Airport Girl

It was my first time to go to Cebu, after 6 years, the office decided that I should go there to take care of some business at the branch. A deal was slowly slipping away, and it was surmised that I was the best person for the job to salvage it, because I can spew bullshit better than anybody else, and, well, my name sounds Korean.

It was all so urgent, the bidding was scheduled the next day and my assistant booked me last minute on Cebu Pacific Airlines. However, I had to pay for it in cash at their office, conveniently located 36 kilometers and a couple of hours of traffic from the office. I got there and took a number, not really surprised that there were about four hundred and sixty three people in front of me. An hour or so later, my number was up. I walked to the counter, did my business with them and as I prepared to leave, the lady tells me: “You have to be there two hours before the flight, sir.” Yeah, right, whatever. She must’ve thought I was on an international flight. Oh well…

Early the next morning, while sipping coffee at home, I pondered those final words. She must be kidding, right? I’ve traveled by air before, and in my experience thirty minutes was more than enough time to check in for domestic flights. Well anyway, just to be sure I left the house somewhat earlier.

I got to the airport about an hour before my flight. Some kids were lined up in front of me, seems like a field trip of some sorts. No matter, I had time to spare, I thought. I waited patiently in line, admiring the new terminal that Cebu Pacific Airlines occupied. Then came my turn at the check-in counter. Forty minutes to departure. No worries, that was until the attendant saw my electronic ticket and informed me that check-in was closed for my flight.

“What? There’s still forty minutes.”

“Yes sir, but airline policy says you should check in no later than an hour and a half prior to departure.”

“Are you serious?”

“For a while, sir.” As she calls on what seems to be her supervisor. The supervisor tells me the same thing.

“I don’t have any check-in baggage anyway. Can you just let me through?”

“You’ll have to take it up with the ticketing counter, sir.” As they both point to a table just on the exterior of the check-in area. I strode hurriedly to get this mess over with and when I got to the counter, there was a lady tugging a heavy bag on wheels who got there before I did. It was Airport Girl.

I lined up behind her as I eavesdropped on the conversation. It seems we were on the same flight and she too was barred from checking-in. I slip past her and fronted the ticket guy as well.

“I don’t have any check-in luggage, can you get me on my flight? There’s still thirty minutes.” Airport girl glances at me, my rudeness must’ve been appalling, cutting into the conversation like that, pleading my case citing our differences on the baggage situation.

“I’m sorry, sir, check-in is already closed and we can’t get into the system for that any longer.” A sudden thud reverberated in my chest hearing those words.

“So what can I do?” I asked.

“As I told her, you could book yourselves on a later flight.”

“For free?” he smiled, of course not.

“Okay, what other flights do you have?” asked Airport Girl, having enough of my rudeness and cutting in herself.

“There’s a nine o’clock and an eleven fifteen.” I glanced at my watch, a three and a half hour wait to the next flight.

“I’ll take the eleven flight.” And she hands him her credit card. I felt helpless as I thought up a good excuse to my boss for this one. He hands her back her card and prints up her new ticket. “Thank you.” She says as she goes away from the counter.

“Fine, book me on the next flight.” I said as I handed him my own card.

“Thank you, sir and we hope you enjoy your flight!” Came the reply as I took back my card and ticket. “Oh, go eff yourselves.” I whisper under my breath as I retreated outside the terminal for a cigarette break, a really long one.

Airport girl was seated on the ledge, by the ashtray. I parked my backpack a meter away from her own bag and lit up. “Excuse me, can I have a light?” Airport girl apparently gave up trying to fish out her own lighter from her luggage. I lit my cigarette before handing the lighter to her. “Thanks.”

After about twenty minutes of pondering my fate, just as the urge to light up hit me again, she beat me to the punch and asks if she could borrow my lighter a second time. So, lit up, I smile and ask her why she took the eleven o’clock instead of the nine.

“I asked my sister to bring something, I wasn’t sure she’d make it before boarding time for the nine o’clock flight.”

“Oh, where will she be coming from, anyway?”

“Las Pinas. Rush hour traffic could be quite terrible coming from that direction.”

“I know what you mean, I used to live there as well.”

“Really? Where?”

“Pilar Village. You live there as well?”

