Bad Trip...a short story

“So how was your trip to Batugalang?” I asked my kumpareng Brownie, “Bad trip,” he bitterly replied. “Care to tell me the details Pare,” I said to him as I took a seat at the other side of the bench. “Okay, but we better have something to drink to make the story flow smoothly.” So I, knowing the cue, got up and went to Kalbo’s store and bought a half a case of beer. Here was his story:

My wife came from a remote village in Batugalang, wherever that was, and her village celebrates its fiesta once every five years, which was really weird. Being observed every five years, the fiesta was an extravagant event in the village. So, it was very important for her to come. She asked me to go with her, and I did. I packed my bags and accompanied her on the most unforgettable trip of my life.

After debarking from the boat, we rode a tetanous jeepney for four agonizing hours, then rode a horse that looks more like a dog than a horse for two hours, and then trekked the mountainside for eight more hours. “No wonder the village celebrates its fiesta only once in every five years” I sarcastically told my wife, “the travel alone would take you a year”. When we finally got to the village the first thing I noticed were the carabaos. They were well groomed some of them even had leis of flowers on their necks. What surprised me most was that they were not working the fields; they were kept tied in the balcony of the houses like a pet dog. I asked my wife about this, and she told me that in their village it was an honor to own a carabao. They were treated the same way we treat a pedigree pet dog or cat. “Weird, but to each his own,” I replied.

After three days of traveling, at last I met my in-laws. Theirs was a very simple and rustic like like most of the people in the village. Their house was a classic nipa hut with no electricity and running water. It seemed that time stopped here and even the clothes they wore were pre-Spanish in style. Their Tagalog was so pure untouched by English, Spanish, and Chinese that I thought I was in another country. We ate dinner and I enjoyed the meal they prepared for us. The vegetables were sweet and the chicken meat, although dark, was rich and delectable. Curious about the carabaos, I jokingly asked my in-laws about the grooming and the flowers. I told them that in our province carabaos were working animals and not pets. They were angry at hearing my words “Carabaos are beautiful creatures. They are not made for work. Here we respect and treasure them for we believe that they are the reincarnation of Apo Kalimagmag’s dog. The dog that saved the life of the revered Apo. It’s an honor to own one,” they angrily told me. That was the end of the dinner; I did not made a good impression with my in-laws.

Hoping to make amends, I told my wife to discreetly ask how much a carabao would cost. I was hoping that if my allowance would allow it, I would surprise my in-laws with one. She came back and told me that they cost two hundred pesos each. I was elated. “Two hundred pesos! That’s just a kilo of pork in Manila.” I told my wife, “Go and buy five, let’s surprise your mother and father,” I added.




I can’t describe my in-laws reaction when they saw the five carabaos tied to their house post. I thought they would collapse on the floor. They were so ecstatic that my father-in-law even kissed me. I was happy at what I had done. Five carabaos for them, they were millionaires in the eyes of these people. And for only two hundred pesos each, it’s a bargain. I was almost asleep when my in-laws went to their side of the hut. They were still talking about the carabaos.

Early the next morning, I was awakened by the noise of people talking. When I rose from the bamboo cot and peeped outside, I saw ten people’ who all bowed to me, talking with my in-laws. My father-in-law invited me to join them in their discussion. After having coffee and rice cake I joined them. “Son, these people are the elders of the village, and it is the unbroken tradition of the village for the giver of carabaos to christen each in ceremonial feasts before the receiver can formally accept them. We were touched by your generosity. The village council had to be convened because this is the first time in the entire history of the entire village for someone to give five carabaos at the same time. And now we are discussing the details of the ceremony: like the twelve customary sets of godparents for each carabao, the musiko’s, the feast, and the traditional three-day announcement of invitation to the whole village. Since you gave us five we are discussing of having the feast at five day successions, of course the actual village fiesta will not be included in the five day count.”

