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.

It’s kind of cute when you hold a mug not in its handle. (One of the things I like about you, actually.) It looks perfectly fine when you do that thing. It says something about you. The way you handle things.

We went back to the flat and there came two men in suits rushing to get out of the door. They were wearing ties, I dunno, like it’s made from silk and it has these phony patterns of diagonal lines in gold or something as if to say it is of a certain quality. Like they’re businessmen of some sort. It was dark so I didn’t see their face when they were about to go out.

We should go back this Saturday. (What a party pooper.) Imagine an entire town gets drunk–like yesterday. There are puddles of vomit, puke on the grass and the roads and people screaming for goddamn water, some running naked because they don’t give a fuck, others having sex because they give a fuck. (Just like yesterday.) All clothes are soiled and soaked in sweat and vomit of different smells of liquor and beer, people sleeping in bathrooms, or lawns with their heads against fences, or at the entrance of a convenience store, or anywhere they wanted to sleep because they’re drunk as hell they couldn’t even force their eyes open; they’re drunk, even the security guard’s drunk. In that drunk town everyone’s everyone: no one would care on how much you make in a day, or how you dress (because of obvious reasons, goddamnit), or who you are.

Bacon, waffles, poached eggs. For the first time, his wife didn’t put maple syrup on her waffles. She just topped it with strawberry slices and butter, and munched it like it was the most natural thing to do.

Was it that significant? Was it supposed to be that abrupt that one morning, your wife went against her habit of putting maple syrup on her waffles? It’s the same brand–Log Cabin–which was present in their breakfast, standing untouched, side by side with that upside-down Heinz stored in squeezable plastic.

He was wondering, can you even forget habits so sudden it was as if it never existed?

I don’t know, but maybe his wife had read something about the threats of maple syrup. Maybe she becomes aware of the downsides (calories, perhaps?) of maple syrup–but the thought seems funny for her wife isn’t the kind of–

–

I have no idea what to write. All I know is that I’ve been acting quite strange lately. Aside from I’ve been cleaning the apartment every morning. Hair strands everywhere–from pubic hair to long, feminine hair. Also, I lost my umbrella, a bunch of papers (including a Hemingway short story entitled Hills Like Elephants!) and a slipper. It was crazy to even think of it. Where have they gone? Fuck.

Then yesterday I woke up around eleven and missed my 10AM class, which was pretty stupid, if I let myself weigh my reasons. I don’t use alarm clocks or anything out of confidence with my body clock’s modest honesty to wake me up before nine. But it’s okay.

Most of the time you can’t really find that something you’re looking for; it’s funny, though, that whenever you’re not asking for it, it’s always just around the corner.

A friend told me to pray to St. Anthony.

Fuck, I can’t even remember that remembrance charm the Buddhists do.

The cigarette stick I had thrown before I got myself filling out an order form for a new charger–well, it has imbibed water now. The cigarette skin had already gone transparent and a while ago I stared at it for minutes–the puddle of mirror-clear water drowning the half-finished stick–staring at its otherwise tobacco skeleton like dry shavings of moist wood, the marrow evident, yes, that very marrow I suck out of its limp shell to make me feel calm in a Tuesday morning filled with gloom and an empty pocket, for the charger costs Php2100.