She was at the balcony, breathing in the night air. It was an expansive, traveling vessel of which was suffused smells. Potent vapors: barbecued pork and chicken; gaseous trash from the anuses of vehicles; the sweat of the working man and woman; the waste of our commercialism snug on the sides of our buildings, like visible plaque on teeth. Also, if she tried hard enough, she could smell the sulfur.
All this olfactory data was borne by the wind.
She rubbed her ears. Laughter and chatter too, of kids, adults, and old folk—gave body to the young night. Five-to-ten year olds were still at it with block 1-2-3, tumbang preso and the classic patintero. Some of them were being hollered at to return home, supper was approaching, they needed to be clean to eat. Adults gobbled up the latest local scandal with a rather pious eye and dirty mouth, a natural and diurnal practice of consumption and regurgitation. All news punctuated by joke followed through by infectious laughter.
Laughter was full and voluptuous, healthy and a whore.
She opened her eyes, slowly. She saw tricycles. Their cargo of scowls, bad skin, and lost eyes. Silent as coffins in hearses, their souls drowning in a pretzel-shaped loop of mnemonic re-runs, and fluffy what-ifs. Pell-mell, linear constellations of people flanking sari-sari stores, carinderias and pedi-cabs—impatient faces, chatting, laughing or in la-la land. Would poverty be poverty if everyone was poor? Marie thought.
The church bell tolled. She exhaled…
II
…And left the terrace. She woke up early. Suddenly, the familiar blast of corpse-reviving din bombarded the small world of her room. She closed in on the necessary trouble-maker, and hit the red button on its top—hard. The alarm died.
She thought: Which blouse to wear with what jeans, or do I wear jeans? Or skirt or cargo pants? Or jazz pants? With tee or tube or spaghetti or tank top? Or halter back with jacket corduroy or sweater, or pashmina? What color do I feel like today, hmm? What fit do I prefer, hm? Would I like to show some skin, mm, or wrap myself up silly?
She catches her eyes in the full-length mirror. A dark sparkle of resentment had resided in the deep corners of her 25-year old eyes. Her thoughts moved away from this deep and heavy development; she noted instead the superficial: bags under eyes; light-gray bags—badges for her trade.
Another button is depressed, and blue lights burst into animation. Tori Amos is chosen, Sleeps With Butterflies. REPEAT is pushed down. Hair is tossed, limbs stretched, her nighty removed. She continued to determine her mood, and the gear that will go with it, in the shower.
The house was older than most men. Well-to-do Spaniards had put it up, when the neighborhood was still “good”. Marie and her family paid rent each month for the top floor. Right below her room, their living room and part of their dining room, was the garage of the owner. Below their kitchen was another, smaller unit, where another, bigger family rented. There are two rooms upstairs, the master bedroom and regular bedroom. The regular bedroom was sublet by Marie to a couple. The man worked in a grocery near the wet market, and the waitress worked at a bar under the LRT. They paid almost a third of the total rent for Marie and her family’s unit. The remaining was all up to Marie.
The shower room had no shower. It was filled with drums. Five in all. Five, big, black drums which were stuffed with water. A naked toilet was rooted near a corner, its dignity resplendent from its whiteness and cleanliness, despite it being deprived of seat and cover. All was left was a little patch of floor to “shower” in.
The water dipper is utilized, and provides the convenience and illusion of a spraying nozzle. Her mind runs back into the closet in her mind. Near the edge of her awareness stainless steel clicked, China stirred, cabinets opened, closed. Her mother was going through preparations.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
play
We are just outside the North gate to Heaven. St. Peter is behind a desk.
An angel comes up to him and places a small object on his palm. It’s a tiny scroll. St. Peter nods toward the pearly gate. The man nods back in thanks and enters Heaven. Trumpets blast as he enters, startling him, destroying his dignified composure.
Angel comes back up to St. Peter. Hands him a thick roll of parchment. St. Peter sighs.
“Next!”