I lost consciousness and remember nothing more of the conversations. The next thing I knew was the albularyo saying some strange words to my ears. “ Pare, aside from exhausting my ten thousand pesos allowance, I had to sell my watch, my wife’s watch, my camera, my necklace, our wedding ring, and even my extra pair of rubber shoes so that we can go home” he cried.

I had never seen my kumpare cry before even after his father’s death. I was surprised when he did this time.

I don’t know if my kumpare’s story is true but from the way he reacts every time he sees a carabao I’d say he’s had a traumatic experience with them.

Instant Noodles and Time Paradoxes* (Fiction)

He was in his laboratory trying to fix the glitch in the chrono-computer of his project: a time machine. “There is the problem of the time-paradox-neutralizer,” he told himself. “I need to find the right frequency in the time warp-drive.” Tired after three days of non-stop laboratory work, he went home. He was about to open the door, when he heard a soft moan. Intrigued, he slowly turned the doorknob, peeped, and nearly had a heart attack at what he saw; his best friend was passionately kissing his wife.

Blood rushed into his head. His first instinct was to run back to the laboratory, get his gun, and then shoot his best friend. But the logical and the calculating part of his brain stopped him. Slowly, he left house, went back to his laboratory, and poured out all his anger to his work. He went home to his wife every now and then pretending that everything was normal. “It was my fault. I was so busy that I forgot about her. I will win her back when I am finished with this project,” he said to himself.

Three months later. He finally solved the glitch in the chrono-computer. “Pastoroni’s theory of time-converse-inverse was correct. The is-was-before-after paradox will not affect the chrono-probability!” he shouted at his engineers and technicians, who had no idea of what he was talking and shouting about. He was so elated that he rushed back to his house (obviously forgetting what his wife has done because of the excitement) to tell his wife of his success.

He was turning the doorknob when he heard a familiar moan. Stunned, he slowly opened the door, peeped inside, and saw his best friend, now naked, on the couch and on top of his wife. This time, there was no flash of rage, just the cold feeling of hate. He went back to his deserted laboratory got his gun and went inside the time machine. “ I will not go to prison for killing that worthless piece of dung!” he calmly told himself. “ I will use my time machine, go back to back to the past, my college days, then shoot that snake Jake, and then return to the present.” He thought. “And no detectives or FBIs will be able to figure what happened--the perfect murder.”

1985 April 30, 12 noon, twenty years ago, Jake is practicing football. He walked in front of Jake and shot him point blank in the face. He was still smiling when he alighted from the time machine. He returned the gun to his drawers, wiped the splattering of blood from his clothes, and rushed back to his house. “Jake won’t exist now. I made sure of that twenty years ago,” he laughed to himself. He was about to open the door when he heard that moan again. He peeped inside, was more annoyed than angry, when he found the same exact situation as before. This time his anger was replaced by perplexity. “What went wrong?” he asked himself. “Maybe the incident is too small to affect the time.”

1985 July 5, 3pm during the university’s the school’s championship game. He walked into the middle of the arena took out his pistol, shot Jake in the face, then shot the coach, and then shot the entire football team. He went back to the present and found his wife and best friend in the same exact situation as before. Now, he was really angry and really, really perplexed. “Maybe the personalities are too insignificant to affect the flux of time.”

Fuming mad, he went back to July 5, 1985, shot Jake. He then popped up in the White House and shot the President. Then he materialized in the UN Head quarters shot the Secretary General. This time he made sure that the time flow would change for he also massacred the entire UN delegates. He was tired when he returned to the present. “This time traveling and killing business is exhausting,” he said. He slowly went back to his house; sure that everything has changed. He was about to turn the doorknob when he heard that moan again. This time he was so enraged that he ran back to his laboratory, reloaded the gun, ran back to his house, went through the door, pointed the gun in Jake’s temple and fired. He was surprised, after the smoke cleared that Jake was still alive, still pumping. Puzzled, he sat down on the sofa. He caught a glimpse of the door and saw that it was locked from the inside. He looked at Jake and his wife when the realization came to him that he went through the door and that he was invisible to them. He began to recollect and reflect on all the things he did, and his mind tried its best to figure what went wrong. “I altered events in past, then why is it that the present reality did not change?”

