30 November 2009

Birthday Dinner

short fiction

MICHEL SETS A plateful of spaghetti on the table. He made it just the way Alfonso likes it: Pinoy-style—sweet and spicy. He next arranges a loaf of bread in a circle on a large plate, with a bar of unsalted butter at the center. His plan is to have them toasted later, buttered, and then sprinkled with McCormick Garlic Bread Sprinkle. Just the way Alfonso likes it.

This is going to be one delightful birthday dinner for Alfonso.

Michel’s relationship with Alfonso is complicated beyond words. This is probably because Michel is a Leo, and he can get pretty cranky at times. When they fight, Michel craves for an argument, an exchange of words, so they can settle their issues in one sitting. Alfonso is Aquarian, and he can be such a pushover, a doormat. It pains Michel each time Alfonso caves with an apology immediately, regardless of whoever’s at fault. No matter how you look at it, it’s always Michel who ends up feeling defeated.

The clock strikes seven. Alfonso should be home any minute. Michel walks over to the fridge and takes out a 1.5-liter bottle of Coke then places it on the table. He leaves the bottle of rum inside the fridge for now. He’s sure Alfonso will want to have a drink later, foreseeably rum-and-Coke, as Alfonso doesn’t really drink anything else. Thankfully, though, Alfonso is not totally a drinker. He simply enjoys a nightcap once in a while. Usually Alfonso comes home too exhausted from work he only has time for dinner, a drink, and the first ten minutes of a Hollywood movie that he falls asleep to.

Alfonso is quite fond of Hollywood movies. He is drawn to the glamorous look of the celebrities that star in them. Alfonso’ss favorite movie, as far as Michel knows, is Heathers, a 1989 film starring Wynona Rider and Christian Slater. The movie, if Michel remembers correctly, circles around the topic of teen suicide, and it amuses him that Alfonso is so into it, even if Alfonso is the least suicidal person he knows.

It’s seven-thirty. Michel is hungry. He pours himself half a glass of Coke and grabs a slice of bread. He figures he and Alfonso should have dinner together, so a slice of bread shall do for now. He considers lighting some candles for a moment. “Candles… Ha!” he says out loud then shakes his head in amusement. Alfonso would never want a candle-lit dinner. It’s too… bourgeois. That is one thing Michel really likes about Alfonso. Alfonso doesn’t thrive on things that are beyond them. Michel can sum up Alfonso with Pinoy-style spaghetti, quasi-garlic bread, and rum-and-Coke. None too lavish.

Eight-fifteen, the clock says. Michel curls up in the sofa and grabs a book. He’s not really into books, but there’s nothing else to do. Alfonso meanwhile is quite literate. The dork has probably read all of Sidney Sheldon and Tom Clancy and Frederick Forsythe. Michel doesn’t even know squat about any of them. He tries to read a chapter off the book he’s grabbed. “’If Tomorrow Comes.’ Interesting title…” Michel tells himself. A couple of pages into it, he dozes off.

* * *

THERE’S HEAVY POUNDING on the door and Michel jolts right up. Eleven-thirty, the clock tells him. He runs to the door and opens it.

“What the fuck took you—“

Alfonso falls right to the floor.

“Jesus! What happened?” He pulls Alfonso up and finds that his shirt is smeared with blood. Alfonso’s right eye is bruised and swollen and his gums and ears are bleeding.

“Trouble with a client…” Alfonso says, barely audibly.

Michel drags Alfonso to the sofa and lets him lie there. “I’ll go get some water.” He runs to the kitchen.

Alfonso starts to sob. “I want to stop doing this.”

“C’mon, now. Don’t say that.” Michel goes back over to Alfonso and has him take a few gulps of cold water. “What happened?”

“The new client, the middle-aged notary public, that sonofabitch. He wanted to take all ten packets but he could only pay for half of them…” Alfonso can barely finish his sentences. He is sobbing and gasping for air at the same time. “Then he started hitting me, and kicking me, and he took everything, including all the money. I could barely make it here. I had to walk.”

