Philippine Speculative Fiction Volume 1 Read online

  Gil jeers. A sudden uncontrollable itch in your pants, hmmm?

  And then I’m off, making a mental list of all my excuses as I board the very first bus I see. 1) I do not want to end up like Gil, with a musty, rusty mind, and an equally dirty, moldy tongue. 2) I want to prove I have a heart that still beats and ponders the greater mysteries of life. 3) I do not want to lose all spontaneity even if it means losing my job. 4) And actually, I just want to see Jan.

  It’s not just about some itch in the pants either.

  *

  THE LATE-MORNING BUS ride quenches my zeal somewhat. It gives my memory banks too much time to recall my boss’ fiery glare and Gil’s dirty mind. Smoke and dust are all I see. It could just also be air pollution.

  I have never confronted Jan with the fact that I saw her do something quite unnatural. I know I said I wanted adventure, but I meant something of the more manly kind, the kind that would at least keep me satisfiably laid, and at most, have me basking in a love-induced marriage. And I would really just like a little break. But now, the day I saw her hop out of a door suspended three feet in the air keeps sitting between us like a pesky little sister. I’m too frightened of pointing her out to Jan, for fear of being called delusional – There’s nobody sitting there, kiddo – or for fear of turning out the villain – What have you got against my little sister?

  Besides, the event seems too much in the past now. I could have said something then. It was a little bit awkward though, sitting there shirtless, and making a puddle on the floor, while she hovered above with a towel, softly dabbing at my arms and chest, and smelling like sunshine. She also reminded me of my mother, except without the shrewishness and the scolding. The resemblance nevertheless kept me quiet and still, which is the zen art I practice if I dare hope for even a second of peaceful co-existence with my mother and her tongue. Then, as she leaned over to kiss me, or as I looked up and stole a kiss from her lips, I worried that words would only ruin the moment. And finally, you see, I thought it would have been completely unethical to mention it later on, after we had removed our clothes and given in to the romance of dark skies and rain outside, and the warmth of clean, spectacularly dry sheets inside. It would have been too much like criticizing something about her body after being allowed to see her naked.

  And now, standing here on her doorstep, I admit my ultimate excuse for ditching work today: 5) to arrive earlier than expected and see what happens next.

  *

  THERE’S NOBODY HOME. No one upstairs and no one downstairs. I am alone with her high and mighty doors. And she could be anywhere, behind any of them. She could also be on a bus somewhere, idiot. She could be hiding, watching what I do next. Why don’t I just try opening one and getting it over with?

  I study each door closely, and try to single out one with a different aura or special glow, which to my mind would reveal where she is. Too easy. And then I think, What if she’s calling for help and no one can hear her? I try to listen for the sound of pounding fists.

  But if doors were so dangerous, why would she put them in her house? Just listen to that. There are all sorts of doors in all sorts of houses. I will never ignore another door like a normal human being ever again.

  If I live through this.

  Oh shut up.

  The fact is, there are no telltale signs. Which door? Just choose any, you moron. The truth is, I don’t like touching any of them, especially not her prized antiques – the Medieval Eastern, the Balinese, and the sturdy wooden gate that ought to have a moat.

  The nearest one looks harmless enough, simply a flat board with orange, purple, and brown runny lines from top to bottom. You’d think there’d be a lake of paint underneath by now, except that the paint drops have dried here and there on the surface, permanently frozen in time. I suppose I’d rather open this one than the head-to-foot locker door with a magazine and sticker collage smoothed by a thin film of gloss. There could be nothing worse than opening it and discovering smelly socks. I shall also make sure to keep away from the black door studded with all sorts of screws, bolts, and nails. Too Frankenstein-Hellraiser. And the faux pink fur lining the frosted glass of its upper half, and all sorts of seashells studding its lower squares, look too girly for my taste. I’d probably see a mermaid singing Broadway tunes in that one. Although why I’d refuse something topless in a beach-setting... well, this door’s my next choice, then.