“You did altered time and you did change reality,” a voice said. “But the thing is, you altered your own time and you changed your own reality,” the voice added. “You see, time is like an instant noodles intertwined yet individual. We all experience time in our own different ways, and we all see reality in our own different perspective. So when you altered time and reality you altered your own time and reality. And now your time and your reality exist outside their reality; severed from the soup of interrelated experiences. You are now a ghost my dear friend.” He stood up looked at where the voice was coming from, and was not surprised to see Albert Einstein talking to him.

* Adapted frump a short story I read ten-fifteen years ago titled ‘The man who killed Mohammed” I forgot the name of the author and the title of the anthology.

The Phenomenology of Chocnut

The idea of craving, of wanting, never ending wanting, that drives one to craze; this is an experience that goes beyond the normal norm of thinking. It goes beyond the thinking for in itself what is engaged is that primal desire to fulfill what is wanted. It goes beyond reason yet it also satisfies reason in a way that can only be called gratifying. This is it, the sense of wonderment at the power of the sense to satisfy what it needs to satisfy, an act of action in which the acting is done through the process of the self eneveloping itself within the form of the shape of the mind extracting in itself the essence of the thinking of that craving, with the difference of the action being acted upon by the process of the mind through the organ of sense of taste within the oral cavity. The process can only be called a fulfillment of the satisfaction within the level of the physical but within itself, by itself, though the will of the mind, in the process of thinking and that physical craving, what is in essence being accomplished is the fulfillment of the need but not only the need, for if we only call it need then it will not transcend the physical, but as stated the need goes beyond the physical, it is the synthesis of the physical and the mental; the combination of the ego and id but it also transcends this for what is being provided is a satisfaction that transcends description. This intellectual as well as physical, but also can be called a psychological as well as metaphysical activity of a being, but not the being in itself as Tillich describes it, but the being in the form of the organs of the physique of the mechanical function of the human person, the itself, it can only be called the existing itself but with it transcends the itself because it must also be an essence in itself, hence, it is not only the being in essence and existence but also the man who wanted a chocnut.

Diabetic na ata ako kakaain ng Chocnut.

Developum ante diabeticus meticulos consumus et choconatus.

Dreams

I was thinking about sleep and dreams. I don’t think that I have a sleeping problem; it’s just that, I like nights, so peaceful and serene especially when you’re listening to James Taylor. (I got to have coffee. This is becoming a habit, whenever I feel I must continue with this thing I do, I got to have coffee--must be James Taylor’s guitar and voice that’s doing this to me.) I was thinking about dreams, not that dreams, but the kind of dreams where you have nightmares and fantasies. The kind of dreams that make you wet your bed, make you wake up tired, make you wake up feeling dehydrated; dreams that sometimes affects what you’re aura or mood would be the whole day. Dreams.

Maybe I do have a sleeping problem: I am a hyper-somniac insomniac. It runs in the family, we’re late sleepers…err…I mean we’re early sleepers…hmmm…

My daughter sleeps with me and my wife. And it’s really interesting to observe my daughter when she’s asleep. She talks, kicks, grinds her teeth, and sometimes she even throw punches at us, just kept hitting us with her fist as if she’s in a boxing match. So, I got into thinking about dreams. Childhood dreams are powerful. When I was a child, I remember my mother waking me up. And when I woke up I was crying; in fact I was weeping, because when she woke me up, I lost the toy car that I was playing with in my dream-- a toy truck that drives it self. I don’t know if it’s a remote controlled or a battery operated toy truck, I don’t know because I can’t even describe it to my mother. My mother was dumfounded because I was looking for a toy that she has never even seen and she can’t even afford if it existed at all. I was crying hard and I was throwing pillows at my mother and looking under the pillows and the blankets for the toy truck. I rolled the buli sleeping mat, crawled under the cot to search for it, but there was no toy truck that drives by it self there. I was so mad because I lost a magical toy.

