locks, the smudged fitted white shirt with a fading DIE ZOMBIE DIE! print, school boy khakis, and a pair of obviously over used slippers.  

“Come on now Compadre!” “Hop onboard the Red Hotdog Streak!”

It looked rusty red and really looked brown than red to Ino. It had the usual mud spatters in the rims and an attached side cart which barely have enough leg space for a full grown man.

“Hmmm. I am guessing that you are referring to that tricycle as the Red Hotdog Streak?”  asked Ino with a very distinct sarcastic tone.

“Well yes!” a surprised and affirmative reply.

“Well before, we used to call it the Majestic Red Hotdog Streak, but since the Queen stole that title from old reliable, we stick to calling her the Red Hotdog Streak only.” further repartee from the boy.

“And besides, majestic is for sissies and we don’t want that for o’l reliable, do we Ino?” said the boy while taking charge of the pedals with suave.

“Well I guess not, but I would be best walking than to “HOP” onboard your ride.”

From a remote memory so distant that Ino has trouble determining if it really was a memory or a persistent imagination, the boy had a name. It was unusual for someone to give such name to a boy, but Ino is quite sure that its intended meaning is chief or boss, probably taken from a South American political documentary. Unusual? Yes. Cool? True.

 “Jefe…” apprehension was very detectable. It was like calling someone’s name for the first time without even being sure if you got it right.   

“Yes??” said Jefe with noticeable curiosity.

“You didn’t seem to have aged a bit”

“Well, what I mean is that it has been years and…”

“Really?” expressed Jefe, pedaling with more effort, his chubby cheeks wobbling with every inch of motion.

They had reached a lovely bridge. It was not an imposing bridge with complex steel interiors. It was more of a quaint little town bridge made of bricks and clay. It looked more like an inspiration of summer poems and its dulled rose color made it look more like a Renaissance painting or a fairy book illustration.

Jefe climbed out of the Red Hotdog Streak and heaved to sit on top of the bridges’ end with strained effort. Stuffed limbs are not well designed for climbing and are more suited for pedaling purposes. 

Ino without needing to sit on the bridges’ end looked into the great beyond. Another window opened before him, a new perspective seen as they surveyed the far stretches of land that stares back at them.

“Remember when we christened this bridge and the brook underneath, Yonder Point” asked Jefe bursting to laughter.

“Gosh, I remember that we were pirates claiming this bridge ours, Old Rainbow Beard and Le Feet Petite!” Jefe giggled upon remembering the silly best pirate names they could ever think of.

“You jumped over the bridge and peed on its foot, thus cementing our claims of this territory, Arr!”.

“Lola was so furious about hearing it while she scrubbed off the mud of your feet!”

Ino is now leafing through the pages of his memory and he vaguely remembered visiting the Town Hall with Jefe to declare to the Village leader that Yonder Point is conquered and no longer part of the town as stated in the borders of their self drawn and badly colored map.

Ino flushed recalling how their demands were met with an incredulous stare by the village leader.   

A fluvial parade of water lilies and lotuses lined up the stream only to disappear, passing through the bridge and reappearing at the other end; while Nymphs use flowers foliages to store sweet evening dew, which town folks say can cure ailments when drank (although causing a bit of hangover as an `after effect when not properly distilled).   

“Sorites Paradox.” mentioned Jefe.

“Huh?”

“It is the principle of unknowable boundaries.”

“It is the inability to exactly pinpoint a turning moment.” expounded Jefe who is now sheepishly smiling and brimming with pride, while drawing a diagram of his explanation in thin air with a stalk of grass.

“I think you have lost me??” uttered Ino.

“Well, to put it simply…” the arrogance of youth is speaking now with the stalk of grass now teetering between a child’s crooked teeth.

“Gummy bears.”

“Oh! How I like those Gummy Bears!”

“Do you know why I like Gummy Bears Ino?”

“Hmmm… Exactly why?” said Ino condescendingly.

Jefe with his dilated eyes explained in full honesty of a kid relating an urban legend he read from reliable sources (Ghost, Ghouls and the likes and Your True Guide to Conspiracy Theories are Jefe’s choice of reliable reference mind you reader).

“Cos their like bears!”

“Only Gummy. Plus the fact that you can eat them and their practically bite sized.”

“Hmm. Yeah. I think you’re correct in all aspects mentioned.”

“If you have a bag of yummy Gummy Bears and you decide to eat 2 lil bears, well make that 3 lil bears because their delicious and I think you are the type who eats 3 lil Gummy Bears.”