  So I start with this simple paint-and-wood ensemble. Just a peek. I try not to think of Pandora. Well, Pandora had a box, you shit.

  *

  IN THE END, I knew I was a fool. None of these other doors opened, slid, or accordioned to anything but empty air. They simply framed and showed the other side. I could even walk through them. Without harm, without anything happening, no trapdoors, mirrors, mists, shadows, sunshine, nothing. I just became dizzy and nauseated by the smell of paint and glue and varnish. In the end, I decided to collapse on Jan’s bed, smell her much more comforting smells, and wait for her there with my more manly hopes.

  Or maybe, not the end. After some moments on her bed, I could not help but stare at the things around me, and finally, come to understand something. There was going to be only one door for me. Above the lumpy sofa, the pygmy door hung from the ceiling with the help of pulleys, bearings, and sturdy, semi-transparent string. All its white paint had already been stripped off, and all the carvings underneath revealed an elaborate border of curves, mazes, and lines. It was as if Jan had left me a note; it just wasn’t on a post-it. Enter here.

  So I am faced with three choices, as I see it. 1) Go home, and admit I am not manly enough. 2) Wait for Jan, and pretend I did not understand the instructions. 3) Just open the door, have a look, and if I like what I see, stroll in.

  But there’s no mistaking this door is mine.

  *

  NOW I CURSE the drenching rain and walk down the long dirty highway enveloped by the sights, smells, and sounds of trash, grit, smoke, diesel, crowds, jeepneys, and taxis. I find I cannot bear to wait my turn and board a bus; neither do I want to push my way among the throng and get into close contact with the drops on their raincoats and umbrellas, the mud in their pants and shoes, the mix of their sweat, their perfumes, and their chatter. With my current mood, I just want to trudge on and forget I had ever hoped for anything better than my lot. And no one better block my way.

  Why not the sea, sun, and sky for me? Or shady trees and grassy mountains? Did she think I was not good enough for those? I had not even wished for a Willie Wonka sort of surprise, no lollipop trees or cotton candy clouds. And though I might have expected something along the lines of a Linkin Park video, and have strange, hairy, emaciated, and headless behemoths loom in the horizon for a moment, I had not expected This. Ordinary. Rainy. Bus-infested. Highway. I would have even preferred the behemoths stomping on me, though seeing that video had put me off tapa for a week.

  *

  I FEEL CHEATED. Ridiculed. Trapped. Left out indeed by all those other doors that might have opened to something so much grander. I had no choice at all in the matter, the moment I put my foot on the sofa like I was going up a doorstep and pulled open the wooden pygmy door. Then there was no door, just this endless highway to my left and to my right. I waited so long near where I thought the door stood or hung, thinking to make my exit supposing it appeared again. And then I started walking – to hell with where and why and what now. There are just days and days of this highway, where it is always rush hour, and the rain just keeps pouring, and the pedestrians and the sirens and the horns and the motorcycles just keep multiplying. I would have liked a car, at least.

  And then some day or another, I am pulled under a sidewalk vendor’s awning, and, knocking down a tray of beads, watches, lighters, purses, and pens, I find myself face to face with Jan and her towel. I fend her off and manage to swipe away three cotton t-shirts with garish designs from their plastic hangers. I dive back into the rain, ignoring the screams and curses of the vendor, only to discover that sud
denly, there is no rain, only sweltering heat.

  *

  YOU’LL STILL NEED THIS, says Jan, attempting to hand me the towel, while trying to catch up with me. I feel the steam rising off my shoulders, the steam of rage and hate, I think proudly. I see she is hampered by something on her back, which turns out to be my knapsack, left so many nightmares ago at the foot of her bed. I take it from her, since that is at least something that truly belongs to me, and push the towel away.

  I know you’re angry, she says, still following behind me, and I wish I had just kept on letting her carry my knapsack, since it is slowing me down, heavy with all my stupid paraphernalia, from my wallet, keys, cellphone, and MP3 to my extra change of shirt, my ratty schedule sheet, and the toy VW I filched from Gil’s desk to borrow for a day or two. I know I also have my shades in there, but I don’t want to stop walking.