Now I know better and looking at my daughter asleep, I know how powerful and how wonderful a child’s dream can be. No, I never wake her up even when she’s talking or fighting in her sleep; those dreams are precious. Who knows what adventures she’s maybe in?

I remember waking my daughter up for school. She stood up, as if magic, because ordinarily waking her up is struggle. She stood up and looked at me and smiled. She ate her breakfast without any pleadings and threats, took a bath and we walked to school and I can feel there’s something in her, something’s not right, or should I say there’s something wonderful that happened to her that morning. When I arrived home that day, I saw her watching High School Musical and she’s singing along with the movie. I know, yes, I know that that morning she dreamt High School Musical and I know that she played the lead role in her dream.

I remember my older brother telling a story of how he woke up in the middle of the night to urinate and how he looked at the bed and saw himself still lying on it. He told us that what he did was to lie down on the bed again to reunite himself with the thing that was lying on the bed. When my mother heard this story, she got into talking about how her family had stories of out of body travels and she also told of other stories that were meant to tell us that we have powers beyond any normal human being. Well, that’s my mother and whether that story was true or not is immaterial because my mother is my mother.

But let me tell you about a strange dream I had. This happened about two decades ago when I was still in my teens, I was staring at the ceiling trying to sleep. I was about to fall sleep when I felt that my bladder was full. So, I stood up. And here’s the strange part, when I stoop up, my head hit the ceiling. I was looking at the ceiling and wondering why it was in front of my eyes. I didn’t look down; I just closed my eyes and went to sleep. Out of body travel? Nah, indigestion is more like it. Or maybe…just maybe…too freaky even to consider. Mother’s stories…

Dream. I read one book written by a Filipino theosophist titled “Scientific Basis (or Proof) for the Existence of Soul” (I read the book a long time ago and I can’t even remember the author) and one of his argument as proof for the existence of the soul is dreams. Dreams prove that there’s someone in there; some one that never sleeps; some one that is constantly vigilant and wakes you up when its time to wake up, when your dreaming it’s that someone in there who’s active. I don’t know, but dogs dream too; maybe, dogs have souls too.

Nuno sa Punso (Fiction)

“Why do the people here avoid that anthill?” Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans, asked.
“People here are superstitious. They believed that there is an old man that lives inside that anthill, and it would be rude to look at the anthill’s direction. People here tell stories of how even just pointing at anthills can make your finger grow big.” Pepe from Bulacan said.

Now, Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans, had a problem. He is insecure because he thinks he’s not big enough. He was divorced five times and he always blames the size of his manhood as the cause of his divorces. When he heard the story of the anthill, of how merely pointing at them can make a finger grow big; he had an idea.

He searched for the largest anthill he can find. And when he found one, he pulled down his pants and pissed on it. “I know it’s just superstition but who knows? Saves money on plastic surgery, might as well try.” Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans, smiled.

After a few days:

“Why are you wearing pajamas?” Pepe from Bulacan asked Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans.

“I run out of jeans.” Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans, replied.

“Why are you walking like a duck?” Pepe from Bulacan asked Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans.

But Charles, also known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear tight denim jeans, like a penguin, rudely turned around and walked away trying to hide the two basketballs between his legs. And his manhood, small as ever, was dwarfed by the two humungous…you know what.

Now, Charles is known as the American tourist from Nebraska who likes to wear loose pajamas. He is also sometimes called the penguin.

Moral lesson: Don’t blame the size.

Gas Incident (Fiction)

“Detective come into my office, I have an interesting case for you,” Capt. Cruz grabbed Det. Pedro Pouetmo, who was rumored to be the great grandson of Agatha Christies’ Det. Hercule Poirot, by the arms.

