Slip of the Pen

[First fiction piece I wrote on the moleskine. A few lines in, it turned out to be far from serious. Pseudo-sarcastic?]

Nothing was working. He had tried having sex before writing. He had tried eating chocolates to put him in the mood. He had tried watching soap operas to put him in the mood. Neither sweets nor salty tears worked. He had tried sharpening pencils, as Hemingway was supposedly wont to do, even though he did his writing with a laptop computer.

Still, the words didn’t come…but the ideas did. Hell, he had a ton of ideas dumped upon him every hour by his muse perched on the ceiling of his room. He had ideas for poetry, plays, fantasy, mystery, horror, sagas, novelettes, flash fiction. He was absolutely sure that his ideas were inimitable, that they were guaranteed bestsellers and prizewinners — once they were actually put into words, stanzas, chapters. The problem was his muse didn’t want to be bothered with a menial task such as “word-mongering”, as she had put it in her harsh whispers to him. He had to do it on his own.

Then his muse, exasperated by the impotency of her master, hinted to him in a fit of anger, “You’re not a writer, you’re a typer!” With this, he shunned the keyboard for true pen and paper. He managed to satisfy his muse with a few works, but he soon proved inconsistent. The ink from his pen would come in sputters rather than in flows, and his stamina would falter after a few minutes of writing. His muse began to complain again, causing him to scramble for a solution — this and that combination of ballpoint pen, ruled paper, pencil, Post-it note, fountain pen, tissue paper — all to no avail.

The muse reached her breaking point. “What, are you only good for quickies?” Then came the ultimatum. “If you can’t give me the satisfaction I need, I’ll find someone else who will. Even if it’s a girl.”

(more…)

[Note: This is for my CW 198 online writing exercise (a single event told through different POVs). Classmates, welcome to my blog. Blog friends, enjoy if you do read these fictional accounts. Some lines here are in my native language, Tagalog. Warning: Explicit language! Explicit-ness slightly toned down by explicit asterisks.]


When Jupiter Falls Four Times


I. The 130-Pound Runt

(Read this part first: the original Jupiter Falls.)


II. The FX Driver

This is not my lucky day.

Passengers are nowhere to be found. I get two, and one of them is a Sumo wrestler! Sheer misery. I think I’m going to mourn for a car tire later. Malulugi pa ata ako nito e!

Everything about this day is bad. From the MMDA buwayas to that disrespectful street vendor, everything! And see — look at the thunder and lightning. A storm’s coming. Have storm, have classes suspended. Have work suspended, too. Have earnings, not!

We pass by Sto. Domingo Church. My right hand leaves the steering wheel to touch my old crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. Lord, help me. I just want to have this day crossed off the calendar.

“Para!”

Ayos! My prayers have been answered. I slowly step on the brakes, and ease the FX onto the sidewalk. I eagerly whirl around to see the Sumo wrester finally get off!

But horror of horrors — it’s just the other passenger, the thin one who has been sitted beside Sumo all trip long. A disgusted look creases his face as he gets out of the taxi. I want to offer him my sympathies, but he slams the door before I’m able to. No worries, I’m not angry at the kid. But for Mr. Sumo here…

I fix an angry stare at him.

“Punyeta. Baket di na lang ikaw ang bumaba? Bakeeet?!”

Sumo snores.


III. The Fat Guy

Zzz.


IV. The Street Vendor

F*ck this world. If robbery wasn’t a crime, I’d have done it. If suicide wasn’t a sin, I’d have recommended it to Ipe and Johnno. (Useless tambays. At least I’m out here on the road from dusk ’til dawn.) Hell, you think I’d commit suicide? I won’t trade getting laid with the sampaguita girl for hell. Hell no! Heben na nga, magiging impyerno pa.

Speaking of the girl, here’s Inyang. “Hoy, ‘lika nga dito! Malapit nang mag stop light. Baka di ka makabenta nyan — kelangan ko pang bumili ng supot!” Why, you thought jologs didn’t use condoms? Sosi ata ‘to.

Awright, red light. The cars begin to pile up, heh, line up, I mean. Dammit, I love Quezon Av when it’s not movin’. Every single driver needs five of my precious rags. Keeps their cars sparklin’, keeps their manubelas steerin’, keeps their kambyos shiftin’. Now, if only they knew that. Discounted na nga e!

