So he gets up from his bed hurrying, his orange blanket hugging his torso, sweeping the pile of DVDs carelessly placed on the floor. They spread like cards on the ground when he ran over them, one of them has Mary Elizabeth Winstead, flashing her fierce look on the cover of some flick he spent his dateless nights over, and he had just a little too many of those. The last time he had the glossy thing spinning in the player was last night, or perhaps a few hours ago since he remembers himself hearing an old neighbor’s rooster cock-a-doodle-dooing which signaled him to sleep, and it was in fact the reason he had to scurry over the stalk of DVDs, avoiding Mary Elizabeth Winstead’s face, hurrying to the door from where a series of knocks are coming from, early in the morning. You know when you had to get up from bed from a very short sleep and your mind tells you Jesus had just came back, checking report cards for some entrance exam or something? That’s how his rudely awaken subconscious was acting when he heard the knocks – only that, when he finally finds how to go about unlocking the door, the person who stands in front of him is uglier than a 2000 year old dead man, and he had the smell to match.
Song: There is someone, walking behind you by Beegees. I don’t know about the subtitle though. (Some video I found on You Tube Uploaded by GingerOreo on Sep 18, 2009)
OK. So at one point of his life he had to break a promise. Or maybe two. Or several promises. Or perhaps, some out of this world force had driven him to lie or tell something a little different from the truth. But he had reasons, you see. And good ones too. As you may have learned from a worthless hobo, one with a good reason cannot be called a liar. When his mom asked him when his high school graduation would be, he had to skip dinner abruptly as he had a few more really hard logarithm assignments to pass first thing in the morning. After a week, when his mom, now with the dad, and his able 2-inch cop’s belt, came to him and asked when the graduation really was, he just had to cry, breakdown, hug his parents with his trembling arms to basically tell them that he did not find his name on the graduation list and it might have been because Mrs. Candelaria was a forgetful bitch and that he might have lost the tuition money over a bet on Pacquiao vs. Marquez (back then, the Pacman was such a dud from losing to some Guido). But none bought it, not especially his father who, with the help of his mother, decided to send him to his auntie in San Miguel, where he had to help making pandesal for cash every single, hopeless morning. And he did not find bags of flour fun to drag towards terminals to get a decent tricycle ride, neither did he find that preteen attractive, the one who was selling aged coconuts and the same frog-eyed whore who would lower down her neckline every time he had to drop by and buy something. Please, I might just be interested to check you out if you had some real boobs or if someone bribed and/or threatened me, he thought. And after an unsatisfactorily saturating meal of green papayas stewed in coconut milk, he went down to the silong to grab his pre-packed bag with his belongings, haled a tricycle without any intention to pay the driver. How he’d gone off from the tired and furious driver, no one really knew.
The résumé had to be a joke. The writing was totally unreadable. It’s printed in what seemed to have been remains of what used to be a manila envelope, and the questionable white smudge on its lower right hand side could not be hygienic. As the fat guy, who had to read through the résumé, quickly decided to throw it away, he sat carefully on the wooded chair, and internally pep-talked himself to be calm and collected, just the way he remembered one speaker advised in one career seminar he joined for free meal. Thinking about it, he should not have taken the free meal as the knowledge he gained from the seminar was reward enough for bruising his butt down for three hours, listening to some sort of used car salesman talking to a group of teenage hooligans about getting a job after graduation. That level of sophisticated thinking was so not him. “This package has something not even worth your life. If you lost it, used it, ate it, especially, sold it to somebody else other than the person who lives on the address written on the package, I would not need to apologize if I heaved your guts out from your anus, you understand me?” the fat guy said after struggling to get out of his arm-chair. “Yes, yes, I’ll regard it as my penis.” he said, with a used car salesman-esque swagger (again, credits to the seminar). While walking towards the bus stop, he could not stop thinking why the fat guy hired him, let alone entrusted him of something that could only be as important as Kryptonite. But what the heck, I’ll deliver this to the person who lives on the address written on the package, get the job done and excellently, make his fat boss a cup of coffee or two, be his willing BDSM slave (or master) on weekends if the situation asked for it or if he didn’t have enough to watch movies, and perhaps be qualified for a promotion. Now that he’s got himself a job, he could only think of “how do I see myself in five years?” (Yeah, the seminar, I know.) When he got on the bus, he made sure the old woman tripped so that she fell on some guy’s lap, so that he got to sit at the back, where bus conductors rarely goes to inspect tickets. But the sophisticated part of him conquered. The light magically shone on him as he gets his wallet from his butt pocket, get’s twelve pesos and hands it over to the bus conductor. He was so proud of himself. The first step to achieving success in the networking business is honesty (and we’re all like, stop fucking about the seminar already).
