The Road Forks Here.

I’ve hopped onto i.ph. Again. This is where I shall pitch camp for the time being.

The Curves and Lines That Go Into a Story

I lurk at Sigbin.com because I am envious of Ramon’s artwork - some edgy, others nostalgic, but all of them with captions and storylines that fascinate. I wonder how it feels to peer at the world through his eyes and create with his hands.

He makes drawing look like storytelling, I thought yesterday afternoon. I’d been to hell and back that day, dealing with a very difficult non-Filipino and her seemingly infinite ability to throw temper tantrums. Desperate to ease the pounding in my head, I picked up pen and paper, googled nudes, and then made lots of lines - lots of strange, messy, dirty lines. Turned out, doing something I’m not good at could be fun, really fun.

This was yesterday afternoon’s therapy.

 Bend, Not Break

The Ancient Car That Thought It Still Could

“Was that your sister?” he asked almost as soon as I plopped down the seat.

“Yes,” I answered brusquely, hoping to discourage further conversation. I asked him to step on it as I was running really, really late for work.

Almost as if he hadn’t heard my semi-unfriendly response, he pelted me with questions. “How old are you? Are you married? Oh, and do you have a child? Where does your husband work?”

A part of me wanted to shush him up but the part that talks and makes judgment calls noted the heavily wrinkled face and gnarled hands, and figured this cabbie is probably just a lonely old man dying for conversation. So, I answered him while I busied myself trying to semi-scratch my face. My skin asthma attacks in tandem with my allergic rhinitis, and I was already wishing the workday would end even before it could start for me.

“I used to work in South Africa,” he narrated in rapid-fire English. “I earned P150,000 a month. I used the money to start a taxi business. I now have 20 units, but I like to drive, too, because it helps me meet beautiful girls. Maka-jer-jer intawn ko’g batan-on tungod aning taxi-ha. I have a girlfriend, taga Talisay, 26 years old. She works for a call center. I fetch her from work. Likod sa ilang balay naa’y short-time-manan. Didto ko mabuntagan.”

I felt my face burn with embarassment. “Doesn’t your wife mind?”

“She’s in Japan with my daughter. My daughter married a Japanese doctor. My wife will be home by July. She might mind by then. Sayo ko nagminyo, day. Disi-otso. Pero wa koy mahay kay karong dagku na akong mga anak, libre na ko maglingaw-lingaw bisan sa unsang pama-agi nako gusto, Ikaw, day? Asa diay imong bana?”

“He’s here in Cebu with me.”

“Ah, maayo. Pirmi diay ka matambalan. Pirmi ma-change oil ba.”

I cringe, and kept mum while he jabbered away. Thankfully, it wasn’t long before we reached my building. I handed him my fare. He waved it away. “No, I don’t need the money. I drive so I can talk to pretty little things like you. You can give me your number if you want.”

I got out of the cab, feeling amused, appalled, and molested at the same time. He looked older than my lolo.

Up a River without a Paddle

You know what they say about the best-laid plans of mice and men.

I’ve never really had to worry about plotting out days off and shifting schedules because everyone works the same hours at the think-tank. But dear Lord, this second company I hope I’m only temporarily babysitting has days off and shifting schedules a’plenty. It took me an hour to re-organize everyone’s days off and work shift, and two more hours to listen to the staff argue why L should have Sundays off and why E needs to pinch-hit for the two receptionists. I listened to them until I felt lightheaded; and more out of exasperation than logic, I instructed them to iron out their schedules and then give me the final chart for approval.

Now, only two weeks after that meeting, I’m in a slough of despond. Everyone wants to take off for the Holy Week, A wants to hie off to Bohol for four days so she can look after the son who got hit by a speeding bike, trisikad, or tricycle (take your pick; I’ve forgotten which), and I’m left looking at a chart that’s more scrambled than scrambled eggs.

There’s a lesson to be learned here, folks. When a business swears it operates 24/7, trust that there’s someone tearing her hair out over the shifting.

Her Happiness Over Mine

“If you tell her you need her, she won’t go.”

I shook my head. “No, I won’t do that to her. You know she’d stay out of guilt.”

“She’d stay out of love.”

“Well, there’s that, but that would be emotional blackmail. She should be free to make choices.”

“It’s your call. She’s your sister. But you know she’d stay if you ask her to.”

I stared morosely at the hub for a few minutes and then bid him goodbye. Then, I spent the next two hours listlessly punching at the remote control. A few minutes later, she was up. I listened to her shuffle down the stairs then putter about in the kitchen. I wanted to go down and talk to her, but I was rooted to my side of the bed.

She knocked on the door. “Te, I’ll show myself out. I plan to catch the 7:00 trip.”

“Okay,” I whispered,and at that moment, talking felt like juggling frogs. I didn’t walk her to the door. Rather, I bid her a muffled goodbye, and buried my head in my pillow for a good cry.

My sister is probably in Tagbilaran by now. I miss her badly. Her leaving’s  thrown a wrench into our daily routine. All throughout breakfast, Alex kept worrying about being left home without her aunt. We kept glancing at Allaine’s empty chair, wondering how long the yaya would continue setting a plate for her. I didn’t have the heart to tell the yaya Allaine’s already left.

I miss my sister. I did not tell her this because I don’t want to ride roughshod over her dreams. I don’t want her to stay with me, not when she would much rather be somewhere doing what she’s always wanted to do all her life.

Her happiness over mine, I know this now.