A woman leaves the queue and nears St. Peter, passes him, and assumes no verification or interview is required on her. She is immaculate, and proceeds toward Heaven’s entrance.
ST. PETER: “Hold on, sister, where’s the sale? Come back here like everyone else, no special treatment here; rich, poor—you are interviewed by me. Unless of course you want to pass through the East gate and deal with Maat. She’ll go old school on you, hon’, rip your heart out and weigh it against a feather? You like the odds? Be my guest.”
WOMAN: “Why sir, you let that gentleman pass without so much as a word.”
“That gentleman had a single brief sentence on his file. You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you: suicide crossed his mind. Crossed his mind! He was practically a saint. Compare yours.”
“Why is it so thick?”
“It’s heavy too. Wanna lift? We got a long interview ahead of us ma’am. Would you like a seat?”
“I shall stand, thank you. May I have a drink.?”
“A drink of what? I hope you don’t mean to get drunk. I don’t think you want to meet Him while you’re smashed. You might flirt, for god’s sake.”
“Water. All I want is water.”
“Ophaniel! I need water and a chair.”
“I don’t need a chair, I said.”
It’s not for you, it’s for me. (makes a note)
Ophaniel enters.
Chair is for me, thanks Ophy.
An angel comes up to him and places a small object on his palm. It’s a tiny scroll. St. Peter nods toward the pearly gate. The man nods back in thanks and enters Heaven. Trumpets blast as he enters, startling him, destroying his dignified composure.
Angel comes back up to St. Peter. Hands him a thick roll of parchment. St. Peter sighs.
“Next!”
A woman leaves the queue and nears St. Peter, passes him, and assumes no verification or interview is required on her. She is immaculate, and proceeds toward Heaven’s entrance.
ST. PETER: “Hold on, sister, where’s the sale? Come back here like everyone else, no special treatment here; rich, poor—you are interviewed by me. Unless of course you want to pass through the East gate and deal with Maat. She’ll go old school on you, hon’, rip your heart out and weigh it against a feather? You like the odds? Be my guest.”
WOMAN: “Why sir, you let that gentleman pass without so much as a word.”
“That gentleman had a single brief sentence on his file. You want to know what it was? I’ll tell you: suicide crossed his mind. Crossed his mind! He was practically a saint. Compare yours.”
“Why is it so thick?”
“It’s heavy too. Wanna lift? We got a long interview ahead of us ma’am. Would you like a seat?”
“I shall stand, thank you. May I have a drink.?”
“A drink of what? I hope you don’t mean to get drunk. I don’t think you want to meet Him while you’re smashed. You might flirt, for god’s sake.”
“Water. All I want is water.”
“Ophaniel! I need water and a chair.”
“I don’t need a chair, I said.”
It’s not for you, it’s for me. (makes a note)
Ophaniel enters.
Chair is for me, thanks Ophy.
Friday, November 21, 2008
The Candy Store
The street was slick. Harold Bogart’s umbrella could not keep him even remotely dry. From across the street eccentric Mrs. Reynolds was watering her plants for the third time that time; she feeds them three times a day; she doesn’t think plants are so far apart from humans that they don’t deserve the same comfortable, controlled redundancies. She said, “look at Mr. Bogie over there, Julia, his gray uniform looks almost translucent in this cat and dog rain.” The orchid did not reply.
A few block from Mrs. Reynolds was Harold Bogart’s house. He ran up the concrete steps, and clipped his umbrella shut as he went for the door. Honey, I’m home! He used to say, once upon a time. Now he just murmurs to himself, and to the grim brownstone possibly, “the end.”
Elma was in the kitchen, banging things on surfaces or banging cabinet doors and drawers shut. She moved like a hippo in a Chinese kitchen. She looked like a hippo, too.
Hi Hon’, he managed to say—he’s had enough practice to say it in a cheerful manner. What’s for dinner?
Grub. She said. And continued on banging; a pan was getting a beating from a spatula. He leaned and peeped at the stuff that was between the quarreling utensils; it sure looked like grub.