  I can’t blame you for being angry, she continues, able to keep step with me now.

  No kidding. Angry. Disgusted. Enraged. Furious. Absolutely Livid. Just go away, Jan.

  You’ve been wanting so badly to run away, she continues, to escape.

  Well who wouldn’t have wanted to escape all this? When it’s not rain, it’s sweat dripping off me, and lahar from my armpits. Just shut up.

  You’ve been wishing for a fresh start. A new beginning.

  And what right had she to tell me what I have wanted and wished? What did she know? She surprisingly sounded right, though. Still...

  You tricked me, Jan. I don’t know what you did, but you can undo it all and leave me the way I was.

  And then?

  And then you can fuck off.

  Why are you angry WITH ME?

  Are you kidding?

  I gave you what you wanted.

  You call this a new beginning?

  You can’t have a real beginning unless you know what it is you are ending.

  Oh cut the crap.

  To move forward, you’ve got to be able to look behind you and make peace with that.

  Give me a break!

  *

  IN THE END – and I mean this as the real end – I simply just board the bus and go back to work. Yes, as simple as that. I just turn my back on her, there on the highway, and board a bus. And it escorts me back to work.

  So, I face the foul-mouth Gil and my sour-faced boss during the weekdays, and spend a lot more time arguing with my mother during the weekends. No blue skies, no stars shining, no fireworks or big bangs. No winds to whirl me back to the first time I met Jan, or to the first time I opened the pygmy door. No magic wand or happy endings either.

  I leave Jan standing on the sidewalk, leap into a bus, and then never look out the window again and never go back to where she lives. I doubt I shall ever find her again anyway. It seems easier to believe, too, that she has never existed except as a sudden attack of the imagination on a bus ride one day.

  So what the hell changed, you might ask. Well, you won’t catch me singing Broadway songs in a feather boa, but my bus rides have improved, for a start. All of a sudden, I‘ve got all these thoughts brewing in my head. Perhaps one day I shall quit work and go to graduate school. One day I shall tell my mother I love her. One day I shall dive in the ocean or climb a mountain. One day I shall even paint a door, though I will keep it firmly shut. Well, at least until I’m ready. And today – after I wipe my face with this sweet-smelling towel – I shall end this, because after an end comes a new beginning.

  TYRON CALIENTE

  THE DOPPLER EFFECT

  Tyron Caliente is the pseudonym of a research and development engineer who seems to have too much time in his hands when he should be analyzing statistical data and design issues. Proof of this is his conception of a series of e-books compiling the best of the Philippine blogosphere, released (almost) regularly starting April 2005. His publications include emotionally-charged technical paper thrillers such as “Understanding the Mechanism of Wirebond-Related Blown-up Test Failures in Flash Packages” and “Delamination in Very Thin, Fine-Pitched Ball Grid Array Packages.” He was previously the Editor-in-Chief of a factory newsletter and is currently a contributor to a company magazine. He will be relinquishing his position as grammar police of the engineering department after clipping the last stray apostrophe inside a process development report.

  “The Doppler Effect,” Caliente’s first fiction publication, looks at how the laws of physics sometimes reflect human relationships.

  1. Afloat, adrift, a flight, a wing

  29 March

  HEY. I REALLY have no talent in hiding my excitement.

  Did I sound so eager yesterday? Postponing the event was a disappointment. I prepared for the occasion, but I am not used to Manila’s climate anymore. By afternoon I was a soggy mess, I felt harassed, earlier walking the whole of Cubao to run some errands and on to Libis for more. Knowing that the barber was on day-off was my last straw. I won’t blame you for sleeping; you need it. There’s still Saturday.

