stella and her waiting (2): running

“There was a guy here who was looking for you,” said Joci while I was getting ready for my set. I looked at her through the mirror. She was putting on way too much eyeliner. “The funny thing is he called you by your real name. It took me a while to figure out who he was looking for.”

And it felt like my legs had gone cold all of a sudden. Someone once told me that when you get really nervous, all the blood flows to your legs so you can run. Part of evolution, he said and for a second, it really did feel like I was going to bolt out the door. Could it be that he was just here?

“What was his name?” I asked, my voice uneasy and shaking.

“I’m not sure. Was it Bruce? Or maybe Ryan.” My heart stopped. “Bryan. Yes, that’s the name. Does it ring any bells?”

My memories from our last night together are quickly fading away. There are times when I get confused about the day of the week or the color of the shirt he was wearing. All I remember with perfect clarity is the sullen look on his face. He couldn’t be with me and it was becoming clearer and clearer that what we had was slowly slipping through the cracks.

“This is hard,” he said. “I don’t want to leave you. You know that, right?”

“Then don’t.” I begged. “If we run now, they won’t ever find us. If you…” I couldn’t finish the thought. In my head, I could see her carrying his child, just as confused as we were. I saw her father, or at least a figure I imagined him to be like. In his hands he held a shotgun, a poor reimagining of a daytime soap opera where all the actors perform stiffly between poorly written dialogue.

“And what? Spend the rest of our lives hiding from them? Escaping the responsibility I know I must face?”

“But what about me? What about us? Bryan, I left my life to be with you. I have nowhere else to go. Aren’t you responsible for me too?”

“Gina,” he said, his hands on my face. “I know you. You are strong. One day, we’ll be together. Just wait.”

One day, we'll be together. Just wait. That’s the promise I’ve held on to all these years. I learned to get by, to live my life as though it were a movie and I was just sitting in the audience waiting for the happy ending. My heart hardened into a cocoon. Though men have often tried to pierce it with their promises of stability and a good future, I have always known that my heart can only beat for one man.

“Ready Stella?” asked Bookie, peeking through the small hole we use to scout the men. I dabbed a bit of concealer on the name tattooed on my hip. I tightened my bikini top as I got up, endeavoring to momentarily forget about the man who held my heart prisoner.

“Oh, he asked me to give you this,” Joci said. “He says you’d know what it is.” She handed me a copper cufflink, a cruel reminder of the love I once had and lost to the wind. I took the present from her and pinned it to my garter.

“I can’t let you go.” My tears had become too strong to hold in. “I just can’t. This,” I said, bringing his cupped hands to my heart. “This… this can only beat for you. I thought you understood that.”

“I do. I really do. But I can’t do this. If we leave, if we run from this mess that I made, I’m gonna put you in danger too. And that’s just not fair. You are the courage I need to get through this. I just need a year, two at the most. Then I’ll come back and we can be together.”

“Let’s run away. Please Bryan, let’s run away.” My voice was dry with desperation. The cool June winds shook the trees as we spoke. With all my heart, I wished it could blow us away.

“We can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry.” Six words that broke my heart.

I wonder what men see when I’m dancing. My hips move to the music, my undergarments snap off to the beat. Do they think of me when they come home to their wives, smelling like Red Horse and stale cigarettes? Do I remind them of the life they once had as horny teenagers, fapping to their father’s Playboys? Or do they see me for how I really am – a bit of road kill stuck to the burning asphalt. By day, I am too little, too unimportant for their affection. But at night when they are with me, they whisper empty promises in my ear and push bills down my underwear. At night, I am who they want me to be and who I was or how I got here is just an unfortunate consequence.

“Let’s run. Just for tonight, let’s run away.” I said. I got up from the pavement, tossed my purse into the nearby bushes and started running for my life. I kicked hard on the road and with it, I wished to stomp at all the things that were keeping me from him. As the cold evening air stabbed through my face, I felt I was shedding the weak skin I once held.