“Hmm. Ok..”

“You think after eating 3 Gummy Bears, it is still a bag of Gummy Bears?” said Jefe.

“I think it is still a bag.” replied Ino.

“Is it still a bag if there is only one Gummy Bear left?’

“Ok. Ok. I’m getting your point and I suppose you think of that yourself??” said Ino.

“Well, I’ve read it somewhere in page 5 of Cool Stuff You Should Know but won’t Make You Rich” confessed Jefe in an almost hushed voice with head bowed down, while twiddling his thumb. 

At the edge of their view, where the land seems to end came a low rolling sound. Burst of light fills the backdrop, capturing distorted silhouettes that appear to be in revelry. Heavens seem to be fomenting a soiree and the drunken piss from the lofty abode would soon fall.

“I should go now.” softly by Ino.

Jefe just gave a silent nod, still perched at his place at the bridge’s ending.

Without turning his head, Jefe fancifully exhaled “Must be gone and live or stay thee.” “Quoting Shakespeare.” ended Jefe.

Ino kept walking; over the bridge, through cobblestone streets and out, passing alleyways lit up with fascination, and finally ending at the welcoming fence of his residence.  

The barrel wailed and the gate creaked open.

A quick glance, probably to bid farewell the steps he left behind. The street is lined with lighted row houses from each end. Ino heard the sole of his shoe crunched, walking the hard pavement.

The barrel wailed once more, only this time Ino had closed the gate behind him.

Goodnight.

A bitter case of wanting

I.

Entranced. Another memory blackout episode.

“Hi!” her voice drowned all sound inside the room. It was for Ino the only sound that mattered, his senses shutting everything out.

“Sorry to keep you waiting.” her eyes squinted, giving away a made up smile.

Ino’s heart jumped many places and his eyes widened involuntarily.

“Even if it is just a made up smile.” he told himself.

“May I ask why you seem to be all smiles today?” Joey curiously asked sounding cutely reprimanding.

“Nothing. I was just wondering how it would feel to hold your hand.”

Silence fell. It was the blanket they use to cover emotions they have yet to explore and feelings afraid to admit. For a moment, he was lost in her blank stare. She knows he is sitting in the quiet corner, beside the open window rushed by the light of the setting Sun, but somehow she fails to see.

She took her small steps pass the door to where Ino was sitting. Joey extended her small hands to Ino, smiling.

“My classes are over.”

“Let’s walk home?”

Ino reached for her hand touching her fingers first, and the divide between them closed in. Her small hand was warm to the touch, her skin smell nicely sweet.

He was happy as an empty glass being poured wine. A sucker for her sad puppy eyes and Ino felt it happening again, falling such great height and ending lost in her eyes.

“Is this too close to boundaries?” said Ino.

Joey turned her head away, her hands still held by Ino.

“I don’t know?” “What are the boundaries?” were the words uttered by her curved shy lips, before she let go of his hand. Again, it was silence that became their refuge from vague feelings. Knowing that the other is just close beside seem consoling and side by side they start to walk.

Eye candy billboards, industrial edifices and the occasional trees lined and littered the road as they pass by; Ino giving infrequent glances to Joey who is preoccupied with her own thoughts, her hands wrapped in tight to two bulky textbooks.

"There used to be more trees in this area." said Ino as they come by an old church road arched by tall aged Acacia's.

A light breath drift by, clearing fallen leaves and bringing an earthly aroma. Ray of light filtered by the canopy managed to pass through the leafy roof, reflecting in many directions.

"I thought so too." replied Joey as she looked back to Ino.

"I caught them as they fall." There were three buds of sunshine in Ino's open palms.

"I know you love flowers." "They maybe small and simple, but I think they are beautiful." Ino's words seem to make the small Acacia blossoms glow.

"For you."

And it was certainly a meaningful smile. It became the definition of happiness. Maybe it was a dream and he is no longer sure if it was a mirage or just an imagined event he keeps to assure himself that he can still feel.

It was just the right amount of afternoon light falling in her face. It was the first time in a long time he existed in a perfect plain helplessly surrendered to unassuming beauty.

"Can you wait for me?" said Ino.

"I don't know?" "Can you wait for me?" Joey asked back.

"You really look wonderful today." replied Ino. It was not the answer she wanted to hear.

He saw a hint of disappointment in her eyes and only if they could stop pushing each other away.

