Project in Progress III

"Ayala station? The train just left Ayala station," he asks the woman in disbelief.

"Hey, are you lost? I downed three bottles last night, but I know where I took this train." The woman stops flirting with her hair, ogling him with eyes big with concern. The passengers are also now looking at them with interest, even the nine year old with the big red backpack who appears to be sitting beside her mother.

"No. I took this train on Ayala station. We took this train on Ayala station."

"Suit yourself, kid." She opened her compact once more and started coating her face with powder, again with the wrong side of the compact's foam. She examines the bags under her eyes and exhales deeply, the reek of alcohol filling the air around her.

"We'll see who's right." He gives her a patronizing smile, and then for good measure, he winks conspiratorially at a well-dressed guy who had been looking at them. As if to say, “Crazy girl, isn’t she?”

The guy does not smile back and he notices he is uneasy standing between two muscled men. He cannot help but note the guy’s embarrassingly unmistakable erection. The guy shyly covers his groin with his sling bag.

He decides they may be roughly of the same age. A call center agent, he thinks. Everyone he knows who can’t continue their studies has gone on to work at a call center. The guy is wearing a white long-sleeved shirt that looked expensive, the first two buttons opened. He can see sweat dripping down from the pit of his neck into his boyish chest. The MRT’s air-conditioning is atrocious.

Then the train stops with a loud screech, ending his reverie. He sees Faux Blonde getting up from her seat.

“You take care, okay?” She sends a kiss flying toward him.

He looks out of the train and, with his good right eye, reads “Ayala” boldly printed in white against the blue signboard. He looks around him, at the other passengers, but no one would meet his eyes.

to be continued

Project in Progress II

Amidst anonymous elbows, shoulders, arms that seem to belong to no one, he wonders if the proponents of the law of conservation of mass have ever been on a crowded train.

As he fights his way into the middle part of the train, where the crowd of passengers is thinner, he is almost ready to believe space can be occupied by two bodies of mass at the same time. Then out of nowhere, an arm reaching for the handlebars above hits his head. His eyeglasses sliding down his nose, everything transforming into a blur, then a faint crack. Shit.

He stoops down, feeling the floor for his glasses, but there is only a forest of feet and smelly shoes.

"Hey. Is this what you're looking for?"

He feels a woman's soft hands pressing something into his hands--his glasses. "You should be more careful, kid."

He puts back his glasses on, squinting. All of the left lens is a big spider web. Great.

"You should think about having your glasses secured around your neck with some sort of lace. You know that kind grouchy librarians use?"

A woman sitting in one of the train benches stares at her with big droopy eyes. She produces a compact from inside her purse and starts dabbing at her pale, sweaty face. He notices that she was using the wrong side of the compact's foam.

"The librarians I know do not wear glasses, " he replies, trying to keep his balance by holding on to a strap attached to a handlebar.

"The nerds I know are smart," the woman says, closing her compact with a loud click. She then begins attacking her hair with a plastic comb. "And they say thank you when you help them."

He decides not to be alarmed by the woman's lack of humor; he must save his energy for the more important things happening later today.

The train still has not left Ayala Station. More people are trying to get aboard the train, holding the automatic doors from closing. The security guard, blowing his shrill whistle again, orders them to step away from the platform, prompting a fresh batch of curses from the frustrated passengers. The train doors close with a long, relieved beep. The train starts to move.

Then the woman stares at him again, eager to start another conversation. "You know what, kid? You look.. too good-looking for a geek," the woman says, twirling a lock of her faux blonde hair.

He ignores the remark and pretends to be looking intently at a nine-year old kid with a ridiculously big backpack. The backpack's zipper was partly open and he could see blankets and a small pillow inside the bag.

Then the blonde woman says something strange: "God, I hate the MRT. I swear I'm going to get off in Ayala station and take a taxi instead."

to be continued

Project in Progress I

The smell of waffles smothered in margarine wafts towards him from a nearby food stall, watering his mouth. He remembers he forgot to eat breakfast in his haste and excitement. Today is an important day for him, and he often forgets such mundane matters like food on days like this.

He climbs the stairs to the MRT Ayala station, buys a ticket, and goes through the ticket machines. Suspended from above, the big Timex clock greets him with the time: 6:15 AM. Better early, he decides.

He takes the escalator pouring people into the already crowded platform below.

What a curious thing, the train. How it can warp time and space, how it could make life both harder and easier, the way it shrinks distances, the way it creates free time for more work.

He makes a mental note to find out the etymology of the word "train." He is someone who is fond of collecting small, useless trivia, keeping them inside his head until needed. Like candies in his pocket.

A shrill whistle from the station security guard, the urgent ringing of an alarm bell, then the train arrives, halting with a loud screech. As if on cue, the passengers turn frantic, fighting their way inside the train, pushing and jostling each other, like a single many-headed monster throwing a tantrum.

He adjusts his thick steel-rimmed glasses and joins the furious crowd.

to be continued

Project in Progress

THE BIG CLOCK says 6:15 AM. In exactly one minute, a northbound train will arrive at Ayala Station. Among those waiting: a well-dressed call center agent, a ten year old with a ridiculously big backpack, a faux-blonde girl reeking of alcohol, and a tall young man in thick steel-rimmed glasses.

There will be frenzied pushing and cursing when the train comes and everyone gets on board. Not everyone will be comfortable when they get inside. The call center agent, sandwiched between two men, will get an embarrassing hard-on. The ten year old will be seated beside a woman who looks like her mother. The drunk blonde will worry about her make-up dissolving in sweat. The tall young man will lose his glasses.

But everybody will eventually get to their destinations, except one. The poor guy does not know it yet, of course.

to be continued

idols and phases

do not envy me, this sham of grandeur

you were right, about my robe of stone,
a concrete prison, which even rain cannot ruffle,
which only lightning can break, to my own ruin

i have a face borrowed from someone,
while you, though anonymous in a flood
of faces, can smile

and if lucky, you might find an answering smile,
in the same flood of anonymous faces,
and then you shall no longer be
nameless, you can flee from the crowd,
like birds that now roost on my shoulders

i shall be happy watching you both fly
into the morning,

then you shall be the ones, whom i will envy

thanks goes to jamie whose poem inspired this one