Michel shakes his head. “That motherfucker….” He stares at Alfonso, who is by now crouching on the sofa like a scared caterpillar. He strokes Alfonso’s head. “Are you hungry? I cooked some spaghetti for you, and I can toast you some bread with butter and garlic sprinkle….”

Alfonso doesn’t say anything back.

Michel sighs and starts to stand up. “Just stay there. I’ll bring you the food myself.”

In the kitchen, while toasting bread, Michel hears Alfonso calling out to him.

“What?” he yells back.

Alfonso calls out to him again with that scratchy voice. Michel can barely make out any words.

“I can’t hear you, Alfonso. Just wait for me to get back there, OK?”

Michel goes back to Alfonso with a plateful of spaghetti and toasted bread, now buttered and sprinkled with McCormick Garlic Bread Sprinkle. His heart breaks at the sight of Alfonso, all battered like a crushed worm.

“What were you saying?” he asks.

Alfonso clears his throat and hesitates for a minute. “I…”

“What?” Michel grins. “C’mon, it’s your birthday. You can say anything.”

“I want to stop doing this. I’m serious. It’s too much. Please…” Alfonso begins to sob again.

Michel stares at Alfonso for a minute, heaving deeply. Then he hurls the plate to the wall. “You ungrateful piece of shit!” He grabs Alfonso by the collar. “Do you know how much trouble I’ve been through for you? Do you even have any idea?”

Alfonso looks him in the eye, quaking with fear. “It’s just that—“

He strikes Alfonso across the face. Alfonso sobs harder. Michel drops Alfonso back on the sofa. “Look…” he says, gently, in a consoling tone. “Let’s not get into this, OK?”

Alfonso’s sobbing slowly begins to subside.

“It’s your birthday, Alfonso. Just eat. There’s still spaghetti left on the table.”

Alfonso nods, sniffling and wiping his nose with the back of his hand.

Michel sits beside Alfonso, stroking his back. “You’re twelve now. In a few months, you’ll be in high school. Just give it four more years. Just finish high school and then you’re free to go. You do want to finish high school, don’t you?”

Alfonso nods again.

“Besides, once I get to bail Paolo out of prison, your load will get lighter. It’s just difficult right now, what with Mickey’s death and all.”

“OK.”

Michel stands up and yawns. “I’m going to bed. Clean up that mess, will you?” He nods his head towards the broken plate and spilt food across the room. “I haven’t even eaten yet. I waited for you all night. You have to think about other people for once.”

Alfonso starts for the broom and dustpan behind the door. “I’m sorry,” he says under his breath.

“And get something to eat before you go to bed,” Michel says as he opens the door to his room. “I don’t want you to sleep hungry.”

“I will, Tito.”

Michel gives Alfonso one last look before stepping inside his room. It truly breaks his heart, the way Alfonso submits with an apology all the time. He’s a good boy, that Alfonso, considering.

“Good night! I’ll take care of that dickhead tomorrow, don’t worry.” Michel closes the door behind him. He considers buying Alfonso a DVD copy of Heathers in the morning, as a post-birthday gift. “And happy birthday!” he yells from his room.

“Thank you,” Alfonso says as he starts to sweep the floor.

THE END

Waiting

There are minutes, and there are
Hours -- and half of one
Already seems too long
If your hands are empty

Of someone else's skin
To fondle.
He promised me his time, yet
I still feel like a fool, asking for half a day

Of his.
Tongue, lips, heaving chest --
Like minutes they dissolve
Into mere memories. I do not

Recall ever wanting him
This much,
Such that I'd will myself
To sit idle

Waiting for him to show up.
Until minutes clump into a half-hour
And the fool that I make
Myself out of

Flutter off abandoned in the wind
Like a candy wrapper on a
Cold, cold
Morning.