Bryan caught up with me and we held hands in the moonlight. We ran because we had to, because we really couldn’t, and because for once, it felt like we were escaping the hand of cards life dealt us. We ran together, ran ‘till the air burned in our lungs and it felt like they would explode. And when they didn’t, we ran a little more.

I collapsed onto a field of grass, the blades wet with dew. Bryan lay beside me and he kissed me lightly on the cheek. He held me as we quietly watched the stars above us. And when we’d caught our breaths and I’d wiped my tears, he stood up and left me in the grass with my broken heart.

I walked to the center of the stage while the lights were dimmed. As the intro to my song played, my right hand absentmindedly fiddled with the cufflink on my thigh. If he was here still, he would see that I’m doing just what he said. I’m waiting. From far away and deep down the quietest corners of my heart, the singer sings the story of my life.

For you I was a flame
Love is a losing game
Five-storey fire as you came
Love is a losing game

One I wish I never played
Oh what a mess we made
And now the final frame
Love is a losing game

And though many memories from that night have slipped away from me, I will never forget the fevered thoughts I held back as we lay quietly in the grass. Maybe if we ran fast enough, we’d outrun every little thing in our way. Maybe if we pushed hard enough, we would look back one day and see that we'd won.

♫: Amy Winehouse | Love is a Losing Game (2006)
Photo: night race

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OOPS. Sorry about that. I know I promised I’d post this a few weeks back but things got kind of crazy at work and between that and having to fly to Davao to see my parents, I lost my train of thought. Aaaanyway, there’s one last part to this series and I hope I can find the time to just sit down and write. Ooh and also, Aris (who I collaborated with here) translated a post from three years ago! Check out his (and by association, my :p) awesomeness here.

guadalupe

This post is based on the ever prolific Aris’ Oh Boy! originally published in 2009 here. To see his reworking of disconnect, click here.


They say the night is for the lovers and I guess, some part of me recognized that. The bar was packed from wall to wall with people dancing, enticing, trying to make sense of the world outside the corners of that room. And while I myself had a different purpose for coming here, we all moved to the same rhythm, to the same beat of a heart seeking another.

I guess you could say at the end of everything that I got everything I deserved. I knew he was dangerous. I knew what power he had over me and yet there I was, at the time and place we agreed to meet, heart firmly up my sleeve. From the thinning crowd, he walked towards me and kissed me lightly on the cheek.

“Miss me?” he asked, sly and inviting.

“Of course,” I replied. His was a power I knew long ago not to question. He took my hand and led me to his car.

That night, marinating in sweat and sex, I told him I was in love with him. I looked to him with questioning eyes, waiting for a response.

“I’d love you, I mean really love you but…” he paused, the ellipsis thick and imposing in the air. “But I can’t. I’d tell you it’s because I’m dying but then baby, aren’t we all?”

I felt at one with the rhythm. The bar smelled like trapped smoke, sweat, and desire. A man brushes up from behind me. I turn around and he smiles. A Top 40 song starts to play. The whole bar was hooting in unison as I got lost in the eyes of my beautiful stranger.

“Aris,” he says.

“Leo.”

“You come here often?”

“Not really. I’m not from around here.”

“Well, it’s great to meet you,” he says, extending his hand. I shake it mildly then bring him closer for an embrace.

Denial is the strongest force in the universe. I tried to ignore the signs even though they were blatantly emblazoned throughout the day – a weakening body, a defeated spirit, a bit of blood in my spit. It took all the courage in me to answer the questions in my head. The lab technician stabbed a needle in me one day to get blood, truth, and clarification. As the counselor handed me a frail sheet of white paper, I knew that though my lover had gone and left me, there was always going to be something he left behind that would remind me of the gamble I took and lost.

Reactive. What a cruel word. The counselor told me I shouldn’t let it control my life. I feared that since my lover left, there was no life left to control.

