October 31, 2010 Writing Attempt (1:56 PM, Sunday)
PART 1
Honey on roast, tulips on the bay, snails on a run.
A confused sun, a fickle cloud, a baffled clown.
That train ride two hundred fifty six days, around four million blinks, and a dozen pairs of eyeglasses ago – I still remember it. Too vivid, too warm, too near, too flagrant..
Forming a sad steady line, the silver hands of that triangular clock showed 3:45. Silver hands on a red triangular clock, with bright yellow numbers swimming in its redness. What a peculiar clock. I hated that clock. I hated its silver hands joint by a big gaudy pearl. I hated its strident ticking sound. Tick, I, tock, hate, tick, you, tock, I, tick, will, tock, smash, tick, you.
I hated that clock, but now I would even trade my grandmother’s golden piano just to get that darn red triangular clock. Well, it’s not really made of gold, she just painted it gold. But it means a lot to the family.
I rode the train almost five hours late, I should have woken up earlier. Watching that dreadful movie at three in the morning was an awful idea, however, I don’t regret drinking that cup of homemade margarita.
I was sure that she’ll be furious with me, I promised her that I’ll get on the eleven o’clock train. On top of my stringy tardiness, she’ll be ramming my lobes incessantly because I lied to her. I called her and told her that I did wake up early, I did take the eleven o’clock train.
“But you see pancake (I call her my pancake, we like to keep things sweet) I was already on the train when I saw this little girl. She was a very cute girl, she looked a lot like you, pancake. She was lost and so I helped her look for her mommy. And so I had to get off the train to help this lost little angel. I’m now here at the square, I’ll be running late, pancake. Don’t wait for me. I’ll be a few hours late. Tides of love. I’ll see you later.”
That’s a movie script right there. I could have been a screenwriter, a filmmaker, or something close to that. But hey, we all make mistakes. I was young, afraid of the world, and was nudged into making that cowardly swerve in college. I’m still alive today, aren’t I? I’m not making money from weaving fiction, but at least I’m making money from doing something. The passion isn’t there, but I can’t complain, the world is already constantly impregnated by foolish brutes everywhere, the unnecessary gripes are just piling up. I don’t want to crash their sad party.
It was a necessary lie, she didn’t need to know that I was up all night drinking homemade margarita for the first time in my life, while I was watching a horrible three-hour film made by strange bearded men. She’ll hate that.
Just realizing now, as I’m telling you all of this, I’m not comfortable with lying. And how can you be a good filmmaker if you don’t know how to create good lies? You have to be a ruthless liar if you want to win an Oscar. Oh, and a little bit of creativity can also grease your chances.
But I’m actually quite impressed with myself; that was a convincing lie, almost veritable. As for the margarita, I don’t really drink. In fact, I hate alcoholic beverages, and that is why I wasn’t aware that margarita is a lady’s drink. But later that day on the train, I was given a lecture on what and what not to drink. I shall explain this later. So it was 3:55, I lied to her for a full ten minutes. Ten minutes, can you believe it? It took me 600 seconds to curve around my words of pure deceit, to curl the tale, and to sweeten up my otherwise bland lie.
“I hope that little lost angel finds her mom. And I hope that you find your lost little pitchfork along the way. Just hurry up and get your frantic toes down here. I’ll wait for you.”
“Okay, cranky crow. Don’t kill the neighbors without me. Tides of love, pancake.”
Those were the closing spiels of our 10-minute phone call, mottled with lies and brilliant quips. I loved her, I really did love her.
3:56. The train leaves at exactly four in the afternoon. Four minutes, many things could really happen within four minutes. My pale face was practically buried under the clutters of my brown oversized bag. I was looking for my book, it was a story about three biochemists who also happen to be murderers. They discovered this new chemical that could heal any type of illness, but at the same time, it could also cause any type of illness. And that’s how the story sails. This is the type of book I usually read, many people have wrongly judged me based on my reading preferences.
3:57. I found my book, it was next to a roll of red socks. She gave me a set of colorful socks last Christmas – red, yellow, orange, blue, and pink. Yes, pink socks. “Wow. Thanks, pancake. These pink socks would surely get me a promotion.” She gave me another set of socks the next day, which happened to be my birthday.
3:58. I spilled my bottle of grape juice all over my book. A freckled boy, who sat right across, laughed at me. Or perhaps he was laughing at himself for being an annoying nosy little freckled boy.
“Can I have your book?” Asked the little gadfly.