“My sister is in BF Resort Subdivision, I have an apartment in Quezon City, it’s nearer the hospital where I work.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Nurse. But I do crash at Las Pinas sometimes. I’m taking up my masters there twice a week.”

So the conversation goes to and fro as you could imagine. Small talk, mostly. She’s a nurse, thrity three years of age, single and waiting for her ticket to the States just like all of the nurses that I know. She’s headed to Cebu City for a wedding, staying there until the weekend at some posh resort where the nuptial is happening. Yes, it’s the kind of conversation that you don’t really listen to, so I decide to check her out.

Her shoulder length hair was a straight dark brown. Behind her oversized sunglasses, her eyebags told of too many hours on the graveyard shift. Despite her obviously heavy smoking, her lips were of a peach color, and her fair complexion started to turn reddish under the now unpleasant rays of the sun. I remember she wore yellow, not my favorite color, but the way her collar framed her neck was really easy to look at.

“Hey, have you had breakfast, yet? I think there’s a doughnut shop inside.” I invited.

“I’m not really hungry, but I could use some coffee.” We vacated the ledge and walked back inside the terminal. When we got there, there was a mob around the stall as it was the only thing open in the whole terminal. We gave up figuring where the line was and strolled back outside to a new smoking area, one that was not directly under the sun.

“So…” I start.

“So?”

“I’m wondering, is the thing with doctors the same with nurses?”

“What thing?”

“I mean, I notice that doctors only date other doctors, because I guess they don’t have time for much else. So are nurses that way as well?” Small talk’s over.

“No, not really. I don’t notice it, anyway.”

“Ahh, how about yourself, were your exes nurses?”

“Doctors.” She answers, a grin on her face.

“Hahaha! So I guess I was wrong on the doctor thing?”

“Well, it is still right to some extent. Doctors do usually end up with other doctors.”

The next couple of hours flew by, and we talked about almost everything we could think of. There seems to be something about talking to strangers that opens you up all of a sudden. It’s like knowing that you could say anything because you know you were never meeting them again. I glance at my watch and it was about time to check-in.

“Hey, I have to check-in, now. I don’t want to miss two flights in one day.”

“Yeah, sure. Thanks for the lighter.”

“Don’t mention it. Maybe we’ll meet in Cebu?”

“Maybe we will.” I stood up, put my bag on my back, and as I attempted to shake her hand, she busses me, instead. I was still smiling while I checked myself in.

*****

I never met Airport Girl again. And despite the hours of talking about ourselves and everything else, the topic of exchanging numbers was never brought up. Perhaps that was the way it was supposed to be, or maybe (and most likely) I was just a pussy for not asking.

Bugged!

My sister reports that for the past few days, tiny red ants have been plotting a coup to take over the apartment. They were spotted all over the sink, and after having cleaned up the sink in an effort to take away their food source, they've taken to infesting the garbage. Little sister had enough, and proceeded to drown the little buggers with a toxic combination of dishwashing liquid and kitchen cleaning aids. (I wonder why she didn't use the bug spray? They are bugs, aren't they?) It seems to have worked so far, but we are pretty sure they've been regrouping and are planning an all-out assault in the next few days.

As if ants weren't enough, I've recently spotted a dead cockroach underneath the couch. It's dead, no big deal, right? But what if it was murdered, even a victim of a mob-hit? Then that means that there is at least one more cockroach on the prowl, a more bad-ass one at that! I could see it now, a notorious syndicate of roaches right under pipes and in between the walls, antennae-deep in crime from smuggling bread crumbs from the neighbors to forcing their red-ant bitches into slavery. Oh my...

*****

Another report from little sister: a mouse was spotted in the premises. It seems to have taken up residence somewhere in the kitchen, judging from what seems to be its droppings underneath the sink. I procrastinate, hesitant to call on the mousetrap until actual proof of the mouse's existence has been confirmed. Lo and behold, while making my way to the toilet, there it is, scampering across the floor in all its furry glory.

I hold my bowels in, having been insulted by the audacity of this rodent's existence. I get my mousetrap and bait it with a piece of dried fish's head, setting it behind the stove. Then I take a crap.

*****

I called up the slum lord, maybe they can put a stop to these unwanted guests.

"Did you count how many ants there were?" The lady on the other end of the line asks.

"Uh, no. Should I?"

"Can you give an estimate?"