It was the motions and the unsure conversation of that afternoon he would choose to keep and let eat the matter of his sanity, like a mold to bread. It is what's playing in his head some years later while he walked the same old church road after the lost years; hoping to rekindle fragments of nostalgia, looking for the same fallen leaves of that day remembered.

They had now reached the end of their walk; the attachment was almost unbearable to both souls.

“This is my dormitory, remember?”

“So I guess this is goodbye for us?” Joey said plainly.

“Not goodbye for us, only goodbye for now.” Ino reassuringly smiled.

She saw the honesty in Ino’s eyes and how he meant the words he freed. The back of their hands are brushing, tips of their fingers almost touching. She remembered the warm security of Ino’s hands and how she turned off her defenses at the lightest press of his fingers to her soft palm.

“I don’t know what to say Ino?”

“I don’t know what your problem is?”

He reached for her hand, unable to contain meandering kept feelings that annexed his mind and moved him to have her hands.

“Sorry Joey if I don’t say much.”

It took enduring restraint to feign indifference and hide helplessness. To hold confessing insecurities and refrain from talking about little seedy creatures niching in the recess of his mind, abhorring the sunshine.

A wanting stare showing no apprehension. A quiet undertone of desire and hushed agreement. His fingers moved and in the slightest touch, traced her lips. Their stare closed in and their lips finally grazing. Both found a moment of honesty and for one brief instance became true to their sensibilities. He watched her close her eyes.

“Say it would always be like this." said Ino.

She happily smiled and pinched his nose.

“You always seem to have the right words." said Joey.

“All for your kiss!" and it was the naughtiest boyish grin that followed. A rehearsed line he always imagined to say and finally said.

The months have fallen of the calendar and they are on their last days. He wondered how the afternoon Sun got cold.

Picture cut outs of places they wish to get lost. Lazy days pretending to walk a somber beach side. Spending midsummer's day looking out at shining mountains of golden hay.

The door creaked. Last glance and maybe the last goodbye. Last appeal to emotion and forgo binding apprehensions. Last chance to save their unsure and fibbing hearts from complications.

It did not happen as they say it would. It is the end of something beautiful and the beginning of limbo and of dog gone days thinking of fates and of things that could have been, but would never know. Of morning spent staring at the ceiling.

The door had closed and the barrel clicked in place. And such is the predicament of them whose tragedy is a celebrated romance.

II.

Click.

"Here is something from an 80's seminal band we haven't heard for awhile."

The driver tuned to a station that plays songs from his generation. He adjusted the volume to gentler decibels. Just right to hear the jangling of fares being handed and passed around.

"Here is New Order playing "Leave me alone" right here in your all music station that plays the greatest and the latest."

Entered the drum machine in unlikely intervals and builds up to the intro.

On a thousand islands in the sea, I see a thousand people just like me.

The Jeepney moved at a steady phase. Road lines appearing and disappearing in routine fashion. Impressive linear symmetry.

A hundred unions in the snow, I watch them walking, falling in a row.

"Para."

The Jeep pulled to a stop at a curbside, whilst the song seemed to claw its way out of the old shackled transistor and manifest with ghoulish omnipresence.

We live always underground, it’s going to be so quiet in here tonight. Played from a roadside karaoke.

"The only exercise I would be getting." Ino thought to himself opening the doors to his dormitory.

"This staircase and the usual nods and hello to acquaintances."

So it began the labored climb and the forced nods and hello on his way to his 3rd floor room. The stairs as well as the halls were occupied in some parts by pails, reminding of last night’s downpour and the repairs needed to patch up the roof.

Whiff of Nicotine leaks out of open doors. The kasera is not happy of the tenants smoking habit considering the dated wooden furnishing the dormitory has. But it gave the place a Greenwich - Bohemian kick.

Next door to Ino is Karlo, a budding painter who always finds his pastel and charcoal best with a friendly bottle of Cerveza ("Typical Artist" as Ino used to say.). Across is Pedro, a Philosophy Major with left leaning ideals, a friendly mien, and a reserve countenance.

He placed his key and turned the knob. He had forgotten to reset his radio alarm.

Every time I watched the sky, for these past few days leave me alone.

It was still the song from the Jeepney and the road side karaoke that was playing, possibly haunting him.

He unplugged the radio, closed the door, and pulled up the blinds. Darkness had encroached the city and on a night like this, one wonders what unsettling questions it would bring.