“It’s about biochemists slash romantically-challenged slash mentally disturbed murderers. Are you sure you want to read it? Won’t mommy be angry?”
“I want to read it. Mommy drank lots of red juice, she’s asleep.”
“Okay, here you go. Enjoy.” I gave him the book. It was still dripping with grape sweat.
From 3:59 until 4:00, I felt bad for giving my book to that innocent little boy. Now, I am left with nothing to read! While that flippant little freckle gets away with hundreds of pages narrating tales of abstruse and phantasmal madness.
I leaned over to apologize to the boy’s mother for giving her son an inappropriate reading material and to get my book back. But the boy was right, her mother was too drunk to lift her own dark turgid lashes. Poor kid. Now I felt even worse for pulling that kid into my temporary state of boorishness.
At exactly four in the afternoon, just before the train’s doors closed, a huge roseate suitcase came in. Carrying the suitcase was a pallid man, swathed in a ridiculous yellow sweater. His shoes were also yellow, as well as his handkerchief which was nearly falling out of from his tight denim jeans.
If only I still had my book with me, I wouldn’t be wasting my time looking at this curly-haired oddball. Since I have nothing else better to do, I shall scrutinize.
He placed his roseate suitcase on the luggage area. A person could fit in that suitcase! I bet he’s hiding something in there. The pale-faced man was carrying two books with him – one was a red poetry book and the other was a plain white book. He sat on the right lane, I was on the left, two seats ahead of me.
That was the curliest hair I have ever seen. It reminds me of a girl I dated in college. She wasn’t curly, but whenever we went out on dates, we would always go to this Korean restaurant. We loved noodles. A day before she broke up with me, we shared a gigantic bowl of spicy noodles. She wished that her hair were as curly as the noodles, and I gave her a perfect gentleman’s compliment – you’re already perfect the way you are, sweetie. Then the next day, she broke up with me. She said I was too bland, too nice, that I was trapping her in a boring relationship. That she couldn’t stand my jokes, my “niceness.” Since when did being nice become a bad thing? Women, one day you’re eating noodles with them and the next day, they’re cursing at you. Well, if you could only see me now, I bet you’ll be crying over spilled noodles. So anyway, this strange man’s hair was as curly as those darn Asian noodles. Reminds me of a poodle. Man, I think the margarita is still kicking in.
I spent the next fifteen minutes looking at him. From my position, I could clearly view the left side of his profile. I was observing him as he read poetry from his red book, the hell with what I was doing. I was amused at how his thick arched eyebrows were going up and down, as if moving along an eccentric ballad. He would purse his lips after reading a line or two, in the same way that furrowed rows would appear on his forehead. I noticed a very small, almost invisible scar under his left eye. And his narrow eyes seem to disappear whenever his face creased into a smile.
“Crap! Why on earth am I wasting much time and adjectives on this strange man? Man, that book, that margarita, this long train ride. Curse you all.” I thought I was talking to myself, but apparently my voice was too loud, causing unwanted stares from my fellow bored passengers.
My girlfriend was calling. This was one of those rare times in your life when you were actually thankful your girlfriend is calling you at the right time.
“Hello? So where are you now? Did you find the girl’s mom? Or are you running out of creative juices to continue your little story?”
“Yes, I finally found her. They’re back together now. The mother was out playing bowling with her handsome ex-husband, they were recently divorced. But because of a wonderful game of bowling, they’re now back together. The mother thought that her daughter was right behind her, turns out that it was an umbrella standing behind her, not her daughter. So after my grand helping efforts, they treated me to a festive meal. That’s why I’m running late. Don’t worry, I’m already on the four o’clock train. I’ll see you soon, pancake.”
“Holy crabcakes, that was a long fib you got there! Okay, have a safe trip. I’m making your favorite.”
“You’re making chocolate mousse?”
“No, I’m making giant fifty-story skyscrapers. Yes, I’m making chocolate mousse. That’s your only favorite food, right? Okay, I have to go now, enjoy your trip! Tides of love.”
Her humor, I don’t get it sometimes. But her chocolate mousse, it’s just ineffable. In a good way, of course.
I don’t know how and I don’t know if it’s just me and my weird assumptions, but the next thing I knew after that phone call, I saw the pale-faced man looking straight at me. Perhaps he caught me looking at him, our eyes just caught each other. In most situations, I would usually turn away, but for some strange reason, I smiled at him. And he smiled at me.
The attendants were now serving snacks. The air smelled like honey on roast, just enough to draw you into a euphoric state of nostalgia.
*** END OF PART 1 ***
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