"Hmm, 237? That's the body count. My spies haven't provided me with a report on the number of survivors and possible new recruits behind the walls yet."

"Uh-huh. How about the cockroaches?"

"Wait, lemme check... no, that isn't on the report either. Body count is one, so far."

"And only one mouse, correct?"

"Affirmative."

"Ok, then I'd have to advise you that as stipulated on your lease, you are allowed only 300 ants, 20 cockroaches and 4 mice at any given time inside the space. Otherwise, you'll have to pay extra."

"Where the heck does it say that?"

"On your contract. The fine print."

"There's a fine print?"

"Yes sir, at the bottom."

"There isn't any there! I checked!"

"Check again, sir. You signed right over it."

"What the... you mean there's something written under the dotted line?"

"It's not a dotted line, sir. That's the fine print."

"Oh."

"It also says you are charged for each call you make to this number. And that you cannot flush dead mice down the toilet."

"Oh but I didn't..."

"You did sir. It's on our files."

"How could you possibly know that?"

"We know everything, sir. Everything."

"Everything?"

"Lemme put it this way, we have a running bet on how many times a day you watch porn on your laptop. I placed my bet on 5."

I cut the call short, opened my laptop and watched Pirates II all over again. That bitch wasn't going to win that bet today, damn it!

When it hits the fan...

I know this guy from long ago, he was a kid back then, 17, 18 maybe? Well, he’s 28 now, and is in therapy at a hospital, after he collapsed from a heart attack. Supposedly, he’s the second youngest heart attack patient at that particular hospital. Which then takes me out of the running to be the youngest, huh?

Upon hearing the news, you could imagine me all of a sudden feeling my pulse, suspecting a blockage throughout the length of my arteries and veins. That night I ate pork chops, after trimming off the fat, which I love, by the way. I resist the temptation to light up another stick, for more or less 20 minutes. After that cigarette, I make up for it by hopping on the stationary bike and pedal like mad for the next 34 minutes.

*****

So, I have a job, as of now. My boss informs me that she has just been rapped by the big boss about the dismal state of sales last year and gives me an evil stare. Hmm, last time I checked, I was managing sales. Guess I’m wearing a jacket to the office next week for I’m sure the fan would be set on high and aimed directly at me when all the shit is spewed out.

Suddenly, I update my profile on Jobstreet.com, my resume and take home some of the more bulky items in my office drawer. Better to be prepared for anything, I guess. I mentally compute how much I would be getting in severance pay and how long that would last me. The option to go back to the folk’s place rears its ugly head yet again, so I scan the dailies for a cheaper place and take note of the items that I would be able to sell off quickly enough to tide me over another few months until the lease expires on my current apartment.

*****

A few days ago, I was cruising along the C5 road at about 100kph when this pick-up truck overtakes me. I didn’t think much of it at first, he was going way faster than I was so I happily followed his tail lights, when all of a sudden we get up to a bridge and something gets tossed out from its truck bed. I pay no attention to it, until I noticed that the ejected object was going straight towards me. Before I could even react and hit the brake pedal, whatever it was slammed straight onto my hood and windshield, finally revealing itself to me as an empty carton that had been unfolded. The word “Funchum Apple Juice” was splattered onto the glass, making a horrible noise that thudded throughout the interior, I was almost sure the glass cracked and shattered. After a second or two it finally flew off, revealing a small smudge in its wake. I sighed relief as I once again accelerated and headed for home.

The next day I checked the car and the hood was scratched from the incident. Deep, deep scratches, uncovering the sheet metal of which the metal exoskeleton of the car was made of. Crap!

*****

This morning I woke up with a bad case of the sniffles. I couldn’t breathe from my nose and my eyes were burning up from what seemed like the onset of a fever. To make matters worse, it was nine o’clock, I was home in bed a full hour after the office opened. Before I could gather my wits, my phone rang and displayed my boss’ name on its tiny screen. As I pondered on the wisdom of answering it, the ringing ceased. This can’t be good, I thought, as a text message came 30 seconds later as I was thinking up an excuse:

“Where are you? You were supposed to be here for our 8:30 meeting. You could at least be responsible enough to send a message if you’re going to be late.”