The train station is seen from a distance and tired eyes sees depth in things with deeper shade. Jovial shrieks of children playing in the streets can be heard. Running to and fro as if chasing their dreams or fleeing from the bondage of time. The Sun had sighed and beings of different perspectives had woken and emerged.

He sank deep in his only couch inside the sleepy room; listless while trying to make something out of ambient noises. A floating Orb fiery Orange burned in the room. Smoke hangs in the empty air, filling the room with the smell of dried burning leaves.

This room had been his altar and his lighted cigarette - an incense burning to obscurity. He chuckled thinking of Tita, his kasera and what she may say if she finds out about Ino's combustible venerating ritual.

His room is his retreat to the center, Ino's ethereal sanctum sanctorum.

He felt the poison in his veins pass through the valves of his heart; riddling it once more with insecurities, worry and longing. A cavity moved into his chest, a rift developed. Ino's feeling heart almost succumbing and failing to beat. He finished his cigarette and stood up, approaching a door that was not there before.

Through a glint of light passing through the window, he saw his name etched roughly in the door’s surface. The wooden door opened and a vast troubled ocean beckoned. A gust blew a salty mist to his face. A small stony isle was waiting for him and invited him in isolation. He dipped his feet in the damp sandy ground, mindless of the roaring tides and bellowing winds.

Just then, the door closed behind.

"I'll be gone for awhile." Joey saw Ino walking away, his footsteps hushed and his silhouette fading. Half awake, she tried to ask where he was going. But all she can muster to say was, "I can't wait for you Ino." in that waking dream.

She saw him put up his sad smile as he always does, while trying to say something hushed she did not understand. Then he was gone. 

III.

Mang Herbert has been a postman all his life. He takes pride knowing the names of each person in every household in his route. He can’t imagine doing other things aside from being a postman.

“I love my job!” is what he usually says to familiars. Mang Herbert is living his childhood dream which many had faltered to do. Leafing through the pages of his Primary School Yearbook after being visited by a curious desire to reminisce, he saw the following intriguing entry.

Herbert Costello

VI- Olives

Ambition : Meet people + Travel = Mailman

He giggled reading the scribbled silliness in bold font. It has been a long time being a postman, delivering parcels and old people’s pension among other letters that he packs in his bag and throws at the back of his blue and white service van. A long while trying to live by each episode’s example of Postman Pat which he watched as a kid; a jolly bespectacled mailman who moves around from town to town merrily in his clay-cartoon world.

There were days of yore when keeping in touch would mean having a pen and paper and would involve licking intricately designed stamps – those were days of romance. The long wait and anticipation for letters was agonizing and the appearance of a mailman in the neighborhood is taken as a sign of good tidings or of enveloped ill news.

“People don’t write letters anymore.” sighed Mang Herbert.

“The mighty pen has been defeated not by the sword.”

The leaps in communication has dwindled the significance of letter writing and it has been a long 15 years down trend, the postal corporation has been experiencing.

Earlier that day, he had received his own letter of tidings from the Post Master himself. The Post Master expressed his appreciation of Mang Herbert’s years of service and loyalty. It was a letter filed with niceties and flowery words well placed, informing Mang Herbert how downsizing would help business continuity.

It is his last day today as a mailman and he was given the choice to have the whole day to himself.

“I’ll have plenty of time for everything tomorrow.” Mang Herbert said.

A mailman to the end. He will walk the line and strut his last dance. As today would be his final act, he decided to honor his daily customs by staying true to it.

He played his favorite bebop tune in the van en-route to his point of delivery, tapping his fingers at the steering wheel; just like he did every day.

That morning, he noticed a single registered mail out of the bulk of credit card notices and advertisements in his bag of mail. It is for a sweet young lady he knows from his rounds. He was used to seeing the excitement in people’s faces before when he hands them their letters. Back then, he was delivering real letters rather than corporate churned templates that pass as letters these days; he bitterly thought.

“I’ll save that one for last.” he sheepishly smiled as he placed the letter in the dashboard and decided to deliver it as his last stop of the day.

Day’s end, his legs were tired and feeling his age. He took of his visor and wipe off the sweat from his sun burned forehead.

“Retirement doesn’t seem to be a bad idea.” he tried to convince himself while passing an old church road on his way to a student dorm.

“I wonder if she would be happy to receive this?” setting his eyes at the letter in his hands. It has local stamp on it and bears the name of that someone they used to talk about. He remembered how she is animatedly irritated when they talk about that boy.     

