Menthol-Guy

He was brushing his teeth when his girlfriend was calling her. She has been calling for four times already–an alarming number for a call at seven in the morning.

“Girlfriend calling.” I was leaning against the door frame, my hand holding the vibrating cellphone (and its loud Daft Punk-ish ringtone) like a bone for a dog.

“Mmm?” The foam sticks out of his mouth you could barely understand him.

All I could hear is his techno stuff playing in his room–he’s a good DJ; he’s been earning loads from it. “Hahy? Hooo. Way.” He could hardly speak with the foam in his mouth. I was trying to continue a sketch for a T-shirt design contest; it’s for a local skateboarding company of some sort.

“Baby? What’s happening?” Saturday: I have to return the DVD rentals and pay for the Internet bill. Also, laundry. Cook something for lunch–the perks of being single. A recent robbery next door should serve as a warning for my laptop. Should back-up data for–”Hello?”–safety. I’ve been getting my inspiration from a skateboarding–”C’mon, say something!”–magazine and–”Baby, where the hell are you!?”

My roommate rushed to his bed and tugged his pants beneath the sheets and wore it with his only pair of slippers instead of his shoes and he banged himself accidentally against the door and fell and yelped in pain and I stood up to see what happened and his forehead was bleeding, though I couldn’t see any clear cut of some sort.

“What happened? Biff?” His face was becoming pale and I don’t know what to do–why didn’t I take some First Aid lessons? why don’t we have an emergency kit or something? where could I get some–and then I took off my white shirt (it has paint on it; I used to do some–) and oh fuck, the blood was erupting from his forehead so I wrapped it around his head mean and hard and “Say something! Fuck!” it was quite hopeless so I got his cellphone and was going to call the police and all when from the phone I heard a moan–or is it a cry? or is the cry from Biff?–from the silence.

We’re on a red convertible. Just like in the movies. Waving your hands skyward. Moving with the bumps of the hills, the contours of the landscapes. Everything was fine, fine, fine. We eat the rice cakes you cooked, fresh from the picnic basket. The shrubberies. The weather was sunny and perfectly fine. The watch I gave you, you’re wearing it with pride. The conversations–the sanguine feel of it and the clouds at the background. I think it hurts. Peeling off the skin of my lips, I mean. I think of the past, the watch I gave you, the time must have been four in the afternoon, the winds just playing with the shrubberies. The grasses. Everything’s on display for us. The rice cakes tasted good, the roasted coffee fresh. Nipa huts at the distance. It hurts, peeling this. I wish I could have waved my hands too, but I was driving. At the field we’re looking at the kite and it suddenly crashed. We heard a gunshot. In war movies we’re forced to watch the birds fly with fear.

Everyone’s firing everywhere. All the sounds a gun can make. Like drums slammed so hard it exploded. I wish the strong winds could stop the bullets. It was harsh–the blood on my lips, the broken mirror of this bathroom, bodies everywhere. All the letters forgotten on the bunk beds, still and crying, the blots scattering through the whiteness of the paper until it reaches the border, and it drops. The tears are gray with all the letters and the sentences and the paragraphs of dreams, of longing, of retreat, and it drops on the pillow with the dried tears of malaria and battle fatigue. It was scary. I don’t think it’s best to reply anymore. Any sober man couldn’t, in this situation. We think of tactics and we send the memories off some distant plane in our mind. We’re good with it. We’re trained to do it. Pictures are plastered the other way around so your face kisses the wall. Everything should be drab. Everything is steel and wood and camouflage and dull. Don’t let emotions consume you, they say, before we enter the battlefield. It’s true, though I think it’s more sober to do the opposite. Lick the blood on my lips. Pull the trigger. Think of the blue skies and the reprimands of my mother. The bluest days. The drafts I’ve been keeping on my bunk bed. Why couldn’t your key fit in the doorknob? you asked.

We’re still on the red convertible and you said your umbrella looks dainty because it was laced and that it was yellow. You look good eating watermelons, the juice of it leaving your lips wet and plump. It’s hard to eat watermelons, you say, ‘coz it always drips. Now I’m crying. Here in the barracks crying is a taboo for the generals, but we privates always cry in the bathroom. It’s against the code, Benitez would say. He’s a stone-cold general, his eyes stiff from all the blood he had seen. My tears sometimes wet my lips and I couldn’t peel it off because it becomes moist. I couldn’t fit in the key because of the wave that’s closing in, marching a mile a day. I suddenly knew the answers. I wish the strong winds could calm the birds. I fear for them. Have you passed through this night where you wake up and wash your face in the bathroom, and after all the water dripped from your face you’d be wondering why your cheeks are still wet? Because I’m crying, and it’s a taboo. I wash my face and mask my tears with tap water. Where does this great evil come from? You couldn’t put yourself to cook; you said your rice cakes might taste like vengeance. Blood on my lips again. I couldn’t fit in the key because I think it hurts. They are closing in.

