“We can’t make babies yet, for chrissake,” I said with my forehead leaning on the door frame that half of my face was listening and the other half smoking. From Johnny’s stories I could tell there isn’t any pleasure in raising a baby when you barely have any money for milk. “It’s the perfect silencer for babies.”
It was eight in the morning and all I heard from her was how easy it was to find a job at the pier nearby, or in food stalls like Burger Machine or something. “Or why not try to work on the factory with my uncle?” Her uncle works in a bagoong factory, for chrissake. Then, “Paco, we need this.” We need what? Babies?! Standing up from her cup of coffee she gave me today’s papers.
In between those classified ads I told myself she should work too–after all, she calls it a day after losing a hundred pesos from tong-its with the entire neighborhood. I tried to reprimand her once, tried to get her out of the gambling, but she would say it’s nice once in a while to have houses even if just in tong-its! We live in contractual jobs; hers had expired two months ago, mine expired today. A while ago someone buying luggage for her trip to Japan told me so far I am the most accommodating salesman she has ever met. “Too late, madam,” I told her, though when she got nosy I disclosed my disgust for the company.
–
For the following days I couldn’t sleep, and I still have the habit of setting my alarm clock at eight AM and even if I didn’t my body wakes me up. The working body in me couldn’t believe my six-month contract was over. Where were those smells of leather and aircon, those looks from customers who look at us from vests to shoes?
This entry was written by , posted on April 13, 2010 at 8:26 pm, filed under Fiction. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
I killed her after we had our fix of weed for seven straight nights. What I did, I strangled her after her third stick of weed. Well, yeah, I strangled her after kissing her like we usually do during those nights. It’s just to compensate for carnal hunger; we don’t do sex–which is bullshit because she has a slouch of a boyfriend who basically goes around her everyday like a fucking escort boy, bringing her shoulder bag and knowing her schedule and shit. Some fucking Chemistry major.
It’s just the two of us in the flat that Sunday night and I was petting her. It’s fucking corny, my friends might say, but I wouldn’t like to have sex with a girl who would laugh at her orgasm or something. Everything wouldn’t feel right. I wouldn’t like to laugh and do it at the same time. So we didn’t do it.
We’re friends, alright. We met some time ago–like two years ago; we’re classmates in Spanish. We’re seatmates and one time while smoking outside the class both of us just stared at each other and felt we’re on the same pitfalls of life. “The way you hold your stick it tells me you do weed,” she said, and I kind of laughed about it because I don’t think there’s any goddamn difference between my holding cigarettes with weed.
I parked my car and spit on the gravel. It’s 3PM hot and that was our first time to smoke together. We finished a stalk and we laughed and ate and flew away from the bitch that was school. Then we were knocked down. Typical dope story.
On the second night she told me she like me a lot but it’s probably the weed talking.
On the sixth day she didn’t get high from five sticks so she wanted a sixth. I told her no. She didn’t really insist but she did rant about it for the next twenty minutes, in between laughs. I told her no. The next night I punched her face because my supply ran out and she couldn’t goddamn find a new one; heck I was giving it away gratis and I was expecting she would be paying it back. I think I punched her after I strangled her. She was being greedy and she insists on having two more sticks to get high and I don’t see the sense of fattening useless calves or something so I did what I did.
Yesterday I was laughing at her burial. It was kind of lonely to see her–but I was high on weed so I was just giggling and her father approached me and said can’t I keep my mouth shut, but I couldn’t so I drove my car away. I couldn’t drive my car away, though, because in the first place I left it in the garage.
This entry was written by , posted on March 22, 2010 at 9:49 pm, filed under Fiction. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.
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.
This entry was written by , posted on March 8, 2010 at 10:39 am, filed under Fiction, Slang and random, Vignettes. Leave a comment or view the discussion at the permalink.