“The Governor called. He wants me to send you to the capitol to solve a mysterious ‘gas explosion’ that almost killed his guests.” The detective noticed that his boss was in good humor. “Here’s the narrative of the incident, do your best Detective.”

The Chief of the Bulik-bulik Bureau of Crime Detection handed Pouetmo a manila envelope. “I hope you enjoy solving this one,” the Captain half smiled and half laughed. “Ciao…go,go,go… arrevaderci aroma…bonjour monsoon...”


From the Narrative Report

….The governor of Balac-bac had invited nutrition experts from Manila to help in his administration’s fight against malnutrition in the province…

…The guests were in the middle of their discussions when the Provincial Health Officer, who was speaking at that time, suddenly farted. The guest were dumfounded at the sudden outburst of gas that a few of them suddenly burst into uncontrollable laughter, which of course, caused them to inhale air that increased pressures in their stomachs that later caused them to depressurize too. Of course this additional gas outburst created more laughter that created more gas pressures in the stomach that caused more gas depressurization that caused more laughter. The incessant release of stomach gasses compounded with the non-stop laughing exhausted the guest that they lost consciousness...

… It was 5 o’clock in the afternoon when the incident was discovered. The janitor was making his rounds when he came by the Conference Room and opened the door; the door literally flew open because of the positive gas pressure inside. It was fortunate that the janitor was not smoking that time because if he did the methane and butane content of the gas in the conference room would have ignited and caused a combustion creating a powerful vacuum in the conference room that would have imploded the whole structure...

…The Provincial Rescue Team came into the scene a few minutes later. Twelve gas-masked operatives hauled the victims to the ambulances. Medical examinations revealed that aside from fatigues, the guests also suffered from asphyxiation. They were released few hours later from the hospital…


“Det. Pouetmo,” Governor Alagaw said, “I heard how you solved my cousin Tubangbakod’s death. I’m impressed. Please help me solve this case. The press is already calling the province the Bio-gas capitol of the Philippines and it’s embarrassing us. I hope you do see the political fall out of this incident.” Det. Pouetmo was looking at the governor’s pleading face, and he can’t help but feel pity for the predicament the chief executive of Balac-bac is in. “I will do my best to solve this mysterious…er…gas evacuations governor. Rest assured that this will over with the soonest possible time.”
_____________________________________________________________

Det. Pouetmo was looking at the result of the laboratory analysis of the food served by the caterer. The result proved his hunch. He immediately ordered an interview with the chef in charge of the food preparation. After the interview, he then proceeded to the governor’s office. (Such was his efficiency.)

“Governor, it seems that the food served in the conference was the culprit. They were contaminated by a rare strain of flatus producing lacto-mycotarium-bacteria. I ordered a DNA analysis of the sample contaminants found in the food and I compared them to the DNA samples taken from the caterer’s staff. The result showed that the culprit was the chef. I interviewed him and did some test on him and we found out that he was suffering from a violent…er….virulent ring worm infection on his crotch. From what we gathered from his statement, it seems our chef scratch his crotch, didn’t wash his hands, infected the food.”

“Good work detective,” The Governor gravely said, “I was thinking of filing charges against the chef and the caterer. What do you suggest detective? Reckless imprudence resulting to …”

“No governor, I have a better suggestion. Why not give the chef a month’s supply of garlic for his ringworm…” There was a crack in the governor’s face, a few seconds later; the gravity on his face suddenly broke into laughter. “I dare say that’s a good one detective,” Governor Alagaw roared.

“I see that your humor returned Governor,” Det. Pouetmo smiled. “Be glad that the gas evacuation didn’t escalate to solid waste evacuations…I mean a synchronized bomb release…I mean….messy…very messy and embarrassing…”They were now bent over with laughing.

