Friday Fiction: Debts, Deaths, and Dreams

Dani stared at the LED screen showing lithe, bespectacled girls riding a gold bus down Las Vegas strip. Awash in cotton candy pink and yellow lights, the models blew bubbles and strutted down the street like it was their personal runway. Tall, confident, carefree. The girls on TV were everything Dani will never be.

Deciding she's had enough, she turned her back from the digital ad billboard and turned to the crowd in the shopping mall coffee shop. It's been fifteen minutes and her client is nowhere to be found. A brown envelope of cash burned through her purse, twenty thousand pesos she failed to deposit before the bank closed for the day. A handful of money and yet she couldn't spare to waste a cup of coffee for herself. She'd have to commute back home with the cash, but it's not something she hasn't done before. 

The trick is to act like there's nothing valuable in your bag. It helps that her nondescript tote is tattered at the edges, the synthetic leather peeling in different areas. Unlike the black nylon tote she sold that afternoon, a high-end bag she purchased two years ago before she left her last company. She originally asked for a higher price since the bag was in very good condition (she only used it once on a trip to Bali), all the gold hardware scratch-free and the straps were made of Saffiano leather, but her client was a frequent buyer and asked for a discount. With another deadline from the corrupt BIR officer looming, Dani had no choice but to give in. 

The last two months had been a blur of buying and selling her things, material possessions she acquired since she started working, stuff she now realize don't really amount to much in the grand scheme of things. Not when you were left with a mountain of debt by your mother, who decided to up and leave without any warning. 

Dani had a plan. Before she resigned from the events company she toiled in for five years to start her own wedding coordination team, she prepared everything needed to make her dream come true. She crafted a business plan, consulted her network of industry insiders, reached out to her freelance friends to jump on board. Everything was ready. What she didn't count on was her mother ruining everything for her. Again. 

When Dani was about to apply for a sole proprietorship at the BIR, she discovered that she was in fact, several years due for tax payments and penalties. It turns out, her mother used her TIN in opening a short-lived massage place (one of her many big ideas), forged her signatures, didn't pay the taxes, and never bothered to inform the bureau when it closed down.

So instead of starting her dream venture, Dani had to spend her savings to first pay for the fines of a business she never benefited from. 

Sadly, it was an all too-familiar scenario for the petite, insecure, and uptight lady now waiting to let go of another possession at a loss. She dug through her purse and felt the small drawstring pouch that holds a gold 18k necklace with a medallion pendant bearing the letter "D". It was a gift from her late father Danilo, after whom she was named. 

Dani tried her best not to break down. She had no time for drama right now. She gripped the wooden table before her, holding on tight as the tears threatened to spill. The necklace was the last thing her father gave her on his last trip back to the Philippines, when he spent two whole weeks of uninterrupted quality time with Dani and her mother. They went to a beach in Zambales, gorging on mangoes and grilled seafood. They went to Baguio and hoarded jars of Good Shepherd Ube Jam and Lengua de Gato.  

The next time Mang Danilo came home from Saudi he was in a coffin. A freak accident with a cement mixer at the factory where he had worked for ten years. Dani was sixteen. 

Mang Danilo made sure Dani and her mother would have a good life even after he was gone. But all his hard work went down the drain in two years when Dani's mother started gambling. It was small time at first. Cards and Mahjong whenever she and her friends would meet up for dinner at one of their houses. Then a friend introduced her to e-games, where she spent hours in front of a digital slot machine, befriending all the attendants and security guards where she played. She was winning too, but became too addicted that she ended up losing more than what she won. 

Soon Dani noticed pieces of furniture and appliances were missing. Her mother's handbag collection, gifts from Mang Danilo every time he went back home, started disappearing too. Then she saw a text message on her mother's phone, to an unnamed number, saying she needed to see him and pawn her ring because she already lost three hundred thousand that night.

When Dani confronted her, she denied everything. She said she was just destressing, handling her grief and passing time. A month later she disappeared, leaving a trail of debts and angry former friends banging at their door.

That was six years ago. And now the ghost of her mother still haunts her. Dani slid the necklace back to its pouch and began to stand up. It looks like her client is a no-show, and just as well. She won't be selling the necklace after all.

She's done paying for debts she doesn't owe.




