I may have been very glad to be living out Salinger’s usual epiphany: of having the character saved with the appearance of a child in the picture. Someday, in this story, there will be a time when I’ll need some saving.
The first weekend of this month became a brief one. I’ve once again been victimized by the interim periods that wipe out your days off. With one day off for a week, I spent Saturday night for a drink, billiards (in a Timog bar frequented by prostitutes,) and yes, window shopping for them in QC and in Malate. The mere fact that I’m out a night is a remedy to my little grief.
We saw something interesting last night in Malate while window shopping. She looked scarcely fifteen, with barely blossomed, underdeveloped breasts. She had thin arms and skinny legs and had oval shaped face, moderately attractive. We didn’t take her, of course, since we were just shopping from the car windows.
Unusually enough, the young prostitute struck me strangely, as though I saw a wildflower in an unlikely place.
Thoughts arrive like butterflies and I delineated dating and prostitution. Prostitution can be a better alternative as opposed to stepping into that dating circle, when you pretentiously present your personality to the person your dating. Dating, by disposition, is deceit, since you put your best foot forward keep your less attractive qualities lurking in the shadows. Though decent, most women who enjoy dating would be those who consider Cosmopolitan Magazine as literature. A lot of women nowadays find Claudia Schiffer more interesting than Hannah Arendt. The other category of the dating types would the one would be the one who judges not with the depth of character, but by the immensity of your “success.” Or maybe even the immensity of something else. But in prostitution or in dating, the end is one and the same: for a couple to copulate.
So I felt consoled, and even blissfully hopeful, that I should go out one of these nights, in search of, and seduced by that powerful and slowly-dissolving innocence.
One of these nights…
It has been a week of salary dissipating activities, consisting mainly of fast food and junk food consumption. All I’ve been eating for the past week would be McDonalds cheeseburgers, Kentucky Fried Chicken, Shakey’s Pizza, Hen Lin Siomai, Kowloon Siopao, Pringles, Lays, and since its discovery as an untapped resource, Bingo’s chili cheese dog. Given the chance, I enjoyed gobbling another Kamikaze burger at Hotshots and a Double Western at Carl’s Jr. This eating at fastfoods/restaurants at the mall is this week’s frenzy. I remember the time, and perhaps still have sods on my taste buds, when I craved for pesto, angel hair pasta, a crab sandwich, Paella, bagoong rice and crab shell omelet. Not to mention, of course, that I have the sizzling specialties of my hardworking parents every day. It’s always, quite literally, on the house. The most notable is the sizzled daing na Bangus, the flesh of the milkfish both tender and crunchy, swimming in honey and tereyaki sauce, sprinkled with sesame seeds and fried garlic --- my dad’s recipe.
I no longer wonder how I’ve grown to occupy more space in the universe by accumulating slabs of fat. I’m wondering what the best way would be to tell my tale of obesity. To eat to become happy, and to become unhappy because you ate too much.
It’s curious. I will begin another entry with the word, “week.”
Another week is ahead of me. Handling the week, however, has been an easier undertaking. I would’ve felt anxious when hours before the first log in of the week tick closer. I guess I’ve simply grown to be more complacent in working. Perhaps the customary night-outs during weekends have helped ease things out.
I had a another drink with friends last Friday night. We went to Eastwood in Liblis, probably because we were in the lookout for nice smelling women clad in skimpy clothing. And in for a better taste, we went wine bar in Makati called Pravda. The place was just so high brow and it sported this “see and be-seen” crowd. Although we were nobody to be seen, the music was quite good, and the place had perfect dim, red lighting that matched with candles on each expensive looking, well designed table. Che Guevarra’s pictures were all over the place. I just don’t understand why Che Guevarra should be involved in such a high-brow bar. A lot of the women, of course, were impeccably beautiful, and maybe even interesting and sophisticated, a lot of men where just the type who flaunt the immensity of a success that would probably compensate for the shortness of their penis. Everyone had wines and cocktails.
We went back to Malate. We settled in what we called a “classic” bar, ___. A lot of bars already sprouted in Malate and a lot other things came up that tampered the spirit of the place. M. once mentioned that a lot of the icons of our childhood were all swabbed away. We recalled our best memories before the “gay takeover.” I guess Malate has a new face now. We were just glad that ____ still stood. It hasn’t changed much. It’s a place where we felt so comfortable and steady. It was a place where we inevitably come home to. We’re barely 21 and we sounded 40.
With the good drinking binge from Friday night I was made a vegetable from a terrible hangover. I think it’s been a thousand years since I’ve did anything or physical so I decided to go biking at least. Whenever I see the magnificent sunsets at the bay, sunsets so beautiful, I can’t explain it, I almost start to believe this should be the handiwork of some supreme being. But you start to see how religion and churches work; you begin to believe that the idea of god must be overrated, and the explanation unacceptable. To recall Heller’s Catch-22, this must also be the same god who included phlegm and tooth decay in his divine system of creation. Right after the sunset I made a few rounds on CCP, on that wide road fronting the PICC and that street where trees arch and bow to (on the secretariat building.) I also went up to the film center from left side of the steps fronting the bay. While mounting that ramp with my bike I saw the sea which looked like a graveyard at 6:00 pm with early evening clouds and waters that looked gray. I saw through a hole inside the film center, and once again in a long time, felt a fear in my stomach. I couldn’t look, afraid of what I might see. Passing on a Saturday night out, I bought my brother and his friends a drink here at home.
During Sunday mornings I look forward to seeing J., our cook’s little Girl. She’s named after our mother and it’s the closest thing to having a sister. We watch cartoons, play around, and eat together a lot. Interestingly enough, she has this way of making my eyeballs moisten with tears often. Whenever she sees a McDonalds commercial, while playing her cooking toys or while she is resting her head on my shoulders when she sleeps.
We had breakfast at Mcdo this morning, and I had to chase her around a lot. We also drove and Sunday drives are such a pleasure. We went to the bookstore and I had to buy her a book about a girl and a dog that she wanted so bad, she’d cry inside the bookstore if we didn’t get it.
I may have been very glad to be living out Salinger’s usual epiphany: of having the character saved with the appearance of a child in the picture. Someday, in this story, there will be a time when I’ll need some saving.