Inyang slithers to a Ford Expedition. As for me, this FX taxi looks good. F*ck, the driver’s even pulling out his cash. Jackpot!

I stick my handsome face on the window, and peer inside. Holi syet. That’s a thick wad he’s holding. All red paper bills! (Ipe told me it’s not red, but pink. To hell with him. Si Osmeña, pink? Ano sya, bading?)

I tap on the window. “Bosing, basahan! Piso tatlo,” I shout, heh, say. My eyes zip around the FX. Malay mo, may tsiks. But there’s none. The only sight worth noting is a baboy, heh, fat guy squashing a scrawny dude against the car door. But even then, it’s a ridiculous sight, not the sexy sight I was hoping to see.

Uh-huh. The driver’s still not paying attention to me. I give the window a sharp, heh, soft rap. “Bos, basahan! Murang mura lang!”

Aba aba aba, dedma pa rin ang loko. I give his window a furious rappity-rappity-tap-tap-tap. “Bos, basahan! Pampunas ng mukha mo!”

The driver suddenly jerks to action. I step back as he opens the window and shouts something to my face. Thunder masks his words, so I don’t hear him. But his angry face seems to be expecting something. I go, “Eh…”, accompanied with my charismatic smile.

And he goes KABOOM! He curses my mother (no harm there, I know she’s a b*tch), curses me, curses our whole lot of squatters, everyone! It’s actually funny, but I do skitter away when he begins to open the car door.

Just before the light turns green, I hear him shout, “Gago ka!” Then in a flash the cars are gone. “Gago ka din!” I shout after the dust and smoke.

F*ck. I hate it when Quezon Av gets movin’. No chance for money now.

I stare at the vacant road, interrupted when a lightning bolt streaks down from the skies. Weird color — gold? Gold lightning. Whoa.

I give the skies the dirty finger.

Gago! Magkakaron din ako nyan!

“Oi una na ‘ko, may klase pa ako sa Eng’g,” you tell your friends. The group’s conversation breaks up as you start to descend the AS steps.

“Hey, wait lang! You naman o, basta na lang aalis,” Ciara says in between puffs of her cigarette.

“Late na ako e,” you say, scratching your head.

“Why, what’s that ba, majors?” she asks. You nod in response.

“My gosh, i-cut mo na ‘yan! It’s more fun here than in Eng’g, no! Bulok dun, and you don’t get to see girls like me there, di ba?” Ciara giggles, and your other high school buddies follow suit in enticing you to stay. You think it over for a while, but in the end you reach a decision.

“Sorry talaga…di ko ‘to pwedeng i-cut. Alam niyo namang second take ko na, at ayokong ma-dehado ulit. Bawi na lang ako sa inyo sa susunod,” you tell them with a sheepish grin on the face. Without waiting for their consent, you sprint down the stairs and bolt for the Beta Way.

Walking briskly towards Eng’g, your mind can’t stop chewing over Ciara’s words. She and the others have always had a biased view towards your college. How could they judge Eng’g without having experienced Eng’g life? You can’t understand their love for the crowded corridors of Palma Hall, where unknown, hostile faces blend into a single nebulous mass. The building they fondly call ‘A-S’ isn’t your home; there you’re a mere a tourist in a distant land, out to make new acquaintances, out to plumb the mysteries of philosophy, history, geography, name it -– subjects which are mere child’s play compared to what you’re wrestling with everyday in Eng’g.

But now, walking across the Academic Oval, far removed from Palma Hall, you can make out the imposing figure of the home of UP’s best minds -– your home. In paper it’s called Melchor Hall, but to you and many others it is simply…Eng’g.

12:24 PM

You storm out of the classroom, spewing out curse after curse. “Punyeta namang test ‘yan o,” you hiss.

A girl at your side sniggers. “Magmumura-mura ka ngayon, e sino bang may kasalanan kung bakit ka bumagsak?” She frees a piece of crumpled paper from your clenched hand and un-crumples it. A 27% encircled in bright, red ink stares out at you.

“Ayan, Eng’g Cup pa kasi inuuna,” she softly says. “Aral muna sa susunod, ha? Saka na yang basketball.”