“Oh, I forgot, governor, something’s not right though, strange may I say. The laboratory analysis of the gas in the conference room showed that it contained nitrous oxide—laughing gas.”

parenthesis

I love walking because when I walk I see a lot of things and when I see a lot of things, I think and when I think I have many thoughts. Many thoughts in fact (a lot of them) that I had to control myself lest I drown in them.

I was walking and I saw this wild flower and suddenly I had the urge to talk (I can’t write, what I do is talk) about them (of course, I saw birds too and someone in my head told me: look at the birds ain’t them grand but I must write about the wild flowers first). The flowers (look! a mangy puppy, it’s pitiful how many dog owners just leave these unsightly pitiful puppy on the roads to let them die) are lovely especially the small ones that looks just like a miniature (kittens too, my gulay, why do they leave these animals alone to die) sunflower. Not, only are they beautiful but there’s also that (a stone, a beautiful stone, maybe I should talk about stones sometimes) (where amI?) (flowers?) sense of naturalness in finding flowers at their natural, wild setting (the clouds, what about the clouds) …I better stop, too many things…no focus…(I can’t) I can’t focus because there are too many (no, only two, hey! How about me, flowers remember? Stone, remember? Birds, remember? Clouds too, remember?)…confusing?! (hey, guys in my head I need to focus, see, I’m doing something)…(what do you mean?)…The flowers…

It’s difficult to keep my focus (no, it’s not, yes it is) when there’s many things that you want (flower, remember, bird, remember? Stone or rocks, remember? Clouds…) talk about (and there are many voices in your head suggesting things)…should I use parenthesis (no, you can use commas)…why don’t you consult your grammar book…(I need coffee)…

So, the committee in my head continues to discuss things while I try to organize them…very difficult I should say. (no!, nada! Ciao….ang kulit nyo!)

Memory Gap (Fiction)

The portable TV, what’s the significance of the portable TV lying on the bed of the murder victim? The Bulik-bulik Bureau of Crime Detection Unit was puzzled. Pedro Pouetmo, the senior investigator, holds the record for the most cases solved in the department, but this case puzzled him for its bizarreness. (It was rumored that Det. Pouetmo was a descendant of Det. Hercule Poirot (Herr-kyu-ley Pwah-ruh) Agatha Christie’s legendary Belgian sleuth). Nothing was taken, Mr. Pepito Tubangbakod, the victim was well liked in the neighborhood. He regularly attended the Church of the Parish of Santa Claus; he was a regular of the local Kawangis club, and practically every child in the neighborhood was his godson. He was a bachelor. But there’s nothing wrong or strange with single hood nor was he a sexual deviant. The man was practically qualified to be beatified by the pope. So, there was no reason to believe that someone wished him harm.

Mr. Tubangbakod was found dead inside his entertainment cabinet where his TV used to be. He had a clean death. There was no wound, nor any signs of struggle, in fact, the police were ready to conclude natural death except for the macabre circumstance of the victim and the TV’s changed places—the TV was on the bed and Tubanagbakod was on the entertainment cabinet. Detective Pouetmo tried his best, but he had exhausted all his investigative prowess and resources, and he was about to surrender and add the case as a blot on his impeccable record when he remembered something.

Mr. Tubangbakod was famous for his memory. He was hospitalized three times for major injuries because of it. First was when he was almost blinded when a spoon pierced his left eye because he forgot to remove it before drinking his coffee. Second was when he was almost electrocuted when he inserted his finger into the socket instead of the rice-cooker’s plug. Third was when he drove on the wrong side of road and his car collided with the garbage truck. And there were other minor injuries and damages to his and other people and their properties but it was always settled amicably for he was well liked--everyone knew of his affliction.

“Chief do you read Mark Twain?” Det. Pouetmo asked.
“No, why? What does Twain have to do with the case?” Capt. Cruz asked.
“Nothing, just an idea. But I think I know what happened to our dear Mr. Tubangbakod”, the detective said.