We dance as though it were foreplay. My hands roam the many districts of his body – his ample chest, his muscular arms, his broad shoulders. My fervent lips were busy claiming his as my own. As the crowd blurs away like an overexposed photograph, I remark at how wonderful it feels to be with him, how at peace I was with this warm body, this beating heart, this thrilling feeling of love blossoming in one night.

“Can you be my boyfriend?” I ask. He smiles at me tentatively, like he was expecting a different question altogether. The song that was playing slowly fades into silence as the DJ flips a new record to play.

“Let’s get out of here.”

The days after my visit to the clinic were long and painful. I took it all in quietly, knowing not to stir too much hysterics on an already hysterical life. For days, I got lost in confusion and despair. I wanted to blame him, wanted to cast him as the villain who took over my life. But then I remember that I was the one who fell for him. I was the one who took his hand and got in his car. When one loses their face down a well, there is little left to do but fall in after it.

Despite everything, I could not hate him. I couldn’t bring myself to despise all that he did to me. When the dust settled, I saw everything with painful clarity. I knew what I had to do to be set free.

I would visit him one last time at the place where we first met. It was the only way to keep him, to keep his memory alive and burning in my mind. Maybe then, I would find peace.

Over breakfast with his friends, we are a picture of a perfect couple. My arms rest naturally on his side and every now and then, I rest my head on his shoulder. His friends interrogated us into the wee hours of the morning. Their faces are welcoming but their tones betray bitter pangs of jealousy and judgment. Not another one, they seem to say. How long will this one stick around? I steal light, feather kisses whenever I can in between spoonfuls of beef tapa and fried rice.

He looks at me, or rather through me. His gaze jars my very soul. My head was telling me that this could work. That maybe he’d find a way to fix me, to put my broken pieces together. But my heart would not let go. He will never understand. He will run when he knows who you really are. There’s only room for one in here. I close my eyes and feel his lips on mine, all the while my lover’s face shines through the darkness.

We settle the bill and get ready to leave. He asks if I want to come over to his place. I say I’ve got stuff to do, people to see, a life I need to get back to. He hails a cab for me and right before I get in, I kiss him one last time on the cheek.

“Text text,” he says, even though we didn’t exchange digits.

“Yup,” I answer. As we drove away, the woman on the radio sings the story of my life. I close my eyes and imagine her words filling my head.

At ngayon, ‘di pa rin alam
Kung ba’t tayo nandito
Pwede bang itigil muna
Ang pag-ikot ng mundo?

“Boss? Boss…” the driver wakes me. I open my eyes and the 8AM sunlight blinds me. “Saan po tayo?”

I hesitate for a second. “Sa Guadalupe,” I tell him and as we made our way through the city, I realize that for the first time in a long time, it feels like I’m finding my way back to free.

POSTCRIPT: Man commits suicide inside MRT station
Posted at 05/08/2013 12:09 PM

MANILA - Operations of Metro Rail Transit (MRT-3) were disrupted after a passenger allegedly committed suicide by jumping in front of a train Wednesday morning.

Makati police chief Col. Manuel Lucban said the man appeared to have committed suicide, and that he did not accidentally fall onto the tracks. The incident occurred at 8:18 a.m.

MRT general manager Al Vitangcol said the train station's closed-circuit television (CCTV) footage shows that the man indeed jumped onto the tracks.

The man's body was mangled after being dragged by the train for about 30 meters. He was already dead when the rescue team arrived.

The MRT management had to suspend the operations of the train system due to the incident.

The DOTC said that "MRT is on provisional operations from North Ave. to Shaw stations and vice versa until further notice. Please bear with us. Thank you."

Due to the incident, some passengers were forced to get off the train even before it could reach the station.

Passengers had no choice but to take other means of transportation following the disruption of operations.