You sigh as she hands back your creased test paper. “Opo, sige na po. Kung di lang kita bespren…”

“‘Yan naman gusto ko sa ‘yo eh…madali turuan. Uy, di pala kita masasamahang kumain ngayon. Pupunta pa ako ng tambayan. May ExteCom meeting e.” She presses your hand and flashes a smile. “Sorry…”

“Okay lang no,” you assure her. “Sige, kita na lang mamaya.”

With that your bestfriend leaves and disappears amongst the throng of people flocking towards the stairs. Hunger threatening to make you keel over and die, you hunt the hallways for a monay vendor. You find one, and for ten pesos your mutinous tummy is calmed down. You can imagine Ciara telling you, ‘Monay?! How cheap! Don’t dare go out with me again!’, but your wallet is a lean, worn-out thing and the sizzling tenderloin at the Eng’g Caf is something which you reserve for merry occasions, such as a 3.0 classcard in any ES subject. Besides, monay tastes fine. You don’t need beluga caviar to make your day.

It is in this time of munching your ‘cheap’ meal that you walk around Eng’g. Unlike in Palma Hall, the corridors here are decked with familiar faces, smiling, winking, and sticking out their tongues at you. Friends, coursemates, even people whom you’ve just been classmates with for one semester –- all of them, you consider to be family. They’re all around you, and their mere presence eases the pain of a flunked exam.

01:53 PM

You can see your classmate Marvin rushing towards you. He’s shouting: “Yahoo! Tara na tsong, basketball tayo!”

“Ano? Basketball?”

Marvin nods giddily while befuddlement sweeps over you. “Ha? May class pa tayo. Wag mong sabihing mag-ka-cut ka?” you say in a reproving voice.

“Timang ka talaga. Wala si Sir ngayon, naka-post sa dep’t na may sakit siya. O ano, sama ka na! Pang-practice na rin ‘to sa Eng’g Cup. Andun na sina DJ sa Molave.”

You shake your head and wonder why no week passes in Eng’g without any of your professors missing their classes. You’re about to take Marvin’s offer, seeing basketball as an ephemeral escape from acads, but suddenly the memory of your bestfriend’s gentle scolding jolts you back to reality.

“Naku tol, pasensya na. Punta akong library sa baba, medyo kailangang kong mag-aral…pramis ko kay Bea ‘yon e,” you grudgingly admit.

“Bea? Ikaw ha, di pa nga ‘kayo’, e ander de saya ka na,” Marvin jeers.

“Sira!” You punch him on the arm.

03:24 PM

Somehow you feel good that, for the first time this semester, you’ve managed to study in the Eng’g Lib for at least an hour. You proudly walk up the stairs and pass by your bestfriend’s tambayan, merely wanting to boast that you had kept your promise. But Bea has other things in mind, and she drags you into a three-hour ride with her org. At first you have misgivings, but trepidation soon gives way to delight as you find out how fun it is to be in an org. Laughter, jammings, gossips and new persons to include in your Eng’g ‘family’ –- you’re surprised at what you’ve been missing. You’re already in third year and have steered clear of organizations, all because you’re too lazy to undergo those hellish application processes. But now it seems your outlook is changing.

During a short lull in the tambayan, you whisper to Bea, “Huy, pwede pa bang mag-apply?” to which she gives you a quizzical look.

“Malamang oo! Teka, ano bang nakain mo’t gusto mo na ngayong magka-org?” she asks.

“Wala. Monay lang naman.”

06:30 PM

You stand beneath the waiting shed near Eng’g. Every UP-Philcoa jeepney you flag down is brimming with passengers. Bea and her orgmates are still in the tambayan; her dad’s going to pick her up late. Ciara of your HS-buddies had texted you a message: “dearie, go hir nman s haws ko, d2 n lhat ng guys…club-hoppng l8r”, and so you forced yourself to leave Melchor Hall.

But now, your eyes can’t stop darting from Eng’g to the approaching jeepneys. Something just doesn’t feel right.

Your thumb hovers over your cellphone’s keypad. “Erase message?” the display asks. You press “OK”. Ciara and her club-hopping escapade vanish into electronic nihility.

You walk back towards Eng’g. You walk back towards home.