Crash

Manuscript

It was cold and windy when he stepped out of the publishing house. While its appearance was uninviting, its cragginess still appealed to him nevertheless.  Although its elevators no longer worked after the last world war, the staircases were wide and generous, while windows were tall, quite suitable for thinking and writing.

He thought it was indescribable what he felt holding the manuscript finished in his hands. Links of sleepless food stalls wailed, and prolific choreographed routines of evening companions for hire flooded the atmosphere.  Artists of all sorts stood around at the corners performing, while middle aged men who’d rather refer to themselves as aficionados lounged in wicker chairs on narrow alleys.

It was four days before his birthday, exactly two weeks after the car accident.  And although the doctors told him he was lucky, the experience still attracted him.  It gave him something to look forward to, a journey to profoundly aspire for.

 

Accident

He was driving west in the rain when the car swerved off the freeway, until it tumbled off the cliff and dived.  It was a hard rain, he couldn’t see. Half conscious, he thought it was beautiful, how the dark, electric blue flashes in the patches of the clouds would entertain him while he waited for the sirens to come.

 

Haircut

When he got discharged, the first thing he thought about was getting a haircut. Nothing grand, just good old fashioned clean haircut. Grooming was after all his pilgrimage back to civilization. It was how humanity saw it, he wanted to compromise.

 

Train

As he strolled there was a hint of rain in the air.  A few swelling beads of raindrops crackled onto his leather coat just about when he reached the turnstile to catch the late night train.

In this pluvial darkness that enclosed him, he pulled up his collar close to him, and the lapels which overlapped across his chest warmed him.  A few celebratory drags then he flicked the cigarette half-done to the puddle, staying with it as he watched it hissed before entering the station.

Just the same, even after all, he still thought it was a good time for a drive, but he could not.  Instead, he imagined steering the wheel in the darkness through the same night until he catches the first light of the next day.  As he stood on the platform, he thought about how the rain will wash away the world clean as it always did.  There were a few lines that he wanted to write her, regrets even.  But he couldn’t.  His hands are failing him.

Photo by: Bianca Osorio
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Fender Bender

A friend once told me “do not try to fend off the good” apparently this has always been my problem according to her.  Given that it is non-clinical, and it is encroached upon the merits that it is all based on pure alcohol induced speculation, I guess, I should believe her prognosis.

“Everyone is a character, in a plot of this book told by a satyr or a romantic.  You could either live lavishly like the Divers or die tragically valiant like El Sordo defending the Spanish hilltops.”

But I was not anywhere near any of it.  I could no longer see fit to entwine myself to the life of a poet.  Sure, I still believed in desserts and an occasional ticket pass to the pictures, but I seemed to have lost something between the sweet taste and the closing credits.

From a table napkin dispenser, she withdrew a couple of sheets that she used as substitute for parchment paper.  She could have written an entire volume on them had it not been for the limiting light from the blue screen monitor overhead.  I can’t remember what exactly she wrote there, knowing her, she could have probably written something about the cooling waves under the moon in those sultry nights or something about a duck.  She wrote happily, and lived, and coyed with the boys her age, she did it all.  She was a God.

Until one day she ran away with an older boy whom she met in a smoky room.  I can still remember that night quite well; they were smoking by a dying florescent lamp under a frameless Joan Jett poster taped on a wall.  I never had the chance to talk to her about that in fact, and I reckoned that we must, like we used to in the past.  There was an occasion when I saw her in a middle of a crowd somewhere in Cubao, I knew it was her; she had a Mao cap on, carrying a canvas tote.

I guess for now I will just have to see her in our conversations, in her stories, or perhaps this time, among the pages of my fictions, until then.

Photo By: Bianca Osorio