♫: Imago | Spolarium (2005)
Post: Oh Boy!, DZMM
Photo: bed2

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DON’T DO IT! I thought twice about posting this because I was afraid of the message I was sending. This post is a work of fiction. In no way am I encouraging suicide or mongering fear/hatred for those living with HIV. I highly encourage everybody to check out Love Yourself and get tested today. Also, the Philippines recently launched a suicide hotline. If you feel lost or hopeless, contact 0917 588 HOPE.

stella and her waiting (1)

“You’re on in 2 minutes,” says Bookie. He was red from running around all night trying to get us girls to stick to our cues. I tighten my bra straps, take one last hit of my joint and get a move on.

I hear the usual post-dinner crowd, mostly middle-aged men unwinding after work. I was used to their stares, their beady eyes undressing you even before your number starts. There’s momentary feedback as Bookie turns on his mic, rendering the whole nightclub deaf. In his deep baritone, he calls me onto the stage.

Stella, his voice lingers on the final vowel, commanding but gentle. The stage name was his idea. He said my real name was too plain, too easy to pass by. The lights begin to dim as I hear the first few bars of my song.

I walk to the center of the stage, my back turned to the waiting men. My song’s intro is long so it gives me time to vacillate—nay, marinate—onstage. I walk slowly, my clunky heels tapping hollow beats on the floor. I contort, exaggerating my features and minimizing my gut. I move my hips to the beat and raise a leg to tease my audience. Like clockwork, I remind myself. I close my eyes, try to block the hooting men out as the woman in the record starts to sing.

Tonight we stand by the door
Waiting for amends.
I’ve lived all this time
For love.

“Who’s Bryan?” he asked. For a second, it felt like he'd just emptied an ice bucket on my naked body.

“No one,” I quickly dismissed. It was the sound of his name, the intricate consonant blend, the way the B and the R just seemed to roll off so naturally for him. It threw me off so quickly that my head felt like I’d put it on backwards.

“He must’ve been somebody. Somebody important.” He ran his finger across my thigh, resting to feel the ink on my skin. “Enough for you to put his name on your hip and all.”

“He was,” I lied, gritting my teeth. He can touch my skin, my hair, my sex, my thighs, but he can never touch my heart.

If you had told me two years ago that I’d somehow end up dancing in a seedy club like this, I’d have slapped you. But such is my life now and though I wish otherwise, there seems to be no turning back. I walk back to the center of the stage, let my hand briefly graze the metal pole. A man whistles for me to come over. In his hand, I see a crisp purple bill. His friends egg him on, their cervezas red and raging on their foreign faces. Like a cat, I crawl to him on all fours. He tucks the bill into my garter, his fingers resting briefly on the copper cufflink I keep there. I slap his hand away.

Tonight you come with no suit
And no suitcase in your hand.
I couldn’t wait until the day is done.

I inhale deeply, let the woman’s saccharine voice fill my head as I slowly let my left strap dangle to my arm. It takes a bit of practice to unhook your bra onstage, without it seeming common or everyday. For years, I knew to do it privately, hurriedly, with no concept of an audience watching my every move. I move my shoulders in tentative circles, the straps coming loose with each turn. As the drummer pounds on, the song moves to the chorus. I let my top drop to the floor.

I never thought that I would be the one
Who could deal with so much waiting.
I never count but look at me now.
I see the time I should be saving.

“He must’ve been somebody. Somebody important.” He said as his fingers ran across my skin.

“He was,” I lied, gritting my teeth. More than anything in the world, I wished for the freedom to say he is.

♫: Up Dharma Down | Parks (2012)
Photo: WCTI12

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Establishing Shots. I fell in love with this song a few weeks back and the more I listened to it raped the replay button, the more I could feel this story brewing in my head. I finally started writing it last night and when I realized the word count was slowly building up, I figured I’d chop it up into a few parts. Next installment is in two weeks as I have a pretty interesting collaboration with a mystery blogger planed for next week. Stay tuned! He’s someone I have never collaborated with despite people saying we’re fairly alike and I have a feeling it’s gonna be really good.