Naghihintay ako palagi. Naghihintay at nagyoyosi; naninigarilyo, hinihintay lumipas ang oras: sa tabi ng kalsada para sa jeep, sa mahahabang pila sa ATM, sa sukli sa isang tinderang kinulang ang barya, sa klaseng nakakaantok, sa mga eksenang dapat isulat, sa mga librong dapat basahin. Kada buga ay ang inaasam-asam na sandaling darating ang hinihintay.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong nakaupo sa gitna ng kalsada kahihintay.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong naninigarilyo habang nakahiga sa kama, ang katawa’y nakaharap sa bandang lamesa, ang mata’y nakatitig sa orasan.

Minsan naman ay sa tabi ng gwardyang inaantok sa labas ng ospital, naninigarilyo. Minsan pa nga’y sa loob mismo ng ospital, ang kamay ay pagod, kinukumutan ang hapung-hapong mukha.

Hinihintay kong dumating ako sa bahay. Hinihintay kong lumambot ang adobo, ang kanin na mainin, ang kanta sa radyo na matapos. Hinihintay kong maubos ang nasa hapag-kainan, ang kinaing tanghalian na bumaba. Marahil ay kawalang-bahala sa buhay ang ibig sabihin kapag hinintay ko pang mapundi ang ilaw, matangay ang yero ng bagyong mabangis.

Nakakapanlumong isipin na minsa’y nakatitig lang ako sa salamin, nakatayo at naninigarilyo.

Hinihintay kong hindi maging akin ang isang buhay na walang pinatutunguhan at walang ninanais kundi ang maghintay at manigarilyo. Taktak dito, taktak doon; ang abong nagkalat, ang usok na pumapanhik sa himpapawid; ang orasang nambibingi, ang isipang nangongonsensya.

Minsan nakita ko ang sarili kong init na init, ang pawis tuluy-tuloy ang pagtagaktak, ang katawa’y binibigay ang kinahahayukan habang naninigarilyo.

Ngunit ni minsa’y hindi ko nakita ang sarili kong naninigarilyo at tangan sa isipan ang masayang takbo ng buhay, ang masarap na pagkakaluto ng hapunan, ang galak sa ritmika ng isang tugtog, ang ngiting bakat sa mga papel na tinadtad na katha ng mga simbuyo ng silakbo ng damdamin at irit ng inspirasyon.

Ngayong ang dibdib naninikip, ang lalamunan gumagaralgal, ang boses tumatahol, ano pa nga bang dapat hintayin?

To wrap things up that night, I dated with outdated magazines for three, four hours. I read about the War in Darfur, and in another magazine the tsunami that killed thousands in Colombo and Banda Aceh. I gulped down tea, read an arresting article, another gulp, then massaged my temples. Another tea, then massage, then the occasional cellphone check. Read again. Go to the comfort room. Check myself in the mirror: do I look good? I should wash my hands. Do I smell good? Relax myself in the couch, then read. My head throbs. I should buy myself a brand new pair of eyeglasses, this time the ones equipped against my computer’s radiation which leaves me teary-eyed for minutes. Then the occasional cellphone check–just the regular errands from Mom. Stare at some couple, smell the coffee brewing at the bar, hear the calming bossa nova songs, see the silenced laughs from outside. Is there a convenient store nearby? Read about the construction of Palm Jumeirah, how ambitious the Arabs are, how vulnerable it is from the Persian Gulf. Read. Now, breathe. I won’t be buying expensive oatmeal cookies. Read about global warming in the Arctic, about saving polar bears, about the deforestation of the Amazon, the extinction of the macaws and the monkeys and the indigenous tribes like the Kamayurás. Cellphone check. Read. How much will a sedan cost me? Refill my teacup with water. Lady barista beams at me. Do I look like I need to be cheered up? Read another article about Beijing’s preparation for the Olympics. Breathe. Cellphone check. Read again, this time about the Tour de France. Just read. I’m reading the same lines. Scan the area and look for familiar faces. No one.