The sad part about the whole affair was that I thought the meeting was for Friday. I sprang up from bed and scanned through my planner, and yes, it was for Friday, not Thursday as today was. But how do you tell that to your boss when you know you are actually late for the office, meeting notwithstanding? Of course I try, and get a curt reply:

“That may be the case, but you are late.” Touche. Check and mate. I tell you, not being able to breathe was suddenly the least of my problems at that moment, and I suddenly felt what could well have been a massive heart attack. My life suddenly flashed before my burning eyes. Oddly enough, my life was summarized in all of 5 seconds, two seconds of it was me writing a post on this blog about killing off two rodents named Roger and Hammerstein. That can’t be good, can it?

Slaying superheroes

A million things to do, and I decide to write yet another post. Seems I’ve been bitten by the writing bug again… must remember to fumigate the house.

For those curious enough, I am not at the gas station. I am at home, seated on the sofa and sipping coffee. I’ve yet to visit the gas station this year, though I’m pleasantly surprised that I can write from other locations as well.

*****

Over the holiday break, my sister and I took a drive to visit our folks, to the very same house where we grew up.

Hmm, reading back on that last sentence, I would understand how someone might conjure images of siblings traveling back to far flung provinces to visit their ma and pa who might be caring to chickens and pigs, milking cows and tending to a vegetable patch. Well, as a disclaimer, our folks live in the same city where we do. When they’re not “milking” the refrigerator or “tending” to the television, we would usually find them hard at work at the mall’s Bingo Bazaar or wading through the bargain shelves at the flea market. The “old” house is about two blocks away from our apartment, to be exact. It’s a 5-minute walk, but we drove there because, well, we’re that lazy. We “drive” there every month to get the mail, pay off some bills and steal whatever we could (ref magnets, can openers, Spam, my dad’s porn collection, batteries for the remote control, etc). Guess that clears up any mistaken imagery you readers might assume. So anyway…

While my sister and I were scrounging around, looking for a fly-swatter and a cheese-grater, I chanced upon my old comic book collection gathering dust at the bottom of my old cabinet. Still in their acid-treated plastic sleeves complete with their individual protective “backing-boards”, I sifted through the stack (incorrectly piled horizontally on top of one another, I must add) and computed about three thousand Pesos worth of early-nineties allowances. Marvel Comics titles such as both (there were only 2 then) X-men series and X-factor, Image Comics collectibles, and even my two copies of “The Death of Superman” (opened and sealed) DC Comics special. I carefully recovered each and every one of them and brought them home with me to the apartment.

Being short of money these days, I’ve thought of going online and selling them on Ebay, but that just didn’t feel right. Framing and displaying my X-men #1 fold-out cover also crossed my mind, but I couldn’t bear even unstapling the cover off what is in my opinion one of the best #1’s in comic book history (Second to Spawn #1, which I also have, by the way). I couldn’t even display them on my book shelf, fearing the curiosity and unsterilized hands of guests and visitors. So what do I do? I store them in a humidity-free and protective environment, away from sunlight and oxidizing elements. I’m not even telling you where that is!

*****

I thought back to the times when I collected these comic books and tried to recall why I stopped. Was it a different set of priorities (porn-over-comics), intellectual maturity (air-brushed porn-over-comics), a technological revolution (porn vcds-over-comics) or the realization that fantasy dies in the face of a harsh reality (Psylocke and Rogue might be strong, but they'd certainly squeal and come-a-begging with Peter North around)?

As I dust off and re-read my precious collection, I can’t help but ask the question… What killed off the comic books? A real mystery.

A tribute to a good friend

Meet an old friend of mine, Johnny. I’ve known him since I was 12, that was when my dad introduced him to me on one of those drunken new year drinking sessions he had at home with his officemates. I didn’t care much for him back then, of course. Coca-cola was still the best all time drink in those younger (and more naïve?) days. It was only in recent years that I’ve come to appreciate the companionship that Johnny always provided.

As the alcoholic son of an alcoholic father, I believe that I have inherited my dad’s taste for the finer spirits. Sure beer is always good, and the occasional brandy or wine is surely welcome, but special moments deserve more, and so while I write this, Johnny is by my side. But before I can reveal the occasion, let me introduce me to Mr. Walker. Mr. Johnny Walker (Black) to be precise. A dear friend of mine, for sure.