I’ll be upstairs, changing, he told her. He went upstairs, gray walls reminded him of the swelling rain outside.
“Hey, Joe” he said, looking into the boy’s room.
No reply. Joe was playing with some Transformers; expensive toys; he had just had his birthday. Hey, Joe, his called once again. The Autobots were in a crucial battle with the evil leader Megatron; Optimus Prime’s head was inches away from one of Joe’s feet; the autobots needed to win!
Alright, Joe, see you later…son. He closed the door. Went to this room. Entered his room. Closed the door, silently; though it creaked. He wanted to bang it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.
II
Harold Bogart's section of the company made old-fashioned typewriters. They made them, they fixed them. Mr. Bogart was in charge of the Fix It department. All day long he dealt with paperwork, boss memos, employee complaints. It was a very exciting job.
III
Harold Bogart decides to leave work early.
A few block from Mrs. Reynolds was Harold Bogart’s house. He ran up the concrete steps, and clipped his umbrella shut as he went for the door. Honey, I’m home! He used to say, once upon a time. Now he just murmurs to himself, and to the grim brownstone possibly, “the end.”
Elma was in the kitchen, banging things on surfaces or banging cabinet doors and drawers shut. She moved like a hippo in a Chinese kitchen. She looked like a hippo, too.
Hi Hon’, he managed to say—he’s had enough practice to say it in a cheerful manner. What’s for dinner?
Grub. She said. And continued on banging; a pan was getting a beating from a spatula. He leaned and peeped at the stuff that was between the quarreling utensils; it sure looked like grub.
I’ll be upstairs, changing, he told her. He went upstairs, gray walls reminded him of the swelling rain outside.
“Hey, Joe” he said, looking into the boy’s room.
No reply. Joe was playing with some Transformers; expensive toys; he had just had his birthday. Hey, Joe, his called once again. The Autobots were in a crucial battle with the evil leader Megatron; Optimus Prime’s head was inches away from one of Joe’s feet; the autobots needed to win!
Alright, Joe, see you later…son. He closed the door. Went to this room. Entered his room. Closed the door, silently; though it creaked. He wanted to bang it, but he didn’t. He didn’t want to disturb the peace.
II
Harold Bogart's section of the company made old-fashioned typewriters. They made them, they fixed them. Mr. Bogart was in charge of the Fix It department. All day long he dealt with paperwork, boss memos, employee complaints. It was a very exciting job.
III
Harold Bogart decides to leave work early.
p2
The cat in a bag wriggled. Its legs were all tied, forming a triangle with a sausage body—that convulsed in alarm intermittently. The little boy with red freckles knocked timidly on the door of the Haunted Hotel.
On the third timid rap the door opened abruptly, revealing a smile on a face, its eyes welcoming, beckoning. Hello, it said; its body presenting itself after the congenial greeting.
The head connected to the neck. What can I do for you? The happy head queried.
Mr Shingle asked for this, and the boy held up the velvet bag as he told the head this.
“Ah! Yes,
On the third timid rap the door opened abruptly, revealing a smile on a face, its eyes welcoming, beckoning. Hello, it said; its body presenting itself after the congenial greeting.
The head connected to the neck. What can I do for you? The happy head queried.
Mr Shingle asked for this, and the boy held up the velvet bag as he told the head this.
“Ah! Yes,
part one;
The wind was sparse, smelled of burnt iron shavings, metallic and crisp. The craft bobbed on a black ocean filled with blue eyes, glinting, unblinking. We were many; the departed. Our captain and oarsman stood at the bow, his shaft going in and out of the black ocean, his head never stirring, focused on an unseen destination. We all knew where we were going; the land of the dead.
Just as legend would have it, we awoke on a beach, its sand gray and fine. We had just died; some naturally, some intentionally, some accidentally. We spoke, all questions, all confused. He organized us, like a sheperd. Told us to form a line, and walk solemnly up to his vessel, a boat of dark, menacing, ancient wood. We did as we were told.