*Friday Fiction is my attempt at writing again. Writing to better myself, and not just because I need it to earn money. On Fridays (not every Friday though), I'll be posting something I wrote. It can be snippets, short stories, or even poetry. Hope you can come back and check! 

Friday Fiction: Buses, Bruises, and Waves

Ali let her forehead touch the window of the bus as she watched the Metro Manila cityscape scroll by. The sky was still dark and the cars on the road were few and far between. It won't be another hour until the traffic congestion starts. With a five-hour trip ahead of her, Ali tried to get some sleep.

It didn't work of course. The minute she closed her eyes it all came back to her: the screaming, the tears, the feeling of her heart wanting to jump out of her chest. Her left hand immediately went to her right arm, and she squirmed as she imagined how it looked underneath her green long-sleeved shirt. The apple-sized bruise is only starting to show, in a couple of days it will turn purple, and she'd have to make sure she keeps it hidden from everyone.

She'd have to wear a sleeved rash guard when she goes out to catch the waves. She didn't want anyone asking about anything, she just wanted to surf. She just wanted the sea to swallow everything up, like it's always done. The ocean has always been her dumping site for every emotional garbage life throws at her. This was just another thing she has to unload.

The bus was moving fast but Ali still caught sight of the building where it all began. Where she met him. She wondered what her life would have been like had she not gone there that day to visit her friend. For the hundredth time, she wondered how different things would have been had their paths never crossed two years ago.

It had been a hot and humid Wednesday afternoon, and Ali shielded her eyes from the 2pm sun, her top clinging to her back. She had taken the train because her car was stuck in their garage, the MMDA's number-coding scheme banning it on the roads that day. Matt had invited her to a late lunch/early dinner because he needed to vent out to someone regarding the bad day he was having. Ali was then in between jobs and dying of boredom at home, so she happily agreed.

She heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the big glass doors of Matt's office, and welcomed the blast of airconditioning once she stepped inside the lobby. She registered her name, got her visitor's pass, and sat on one of the couches to compose herself. She took out her cellphone and texted Matt that she was already there.

Ten minutes. I'll ring you when you can go up. I'm on the third floor.

When she heard her phone ring, Ali stood up and headed for the elevator. As the doors closed, she checked her reflection on the mirror to her right. That's when she saw the navy bowtie attached to a suit of a smiling guy behind her.

"Are you here about your complaint?"

What is he talking about?

"You're going to the complaints department," said David Blaine-wannabe. Then he pointed at her chest.

Ali looked at her visitor's pass and sure enough, it betrayed her destination.

"Oh no, I'm just here to visit Matt Perez."

Ali broke eye contact first and looked at his shoes instead. Dark brown wingtips. Dapper.

"I didn't know Matt had a girlfriend."

"What makes you think I'm his girlfriend?"

"You're not?"

"Why do you want to know?"

He smiled. He touched his right earlobe and shook his head.

"It doesn't matter. Can we start again? I'm Ralph." He reached out his hand.

Ali was about to extend hers when the elevator doors opened. She turned her head as she stepped out and said, "See you around Ralph."

The bus's loud horn brought her back to the present. They're just about to enter the expressway, and her seatmate was deep in sleep. Ali's stomach grumbled, and she took out a pack of cheese crackers from her backpack. She'll have a hearty breakfast later at the resort, her usual plate of tapsilog. She'll rest for an hour, catch a nap if her mind will let her, and then go surf. She wasn't an expert, far from it, even after several trips to the beach. She spent more time sitting on her board staring out to sea, waiting for a good wave, then chickening out the last minute. She's wiped out more times than she can count. But when she does catch one, when she's able to stand up and ride, she remembers why she keeps doing it.

She thought back to her past trips to the resort, her many sunset surfing sessions. She recalled how she thought she would rather wipe out a thousand times, how she'd rather drown than go back to her life with him. But now she doesn't have  to, because he's no longer in her life. She actually managed to walk away. Scathed, yes, but she can heal. She will heal. That's what the ocean is for.




*Friday Fiction is my attempt at writing again. Writing to better myself, and not just because I need it to earn money. On Fridays (not every Friday though), I'll be posting something I wrote. It can be snippets, short stories, or even poetry. Hope you can come back and check! 

