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.