Forgetting the Remembered V
That monochromatic night was my last moment with him (aside from March 14) . Or I thought it was.
After graduation, instead of spreading SPFs on our bodies and running along the shores of Bora, my classmates and I sunbathed under the gloomy reviews of our professors in preparation for the licensure exam. And since I programmed my systems to be in a vacation mode (I promised myself to get a decent vacation after 8 years–including highschool years— of studying hard, playing hard, partying hard, writing hard, and trying hard), I usually find myself coming late in the afternoon, sliding myself on one of the seats near to the venue’s exit and wasting my ink on sketches instead of taking down notes or rereading last month’s Readers Digest.
One of those supposed-to-be vacation afternoons, Heaven and I decided to take a break/ semi-escape. We went outside the building and found comfort inside Lift bottles and packs of Onion-flavored Skyflakes.
"’Ngita ‘ta bala obra, ‘Ven?" I told her in a sudden. I was bored and a hint of jealousy crept into me when my almost half of my classmates told me that they got a job.
"Ano ‘bi?"
"Matutor ‘ta sa Koreans or ma-call center." I answered though I know neither of the two is in my job list. Just for the sake, ika nga.
While I was making progress in convincing Heaven that teaching Koreans may not be bad at all, a classmate to be named as Check popped out of nowhere.
"’Pod ko! D’in kamo mangita?" Check interrupted.
"’La pa gani. Mangita pa lang," Heaven answered.
"Lakat ‘ta bala subong," I suggested though I know the two didn’t like to be absent in our reviews. I waited for some dagger looks.
"Malakat lang ‘ta bala," Check said, drowned in her thoughts of job hunting.
"Oo ay!" surprisingly, Heaven enthusiastically blurted out.
We walked and walked as fumes served as light foundation. We went to an English center beside Gaisano City and asked if there are vacant posts for tutors. The pretty receptionist looked at us, raised an eyebrow, and said , "We will just give you a call."
Oh, come on. Don’t you have other lame synonyms for rejection? I wanted to answer back but my companions invited me to go downstairs.
Under a 4 o’ clock heat, we walked toward Atrium, St. Paul’s, and San Agustin. When we reached JD Roadhouse, Check suggested that we should eat something.
"’Di lang a. Didto lang ‘ta sa mga tiangge lapit sa UP.Maka-save pa ta," I said. I only got a hundred in my pocket.
"Oo man," Heaven seconded.
Upon reaching a store in front of UP, we ordered ice-cold bottles of Coke and two five-peso packs of bread. We gobbled the pieces of bread, gulped the acid-like Coke, and talked about the "new graduate’s syndrome."
"Lakat ‘ta sa Callbox. Last na lang," I insisted after the two decided to go home.
"Okay, since lapit na man lang kita," Check agreed.
We started walking again, crossed the street, went to the main building of Callbox (beside Goodyear), and inquired on the requirements on how to become one of the CSRs.
Manong guard robotically answered, "Ha? Pass n’yo lang resume n’yo a… Kay tawgan lang kamo…"
"Ah, okay," I answered and made some sense on his answer. I’m sure they will call us. After all, it’s a call center.
Before I burst into fits of laughter because of my kakornihan, I told my friends to get off the building.
"’Teh, ano na ‘ni?" Check asked us.
Teh ano na gid man? We’re new grads. We have freedom. They want us. I don’t want them. Will I work just for the sake of having money or what? I want to grab Check by her collar and shake her with my ma-drama questions.
I tried to look at the zooming jeepneys for answers instead. The passengers, however, seemed to bear a letter on their foreheads as if they’re choices in a multiple choice quiz.
So I stopped and looked at Heaven who tugged my sleeve and whispered, "Starve*, si ano man na…"
"Ha?"
"Uy, si ano* man na sang _college_," Check blurted out.
It was too late; I saw him walking towards us, smiling. What the?!
"Hello," he greeted. "Gaano kamo ‘di?"
I didn’t answer as I turned into stone, again. How I wished I camouflaged with one of the building’s posts.
"Nag-inquire kami diri," Check answered, saving me from another humiliation I was making for myself.
"Aaaa… May ara pa gid bala nga bag-o sa likod sang Rob," he said as he stood beside me.
Sheeet… I wasn’t ready for that; my shirt’s soaked with perspiration, my hair’s frizzy, and I looked like I need a slap of pink on my cheeks.
"Di’n ka ya halin?" Check asked him as I took that opportunity to be hypnotized by his smile.
"Ha? Dira-dira lang."
"Mauna kami," I suddenly said and dragged Heaven. Stone me, but his presence’s killing me in a bittersweet manner.
I didn’t turn back to see if he’s still there. I didn’t. I was afraid to find he wasn’t there anymore. But I was more afraid to see him, standing and smiling.
I went home tired of the walkathon and tired of him and his unexpected surprises. Where was he before he went to us? Did he see us or did we pass him by? Why did he walk towards us when he doesn’t even know my classmates? Why did he have to do that? (Voice insert: He’s just being friendly, you assuming…)
Endless assuming questions marched in my mind and as I tried to push them back, I realized that this "kahangalan" must be stopped once and for all.
But how? When he’s in the shadows, in the folded pages of my college notes, in my phone’s address book, in my Friendster (kon i-erase ko ‘to siya, obvious na guid eh), in the frame of my eyeglasses, in the calendar, in my systems, in my significant day, in the zipper of my bag, in the moon and in the stars? And even in the puddles of rain?
I can’t shake him off me. He’s in the city. His aura lingered in the air (and still is). And he’s driving me crazier. He didn’t see that, of course, until now that I’m almost over him. He will never see that.
I wish I can rip my heart out of my system - still pumping, vessels curling up, scarlet red droplets dripping on his Chucks in a silent trip-trip manner— hand it to him and say, "My heart beats for you, not I." (cont.)