Mang Herbert always enjoys his time with Joey. It was just a sly strategy of his to play the tired thirsty old man asking for glass of water; her sweet and bubbly personality invigorates and keeps him happily occupied at the end of his deliveries.

“Fancy seeing you little miss.” Joey watering the thorny Bougainvilleas turned around to see.

“Ay! Tatay!”

“How are you?” she surprisingly asked.

“Same as old, tired and roasting in this hot weather that we have.”

“Care for a glass of iced water Tatay?” “I’ll get you one.” she smiled.

“Not this time Joey, but thank you for asking this old man.”

“I have a letter for you and guess who sent it.” Mang Herbert winked, handing the letter to Joey who looked utterly curious.

“You really like him do you?”

Joey just smiled.

“I’ll leave you now with your letter and you owe me a cold glass and a friendly chat next time.”

“I’m happy to deliver that letter to you.” Mang Herbert gave a broad grin before leaving, happy to see Joey smile as she peeled off the envelope like a child opening a present.

Hi Joey,

I always enjoy writing you notes. This time, I decided to write you this letter hoping to catch you smile when you read it.

Sorry, I don’t say much when we are together and I hope that this writing could say more than what I really could. This may look or sound meaningless but I write it just the same to reach you.

I maybe gone for a while, but I would always have you in my memory and there I would find you. There we would play dress up and pretend to like Coffee. I would find you under the shade of a Persimon tree and there we would laugh and chat till we tire out. I would poke fun at you and you will be annoyed in turn; stick out your tongue and wrinkle your nose as you always do.

I’ll give you French Fries then so you will stop ignoring me, as I know how you like that oily treat.

I am missing you now and will miss you always. Goodbye and see you in that memory.

Ino

A deep silence fell inside her and not even the whisper of her soul can be stirred, not knowing if it echoes regret or a sense of loss.

Throw a coin in the well and wait to hear it sing its lament.

“Joey! I think you should see this?” a dorm friend watching the news called worriedly.

* A fire had razed an old male student dormitory near the Manila University.

* A report from the Fire Marshall pointed the origin of the fire to be the 3^rd floor of the dormitory which started around 3AM and had reached critical Fire Alert Level.

* Investigation is underway to determine the cause of the fire that had ravaged the building, but initial examination points at Cigarette as the most likely culprit.

* An unverified report mentions a missing male tenant, residing in the room where the fire started. No body was found in the search for casualties and investigation is still open.

Back to you Kabayan.

IV.

The area was cordoned from scrappers and kibitzers. Tita watches her loss from the yellow lines. The dormitory was her source of income and the structure at San Pedro Street was family heirloom. It is one of the oldest structures in the district and it was their family’s home where she grew up before it was converted into a dormitory, when her parents passed away and her siblings migrated.

Tita could only think of what the fire investigator told her while he casually points to his clipboard checklist.

Fire code violation. Building code non compliance.

All she knows is that people stay at her place and they owe her rent.

“I’m old already and had been running this dormitory a long time.”

Codes and city ordinances where alien concepts to her. She is not the brightest child of her parents, explaining why her siblings bequeathed her the house.

She tried reasoning with the investigator and even mentioned the pails she places all over the house when it rains as good substitute to fire extinguishers.

“I should have placed more No Smoking signs.” Tita mockingly told herself.

“Manang!” called out one of the Fire Marshall clearing the lot.

“We got this lying in the burned rubble.” he spoke as he approached the Yellow lines.

“I don’t think it will be used in any way in our follow up investigation.”

“Maybe it is a journal belonging to one of your former tenants?”

“And what use would I have for this?” Tita ranted. Imagine only a journal being salvaged out of many other possessions the fire had licked.

“Maybe someone would come looking for it?”

“I don’t know. You figure it out.” said the fireman.

“It just doesn’t seem right to just throw it away after it survived incineration.”

“It was like waiting for someone to pick it up as it lay there in the heap of charred lumber.”

“Neither touched by water nor fire.”

V.

Some four years had gone after the fire engulfed Tita’s dormitory. The property doesn’t have insurance and where use to stand a 3 storied dormitory is now an empty lot enclosed by metal sheets.

Neighbors around say Tita was petitioned to migrate to the States by her siblings. While there are familiar faces in San Pedro St. that had stayed behind, telling stories of that fiery night for free beer in frat parties.

Karlo keeps a small signs shop near the corner of San Pedro St. smack in the middle of student food diners and barbeque stands.