He walked towards the door and knocked lightly. Somebody opened up and a hand extended towards him. He was quick enough to hand over the package, and the inexplicable hand slid back towards the inside. When it got back, the hand extended a brown envelope, mysteriously duck taped at the opening. “Have a good day, sir! I protected it all my life…just so you know or you might want to tell my boss about how I delivered that excellently…OK, bye.” he said before walking away and to another bus stop.
The money was one thousand three hundred pesos. The envelope that contained the bills had the scent of newly found freedom and shopping cash. He knew what to buy: an MP3 player. Or perhaps an MP4 player, one of those that can play videos. He’s always been a lover of art and his favorite artist was Maria Osawa. When he got to CD-R King, an MP4 was a bit ambitious for the money he had, so he settled for a yellow MP3. He hated the color, but the sales woman was either untrained or incompetent enough to not be able to look for something that was of guys’ color. But he did not care. A simple music player’s all he wanted and he got it – his first ever investment and he just got to celebrate the accomplishment; he went inside an establishment full of drunk spinsters to get a bottle of beer.
Not having to look closely, you can really see thin clouds of smoke go out of the fat guy’s nose, and the guy quit smoking since he joined this online movement on overcoming global warming. He’s furious alright. The force which has had him land on a counter or something is an undeniable proof of anger. “I’ll pay you back, I promise! Please don’t kill me.” The guy said something that has to be loud, but in his mind he was like, yes I was a dick for taking your money blah blah, mom said that already. He is certainly not somebody who regrets what he does or deprives himself with simple pleasures, but at that point, he said to himself, almost loudly, I should have not stayed all night watching DVDs, I’d otherwise have the muscle strength to knock this fat guys down (he’s naturally weak during mornings, most people are) or I should just promise I’ll pay and beg all the gods to make the fat guy believe me (when the truth really was that he did not think a 40 year old comic writer would have not imagined any of those to have worked against the fat guy’s rage.)
He has this belief that if you’re lucky enough to escape death, then it skips the ‘death cycle’, therefore death escapes you and, you’re basically not dead. Or something to that effect. He recalls that scene where Mary Elizabeth Winstead looks at the pictures and figures it all out – they had to do something to prevent death from happening and people will stop dying. It was so clever he was teary-eyed. So he smiles nodding his head to the beat of Situations thinking how on earth he managed to escape the fat guy’s rage that nearly took his life. Well, the lesson was, if you had a gun, buy something to put inside it, say bullets, and it might jus serve its purpose, otherwise you’ll walk out pissed off having to say “I’ll get back to you, we’re not done yet.” Ha. It was all meant to be, he was meant to live at least long enough to enjoy his new and shiny, ochre MP3 player. Ha. I escaped death, therefore I don’t die. With earplugs on, he walked across the road, nodding his head to the loud scream.
When Nida thinks that tonight was just another night before supper, and without their pesky son, who they kind of miss and think about every day, she receives a call from a San Miguel police officer asking if they knew a boy, relatively skinny, with a birth mark on the face, and earplugs on, and that he had been crushed dead by a 12-wheeler truck while crossing the road. Upon hearing what happened, she had to hung up because Mara-Clara is on and Gary just slapped Susan and Nida was like, “fuck you, asshole. The least you can do is to not hurt your hardworking wife.”
Situations – Escape the Fate (You Tube video uploaded by traulet on Oct 2, 2007)