He seemed on edge, I don't know, that's just how I took, I am very sensitive. When I passed him on my way up his craft--he twitched, like, I were some atrocity. I was a very nice man; everyone liked me. Or maybe, he twitched because of my wife, who was behind me; she'd make any demon twitch, she herself being a demon of nagging and finickiness. My son followed her; we all died together in the jeepney I was driving. Accidental.
We all sat, then he came aboard. He paused for a moment infront my party of three; it was almost imperceptible, but he did pause. It felt like we were in the middle of our voyage when he disrobed, exposing an awesomely white skin, thin yet tough, fragile yet impenetrable. He faced his cargo.
"I have decided to quit. I've done this a long time. I am tired; and frankly bored. To get to the other side one of you must take up my robe and my oar; if you don't you won't get to the other side, where relatives and friends await; and in the world where you came from--no one will die."
We were all awestruck. He turned his back to us, and jumped, into the eyes, into the black liquid eternity.
I was a good driver, when I had lived. Never hit no one. When we died we were hit by a drunk taxi driver, I'm guessing he is here somewhere with his passenger, a young girl, unless of course, they both survived. A pity, I would not have minded if the taxi driver died with us. An eye for an eye; the golden rule.
This is an opportunity. If I don't take this surely my wife will be nagging me until the end of time, that is, if time were to end. This way I can buy my time, be useful; until I'm bored, then I can either go the way of the boatman, or go down the otherside--which I guess, actually, is unlikely; who would want to be me once they are on the other side, assuming I take his position, and power. Power. I never had power.
I stood; a few stood as well. I did not spend more time analyzing--I ran for the robe. And took it; the other two hopefuls, stumbling into each other and crashing on the floor of the craft; my craft now. My craft.
I turned my back on them. Whatever magic which unables us to speak is glorious; my wife's scowl nearly stabbed me to death.
Just as legend would have it, we awoke on a beach, its sand gray and fine. We had just died; some naturally, some intentionally, some accidentally. We spoke, all questions, all confused. He organized us, like a sheperd. Told us to form a line, and walk solemnly up to his vessel, a boat of dark, menacing, ancient wood. We did as we were told.
He seemed on edge, I don't know, that's just how I took, I am very sensitive. When I passed him on my way up his craft--he twitched, like, I were some atrocity. I was a very nice man; everyone liked me. Or maybe, he twitched because of my wife, who was behind me; she'd make any demon twitch, she herself being a demon of nagging and finickiness. My son followed her; we all died together in the jeepney I was driving. Accidental.
We all sat, then he came aboard. He paused for a moment infront my party of three; it was almost imperceptible, but he did pause. It felt like we were in the middle of our voyage when he disrobed, exposing an awesomely white skin, thin yet tough, fragile yet impenetrable. He faced his cargo.
"I have decided to quit. I've done this a long time. I am tired; and frankly bored. To get to the other side one of you must take up my robe and my oar; if you don't you won't get to the other side, where relatives and friends await; and in the world where you came from--no one will die."
We were all awestruck. He turned his back to us, and jumped, into the eyes, into the black liquid eternity.
I was a good driver, when I had lived. Never hit no one. When we died we were hit by a drunk taxi driver, I'm guessing he is here somewhere with his passenger, a young girl, unless of course, they both survived. A pity, I would not have minded if the taxi driver died with us. An eye for an eye; the golden rule.
This is an opportunity. If I don't take this surely my wife will be nagging me until the end of time, that is, if time were to end. This way I can buy my time, be useful; until I'm bored, then I can either go the way of the boatman, or go down the otherside--which I guess, actually, is unlikely; who would want to be me once they are on the other side, assuming I take his position, and power. Power. I never had power.
I stood; a few stood as well. I did not spend more time analyzing--I ran for the robe. And took it; the other two hopefuls, stumbling into each other and crashing on the floor of the craft; my craft now. My craft.
I turned my back on them. Whatever magic which unables us to speak is glorious; my wife's scowl nearly stabbed me to death.
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