27 November 2009

What the Fuck Is the Big Deal With Power?

If I were to have power, I would like it to be supernatural, like the power of flight. The power of flight, most especially, because then I would be able to go to places without worrying about traffic. I’d only have to worry about the sun if I flew during noontime. Hell, this would prevent me from going to work late. Although, come to think of it, since I currently have a home-based job, I do not have to worry about going to work late; all I need to worry about is waking up early. I could then just wish for the power of being able to sleep whenever I need to, as because of my insomnia (or the inability of my mind to shut itself during bedtime) I barely get any sleep on work days. In this case, though, I could just wish for the power to not sleep at all for all eternity. This way, I can do all the things that need to get done in a day. I can even juggle three jobs all at once while working on a novel, a screenplay, and a book of faux love poems dedicated to a hurtful man. Any extra hours I could just spend self-learning French.

Of all the kinds of power one could wish for, I do not see why someone would crave badly for political power. So much so that the massacre of 57 or so people is a necessity if that political power were threatened.

When I found out about the Maguindanao massacre, which is now aptly called the Ampatuan massacre (after the name of the town where the crime took place, which is also named after the very family suspected of being responsible for this horrific turn of human events), I could not help but well up. The very idea of mass killing just to protect a legacy that does not even predict the ending to “Lost” (one of the most important things on the planet) is just too confusing for me.


Photo taken from the Facebook group
"JUSTICE FOR THE VICTIMS OF
MAGUINDANAO MASSACRE, PHILIPPINES"


Why the fuck kill?

Why the fuck kill 57 or so people?

This whole thing reminded me of my friend’s father, who was shot a couple of years ago today (I will never forget because it happened during Thanksgiving Day in the U.S.) just because he ran for mayor in a town where the last mayor at the time was killed as backlash for his own oppressive ways. Even with the mayor killed, the area was pretty much still run by his family, which made my friend’s father decide to run to end the oppression once and for all. My friend’s father lost the election, but even after that, his car was sprayed with bullets on his way home from work. He lived, thank goodness, but so did injustice, because the shooters were never apprehended, and the people who masterminded the shooting would always remain suspects.

I just hope this time, with 57 or so people shot to death like they were mere plastic ducks in some transient fair that pops up during town fiestas, justice will be served.

Or I will surely wish for the power to cause torturous guilt. And those murderous horsefuckers will be so sorry they’ll end up chewing on shards of glass, and even that won’t be enough to atone for their shit.

10 November 2009

"V"


A blogger that I’m sort of following cites that “V” inspires nothing but eye-rolls. A couple of Facebook contacts of mine state in their status that they do not know what to think about “V” yet, but would gladly give it another chance. Maybe I do not have any taste at all, especially that I am not exactly a Sci-Fi fanatic, but I thought “V” inspired nothing but goosebumps. I thought it had the best pilot for a TV show this year, or probably even this decade (next to “Lost,” of course).

What I like most about “V,” despite some of its characters being worn-out clichés, is that it does not pose this huge mystery that is supposed to unravel in too many years to come. After “Lost,” too many TV shows have tried to put us in this exhausting position of forever waiting for answers. I think one show is enough. “Fringe” started out well enough, but in the long run it got terribly benign I had to stop watching it. Just like “Vanished,” “Prison Break,” and “Jericho,” off the top of my head.

But with “V,” we are treated to the usual fare of good versus evil, of some epic battle that is clearly going to be the show’s finale—whenever that will be, I hope not too soon.

I wish I could write more about the show, but I’ve already been criticized for my entries being too long, that they are not blog-hopper-friendly. The criticisms mostly come from myself, when I blog-hop into my own blog.

So here’s to hoping this entry is of blog-hopper-friendly length.

And oh, by the way. . .oh wait, this has gotten too long. Nevermind.

Search Site

Into the Mind of Lead Character

Google Analytics