“Okay, let me hear it Detective.” Capt. Cruz warily replied, “I hope this is not another one of your literary blah, blah,”

“Ouch that hurts. Anyway Cap, I think our dear Tubangbakod was watching TV late, and he decided to go to sleep. Naturally, he would first turn off the TV then go to bed. But supposed he forgot, for someone who was famous for his memory problem, that it was the TV that was supposed to be turned off, and that he was the one supposed to lie on the bed to sleep--supposed he forgot the order of his actions.”

“Are you saying that Tubangbakod put the TV on the bed to sleep, and then he climbed inside the entertainment cabinet and turned himself off”, the chief blurted out.

“Possible.”

The Tragic Story of Omeng and Juliet (Not to be confused with Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet)

“Omeng, it’s already late. Untie the carabao and we’ll go home.” Mang Tonying was tired. He was up before the roosters crowed and now it’s already getting dark. He was not able to get a good siesta since he and his son Omeng was in a hurry to plant the rice seedlings. They have till the month’s end to finish the job for any delay would mean a delay in harvest and a delay in harvest would mean more interest on their loans. “Omeng I want you to work that part of the field, the one abutting the new residential subdivision.” Mang Tonying can’t hide the disgust and fear he felt for this so called development. His neighboring acreages are slowly being eaten by the developers and Mang Tonying is beginning to see this as a threat. “I will never sell my land.” He vowed.

Omeng was up before the rooster crowed. His mother was frying dried fish and the combined salty, sweet and bitter smell of the tuyo and boiling coffee made him sleepier. He sat on the bamboo step, rested his chin on his two hands and stared at their nipa ceiling, mesmerized by the dancing light of the kerosene lamp. He was snoozing, his saliva dripping when he felt a slap on his cheek. “Mother”, he protested. “Here’s you’re coffee” His mother Aling Inyang said, “don’t forget to bring me some papaya today. You’re father’s already working the field. Here’s your lunch. Don’t forget the papaya.” His mother was already out the door with the laundry.

“Father whose is that?’ Omeng was pointing at the new house at the edge of their field. “I don’t know son. Must be owned by one of those rich businessmen from the city”, Mang Tonying wearily replied. “Go now, we have a lot of work to do.”Omeng was plowing when he noticed an easel standing on the veranda of the new house. He stopped the carabao, looked at veranda, curious about the identity of the painter. A few minutes later he saw a petit, long haired form approaching the easel. He drew nearer and he was shocked at the beauty of the face smiling back at him. His breath was literally taken away. He tried to cover his dirty bare chest with his hands. He felt that his nakedness might offend the beautiful angel.He was toss and turning in his bed and he can’t sleep.

He dreamed about her.

His dreams start to turn into fantasies.

His fantasies are getting more and more painful by the day. “Son, are you alright?” Mang Tonying asked Momeng. “You’ve been working that part of the field for almost a week what’s taking you long?” “Nothing father, I will finish it tomorrow promise.” Omeng replied. “Ok, get some sleep son, you looked tired.”Omeng was plowing when he heard the young lady in panic shouting “shoooo, shooo, don’t eat the roses.” Their herd of goat was in the young ladies garden gnawing the flowers. He immediately left his plowing and went to the young lady’s garden to fetch their goats. “I’m sorry ma’am.” Omeng apologized. “It’s okay; actually they are not my roses they are my aunt’s. I’m only here for a vacation.” The young lady smiled. Omeng felt he died when he saw the smile and the brown smiling eyes and the red lips and the soft skin and the midnight black hair and the soft angled nose and the small dimples. “Thank you for saving my aunt’s roses. Here have some sandwiches.” Omeng can’t take his eyes off of her but at the same time he can’t stare at her because he was embarrassed. “I’m Juliet and you’re?” She was extending her hand. Omeng shook it and its softness made Omeng winced. “So soft, so fragile, he was thinking, so fragile.” “I’m Omeng. I’m a farmer here.” He softly said.