He dropped his Art course, claiming to have lost his muse; but never dropping his love for the bottle. His canvasses now are banners and sign boards which he carefully letter, his pastel replaced by Neon paint. In the morning, you would see him outside his shop working on commercial sign orders with a bottle of beer in one hand; his drafting still impeccable after downing his third ale.

He would sometimes be visited by a fellow beer connoisseur, who everybody calls “The Doctor”. No one really knows his real name and he seems to prefer it that way. The only thing people know about him is his liking for black t-shirts and wayfarers. They also say that he used to be a Radio jock, which makes him a revered figure in this college-community like Baranggay.

Tonight, he had left the smoky curb to hang out with this semester’s new enrollees. He wore his favorite paint tarnished white shirt and let his long hair down. He must have looked like a rock star and every kid in the party coveted his acknowledgement.

He looked for someone in the crowd. As suspected, he saw him in a corner. A rock star like him adored in this party. His wide brimmed glasses hide a friendly mien. He was starting with their story in his usual reserve countenance. He looked a little flushed and at this stage, he might be on his sixth bottle and had finished with his leftist litany.

He caught his eyes. “Professor Pedro!”

The crowd parted as Karlo makes his way. Pedro handed him an ice cold bottle and asked if the Doctor would be coming to crash, before continuing his story.

“Sorry. Where was I?” Pedro asked, trying to see if this semester’s students are as interested as last year’s flock.

“Ummm. Well Professor, you were just telling us how your term paper got burned as well as Karlo’s paintings.”

“Oh yes! I was simply trying to establish that the only thing that exists is space and the ideas that occupy it.” pushing his glasses back to add a scholarly effect. 

 

“Whoah! That’s some heavy stuff my friend!” Karlo laughingly said.

“Story that goes around said the fire had a claimed a casualty?” somebody asked.

“Well, it was from our friend Ino’s room where the fire started as claimed by the other tenants.”

“He was the only one missing, though we did not see him move out.” continued Karlo.

“Not a body was found in the search and only Ino’s journal was retrieved after the fire was put out.”

“Journal isn’t burned?” asked by the intrigued students in unison.

“Not a single leaf.” was the confirming answer they got.

“What had started the fire?”

“They say it was Cigarette, but I say spontaneous combustion.” said Pedro.

The students thought it was a nerdy joke but they hesitated from laughing, seeing how the professor maintained his dire expression.

Karlo was tickled by this new variation of the story they have told countless students a number of times already.

“Pare. It’s funny to hear the theory of self combustion from a comrade loving person.

Pedro didn’t budge and kept silent for what feels like a minute or two.

“His mood fits again. It’s a full moon I guess tonight?” said Karlo of his philosophy professor friend.

“Pedro for the sake of argument, Spontaneous Combustion only burns the body and shouldn’t have affected objects outside it.” Karlo said sensing the start of a dialogue that harks back to the logic and reasons exchanged in the Academy of old Greece. He heard approving noise from the crowd.

Pedro continued his fiddling after his long pause.

“It was love that burned him.”

“An intense love and rage he tried to contain in his chamber.”

“He was afraid that anyone he share it will be consumed.”

“I saw it in his eyes as his heart is too small to contain it.” Pedro further said.

“This is the first time I am seeing my drunken friend, your professor, drop his materialist hold and turn into a romantic.”

The students laugh at Karlo’s joke, but they are eagerly anticipating what Pedro is next to say.

“An intense feeling he severely kept that it caused Arrhythmia.”

“That it turned him into a fire that burned everything.”

Everyone kept silent at this point, convinced on the possibility of someone burning from the inside and contemplating the story; even Karlo.

“So!” Pedro exclaimed breaking the silence.

“If you pass by San Pedro St. on a cold night and finding it empty.”

“When you hear the wind howls and see a flick of light from a faint dancing ember.”

“That is a man consumed by his inner fire.”

The last bottle was dropped and it is the end of a night of many nights to follow. The party went well and Karlo and Pedro would see their new acquaintances in the diners and in the classroom in the morning. Probably dehydrated and with blood shot eyes.

“So it was love that is to blame for what happened to your term paper and my painting?”

“Good Storytellers concocts the best stories drunk.” Pedro wittingly said.

“Was that a Dylan Thomas quote?” and both friends laugh as they walk.

They find San Pedro St. quiet and empty in this cold night. The wind howled and a weak blue flame ignited in the thin air.

--END--