Friday Fiction: Past, Present, Prayers

After getting my cup from the friendly and helpful barista, I slowly make my way downstairs and immediately notice a group of girls with their heads close together, eyes closed and deep in prayer. I've always been uncomfortable with prayer groups in coffee shops. Always torn between leaving them be and staring in awe as they separate themselves from the world and concentrate on their pleas. 

As always, the latter wins for me and I study the women in huddle. They are finished praying now, and one has already stood, profusely thanking the other two. As she leaves, I get an unobstructed view of the woman beside her, and my mouth hangs open as I realize she is not wearing a bra. I make out the shape of her large areolas through her white roundneck t-shirt, nestled just so on top of her bulging stomach. Did she forget to wear a bra? Or is it intentional, a proclamation of freedom from flesh-containing contraptions?

I steal glances at her while blowing on my green tea latte, squinting my eyes against the soft yellow lighting to make sure if my observation is right. When she stands up several minutes later and turns her back to walk towards the stairs going up the exit, I see the outline of a bra, and am further flummoxed how I saw what I saw. Maybe the bra material was thin.

I sip my matcha latte, alternating between finishing reading my ebook and looking up at the steel crossbeams that are both decorative and necessary. The coffee shop has a high-ceilinged layout, and I wonder why they chose that over building another floor to accommodate more customers.

The first occupants of the table to my left have gone, and a couple of men have replaced them. They are speaking in low tones, and I struggle to eavesdrop on their conversation. The man beside me has a melodious voice, an Ilonggo I presume, and the only words that I make out are "useless" and "self-pity".  I give up trying to understand what they are talking about, and go back to my ebook. I read the same page for two minutes.

My drink half empty, I recall the last time I was at this branch, who I was with, and where we were sitting.

It was at the table two spots to the right of where I am now, and I probably ordered the same drink, but only it was iced instead of hot, and because I arrived first, I went ahead and sat on the couch against the wall, facing the crowd. It was a tip our Dad gave us when he was still alive, about how you should not have your back to the crowd, so you'd always know if something was up, like if there was a fire or a commotion.

A few minutes passed and my friend/former schoolmate arrived, apologizing for getting stuck in traffic. She placed her caramel cream frapuccino on the table, and after the initial surface-scratching update in each other's lives, she delved into the real reason she wanted to meet up with me: she needed to tell someone about the falling out with a family member that was starting to get out of hand.

I remember her curls most of all. Her curly hair that bounced when unrestrained, the larger-than-life mop that framed her face, dancing to the beat of her feet when she walked. The frizzy strands that became prisoners to her scrunchie when she wore her hair up, just like when she raised her voice at me that fateful noon up north, when she scolded me like I was a six-year-old while I hung my head low sitting on the sand, my face feeling the heat coming from the midday sun striking my back and imprinting a tan that would stay on my body even a year after that disastrous beach trip.

A text message alert brings me back to the present, and I delete it without opening. Another random real estate offer. I open my Facebook, and serendipitously see photos of my friend's latest trip to another far-flunch beach. Her unruly curls worn up again, with a few strands escaping because of the sea wind, a tattoo visible on her right collar bone. Its design was something she only talked to me about that night a couple of years ago at this coffee shop, when she was too excited to finally get some ink on her skin.

I click the button for the Messenger, scroll down to see the last message I sent to my friend, on her birthday three months ago. Things haven't been the same since that trip, when I abruptly left her and two other companions to go back to Manila. Civil greetings, careful words, measured how-are-you's. The written equivalent of walking on egg shells. I cringe when I read the exhange again, wonder if things will ever go back to the way they were.

I pull down the sleeve of my cup, and notice for the first time the message the barista scrawled on it. "Enjoy!" right above my name with a smiley face next to it. My lips curve up automatically.

My phone rings and I walk to the stairs, relieved that the person I'm meeting is finally on his way.

"We have a problem," the voice on the other end says. I stop midstep at the bottom of the stairs, silenced both by the caller and the voice I hear from the table beside me. I am stunned as I land my eyes on a woman staring into space, eyes wide open, voice full of conviction, hands clasped with another lady whose eyes are closed.

"Lord, please listen to our plea..."

I run up the steps two at a time, embarrassed for being an intruder in a private moment done in a public place.

*Friday Fiction is my attempt at writing again. Writing to better myself, and not just because I need it to earn money. On Fridays (not every Friday though), I'll be posting something I wrote. It can be snippets, short stories, or even poetry. Hope you can come back and check!