And they became friends.

“….booom, he was killing the villain with his bare hands….” Juliet was telling a story about a movie she saw….”crash, booom……” Omeng was mesmerized by her beauty and by her smile and the animation of her hands while telling him the story and by the way her dimples appear and disappear making her face more mysterious.... It does not matter that Omeng didn’t understand what she’s talking about; all that matters was she.“Omeng your color is starting to come back.” His mother said. “You must be in love.”

“When will you finish your work?” his father asked. He doesn’t care. Nothing else matter. His fantasies are getting more and more realistic and more and more painful and more and more troubling.

Summer is ending and Omeng knew what will happen. He stopped going to Juliet. He is already preparing himself for the worst. I must wake up. “She’s rich and I’m poor. I must wake up. It’ll only be very painful for me because what am I to her….nothing!” “How many better looking and richer and finer and more educated men will woo her heart and what am I to them….nothing-- curse of the gods to fall in love with an angel.” It was late and Omeng was about to go home. He was miserable, forlorn and beaten. He was about to kick his carabao when he noticed Juliet running towards him. Omeng was puzzled. “Omeng, please stop!” Juliet cried. “I must talk to you.” Omeng alit from his carabao and he was surprised when she hugged him, hugged him so hard that he almost melted with the softness of her touch. “Omeng my parents will be coming to take me to the U.S. tomorrow. I won’t come. See, Omeng I’m in love with you. Despite the…I know that you will learn to accept me. Please let’s leave tonight, let’s go away.” Omeng was speechless. His dream is coming true, his fantasies are becoming a reality; his love is in his hands. “Juliet, meet me here tonight. We’ll go to my father’s resting hut on the other side of the field and there we’ll talk about our plans. Tonight, my dear, tonight before ten, I’ll meet you here.” “Thank you Omeng.” She cried, “thank you.”Omeng took his savings, his father’s bolo, a kerosene lamp and silently left their nipa hut to meet Juliet. “Come on Juliet before you’re parents arrive” Omeng and Juliet half walked, half ran to wards the resting hut.

When they arrived there Omeng was surprised when Juliet suddenly kissed him. “ Oh Omeng, though you didn’t knew how much I love thee the first my eyes laid my eyes on thee. Oh, my Omeng, how thou have made my heart skip a beat, Oh Omeng how do I love thee?” Omeng replied “Oh Juliet you knew deep in thine heart the answer to thy question. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…” The passion they felt, Omeng’s fantasies, Juliet’s fantasies. It was their night the night when stars and the constellation was right. He was never been kissed and the way Juliet kissed her drowned him. He was like being killed to be revived to be killed again and revived again and again…She was touching him and he was touching her…Their bodies melted into one…. Omeng was mad with passion, he touched her and touched her when he felt something in her groin…something hot…something hard….something he was familiar with….he took the kerosene lamp and looked at what he was holding. When he saw what it was, he let out a voiceless scream and then everything went blank.

“Doctor, please help us. We’ve been to the best albularyo but still he’s not improved.” Aling Inyang cried. “Tell me what happened to him” The barrio doctor asked. “Three days ago we found him in his father’s resting hut naked, drooling, with that blank look in his eyes. Doctor what happened to him?” The doctor was dumfounded with what’s in front of him—a breathing cadaver. “This is the first time I’ve seen a case like this. Aling Inyang your son is catatonic. He’s been through a traumatic experience and his mind just snapped. I’ll write a prescription for intravenous fluids. Sorry, all we can do is to keep the body nourished and hope that some day he’ll snap out of this state.”Mang Tonying and Aling Inyang were weeping while they pushed the wheel chair with the breathing cadaver out of the clinic. “Our son, our son. uh. uuh uuuuuh”

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…


Moral lesson? None whatsoever! Just having fun he, he, he,…