Imagine me going back to my father’s house, in a way, the return of a prodigal son. The smile on his face is evident as I shake his hand, just as equals do. We are now both men. Long gone is the worn out old leather belt that he used to torment me with, replaced with soothing words of wisdom and most times, unsolicited advice. We take our places by the outdoor sala, as my mom asks whether we’d like to sip on some juice or ice cold water. My dad points to the bar, and mother understands that Johnny is to join the party. Clearly such a homecoming is deserving of fine spirits, indeed!

On a new year’s eve, up north, the very tip of the main island of Luzon, I and a good friend of mine find ourselves starting a year that would see us through different paths to the same lonely end (well, kinda). Who best to toast us than my good friend Johnny. Sure, the Frenchman, Remy Martin was alright for the halfway stop at La Union, but for new beginnings, the occasion calls for such a familiar advocate.

A year later, another good friend stops by my home, penniless and in need of an uplifting spirit to soothe his nerves. He spies Johnny sitting idly on the top shelf, and calls upon him. I silently protest, seeing that this man knows not the difference between isopropyl alcohol and the finest scotch whiskey. I test his resolve, offering a round of beer instead. No objections, as he flashes an approving smile. Not a drop marked Black Label should be spilt on account of an unappreciative palette.

On the night of yet another friend’s homecoming, as we got out of the car to greet him, he hands me a bag of heavy black boxes. The gold letters made my heart skip a beat, and as he tells me that one of those little boxes was for me, the suggestion of that familiar taste just as soon arouses a Pavlovian response. A naked supermodel might as well have passed by and I wouldn’t have noticed. (Hmm, well, I probably would have. Yes, I definitely would’ve. Okay, I take that last sentence back.)

With a heavy heart, I introduce Johnny to a group of friends at their house a few days back. It was a selfish gesture, I thought no one would dare take a fancy at him, with the top hat and cane. I imagined having the whole bottle to myself and another friend, wimpy females had no business measuring themselves up to Johnny, anyway. Better they stick to their pretentious sugar-loaded multicolored “ladies’ drinks”. To my horror, they wanted a sip. Then another, then another still! What the…? It was downright blasphemous! I held back tears as Johnny was hog-tied and gang-raped by a bunch of Jose-loving, original-sin-bearing, cat-loving members of the weaker half of the species! Pretty soon it was all over, as Johnny lay on his back, exhausted of all liquids, victims of the coven. I laid a wreath on his tombstone the very next morning.

*****

Tonight, as I will myself to sleep with thoughts of nothing, Johnny softly whispers into my ears. An auspicious occasion, this is! A man alone and weary of the world, retiring to yet another day. I take up a glass and soon a sliver of golden liquid fire drowns ice cubes lying in wait. No better time for a good friend as this.

This serves as a notice...

I'm moving. Well, not me, but this blog. Upon the suggestion of some people, I am currently creating a new URL that would be a tad friendlier to those who can't memorize this one (be97b2.blogspot.com). I've thought up some "Might be asked questions", just in case:

1. What's the new site?

Well, I can't tell you yet as I've not yet finished re-arranging and customizing the new one. I would want to eliminate as much of the hassles of moving which is why I wanted to make sure that I liked the whole look and feel of it before I actually do. I will of course post it here once I do.

2. Will you finally have a theme?

Nah.

3. What significant changes will you incorporate?

Well, not much save for the new look that I'm trying to find. Content would be pretty much the same anyways. I'm thinking of posting a few pictures here and there to give some sort of visual of what the heck I'm talking about, as well.

I've thought about changing the privacy settings, like making it "un-googleable" but still open for the public to check out. Also there seems to be tools available online that would help me keep track of the traffic on my blog and stuff like that. It would be kinda cool to get somewhat of a cross-section of my, uhm, readership.

4. Will there be porn pop-ups and spam messages?

Hmm...

5. When's the big move?

I originally planned it today (January 1, 2010). You know, new year, new blog kinda thing? But it doesn't look like it's happening on schedule. I'm still waiting for my apartment to have an internet connection, which is dependent on my financial status, which doesn't look too bright at the moment. Thus, I'm giving myself an April 2010 deadline, otherwise I just stick to this old one.

*****

Well, I'll keep you posted on what's happening anyways and as soon as I can, will be launching a soft-opening of sorts just to check out some bugs. So until then, consider this as a notice.