  Maybe having just one percent of my own life makes me eager to see somebody new, not that I’m having an affair out of marriage. I don’t feel caged at all, but I am not willing to be stifled, so I make these little escapes to my bachelor haunts. Books, music, photography. You know, when you said that I‘ve been around, maybe I‘ve been, or maybe not. I still remember that when I was a college freshman, I vowed to taste every sin that I could take, to shift my soul a few degrees from my body.

  My wife had been my girlfriend since college. Other than that, I had a series of less serious relationships. We were conservative during those days, unlike your generation.

  My first freshie was devastating; she hurt me on and off and destroyed me three years later. She was my Love Spit Love, a bedlam that came in a balmy season. Sometimes I hear myself singing “Am I Wrong” on a March day. Bad things really happen during the Ides of March: Caesar was killed during March. She was gone at the cusp of March and April. After two months of exile I was a new man and I met my future wife. Should I say, got to know her for the second time? Our love story was interesting. She vowed never to marry me even if I was the only guy left on the planet and I said the feeling was mutual.

  Enough of that, maybe we can talk about it later or never at all.

  Men want a battle to fight for. Women want a battle to share with.

  {You can always make things happen except make your ex fall in love with you again. I find it harder than any dreams I have.

  You have 50, 60 years or so ahead of you if you die of a natural cause. You can do a lot of things in that short span of time. Don’t waste it, or you might regret waking up when you’re old and can’t do things you should have done while you could. It’s like saving up for a vacation upon retirement, but I want my vacation now. I’ve always believed in making things happen, and being in control.

  Evil is ultimately good. You’ll see. You’ve been around.

  I’m a floater. Bono said, “There’s nothing you can throw at me that I haven’t already heard. I’m just trying to find a decent melody, a song that I can sing in my own company.”

  I’m drifting in this lifetime fearing nothing because I own nothing except my soul. I’m getting melodramatic like the search for a taxicab on a Maundy Thursday.

  Been working in the night shift for two years now. And I am beginning to think that I am a movie vampire burned to death by a team of paid extras. Do you believe in past lives?}

  2. The naked truth arouses the soul

  23 March

  LET ME INTRODUCE myself first. I work at a Japanese electronics company up north. Senior package development engineer—research and development stuff. If I have to explain to you what is all the fuss with packages and why the Japanese go to the Philippines just for it, I might bore you. You can call me Castro. I have as many names as God.

  I have read that “Moon River” is your favorite song. I hummed it way back in university, and I’m whistling it now because you brought back those days when I didn’t have to worry about the
future. Moon River. As Time Goes By. Take My Breath Away. Tuck and Patti. This is Flirting First-Class. I am a sucker for Everything But The Girl and when you talked to me like the sea, I knew that I wanted myself to be heard.

  Quiet nights on the beach, skinny-dipping in the moonlight, nightswimming. I definitely want these simple things, far from what urbanity and its (in)-conveniences have to offer. I have definitely outgrown the debauchery and hedonism of my wasted youth and simply want to disappear into the gorges for days on end. But this definitely won’t happen in my lifetime.

  You’re young. You can have as many relationships as you want. There is no legalese to bind you. Take advantage of it. I’m speaking like this because I miss being single and if I had the chance I would trade my soul with yours for a day. Finding somebody to complete you is a fruitless search. Start from the other end—think how you can complete somebody who you feel is worth completing it with. What is it that we are completing in a relationship anyway? The ultimate answer to life, the universe and everything is 42, but we don’t know what the ultimate question is. I think it’s the search for completion that matters most.

  It’s an end unto to itself.

  {I agree, Stud is a beautiful name fit for a dog. Castro is okay, but let me call you River. Our conversations are getting deeper, building up on every available space before going to the next level, like an Aufbau principle. Like Griffin and Sabine.

  Who knows, in an array of alternate universes, in a sea of ifs, we could be one person writing to himself from the past. Or a father (me), writing to his future son (you). All is possible. I could actually trade my love life for this.

  But then again, I have none.

  P. S. I am a quality assurance analyst in a call center, in case you want to know.}

  3. A life less lived