16th of May

Batangas, Philippines - Joyz Dimaano - Monday, August 11th, 2008 : goo

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16thofMay

The sky begs to differ as I hold my head up, trying not to reveal more than I am ever allowed. As I make my way to the garage, the smell of spilt gasoline filling my lungs, choking me, blood forcing its way first to my throat, then my eyes, cheeks and then my head, I stagger, lean onto the nearest chair, and try to sit down.
Today is the 16th. I may not have to explain how or why I abhor this day, this wretchedness creeping up on me every time someone mentions “16th”. I pinch myself every once in a while, if only to feel that I am awake and existing.
I exist but I am barely alive.

“That’s a good start. But where’s the rest of it?”
Uneasy as I was that day, I knew I had to submit the first draft of my manuscript. It was Monday, 12th of May, and although the post-it on my corkboard screamed of “deadline” written in big, bold letters, I was busy procrastinating by Sunday eve, and the night before that (and the nights before). Despite caffeine pumps shaking my blood circulation, I forcibly squeezed a concept out of my system ‘til sunrise, Monday morning.
Suffice it to say that I wrote a half page’s worth of introduction, and I haven’t even started yet. “I’ll get to that. It’s the dry spell, you know. I’m a barren wasteland.”
“No, but you happen to be wasting my time,” clearing her desk, as se drank from her tumbler, a Christmas present from me. “Listen, if you want to make this work… that’s the thing. You have to work.”
“Ma’am, I am working hard, see? I had to wake up at 3am just to squeeze that out of my feeble mind, as you once put it,” I reasoned, like it would be considered. “I’m just having a hard time right now, with the rehearsals and all.”
“Would that include drinking to your heart’s content?... Because that’s what I heard from Karl.”

I went home that day, feeling nauseous from the Tequila I had the night before, and the absence of a familiar face abdicated the possibility of a night cap. And I badly needed a night cap, or anything that could fill me with new material.
Walking along the city limits shifted my focus from my manuscript to the cars passing by, one after the other, faster than my thoughts could ever land splat on paper. Red, white, black, blue, gray, brown, sea foam green, carnation… every available color on metal doors and bumpers that do not mean anything at all, except to suggest that the eyes can differentiate a black from a white when they see one .
But what does it mean? What does it mean when a black blends with a white, and a white becomes dyed in blue, gray, perhaps even pink?
My dad was his usual, lounging in front of the television set, eyes as blurred slits behind glasses, watching the news. “You’re home early,” not meeting my gaze as I passed him by.
“I got off early.”
“Are you going out again tonight?”
I took off my shoes, went straight inside my bedroom, and placed my bag atop my desk. “That depends on who’s coming over to pick me up,” I said, checking my phone for messages.
No one’s coming over.
“The life of a single twenty something… dinner’s on the table,” I heard him sigh.
“Not hungry!” I hollered back at him, as I buried my head underneath a thick pillow and comforter.
Minutes later, I was fast asleep. And I wasn’t even supposed to sleep just yet.
Day one, down!

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