The Free Man

He became free the moment he realized he is one. But not after he got lost.

There, along the empty highway, long and wide, he drove as freely as he can humming a song he can’t rightly put where he heard, but hummed it as enthusiastically as he can anyway.

I am free, he said. Free to go anywhere. Free to go everywhere.

On his lap is the map of everywhere-and-anywhere-he-wanted-to-go. The opportunities of places are up his nose that he felt smiling all the way.

I am free, he said. Free to meet everybody. Free to go out with anybody.

He smoothed his hands on his newly bought mobile phone to store all the numbers of those he will meet and choose among them who he will go out with.

I am free, he said. Free to do everything I want. Free to do just anything.

He has a lifetime ahead of him. Only his imagination is his limit in thinking of ways to make his life exciting and fun.

Until he came on a fork on the road. One road northward, the other eastward and the third southward. Of course, there’s the other road that will lead him back, but for him, although he’s free to choose it, he’s also free not to. So he made up his mind and filtered his options: north, east or south?

As if a myriad, a ghost of a man came a-knocking on his car window. He asked, “where are you going?”

“I’m going everywhere and anywhere,” said the Free Man.

“So many in places in mind, but where do you want to go first?” asked the Ghost Man.

“Anywhere where everybody and all the fun is, can you tell me where to find it?”

“Ahh, what a travel you will endure. You have to really go everywhere to find the place you’re looking for. But if you’re going somewhere, I can point you to the right direction.”

“Somewhere can be anywhere! And I am right to go anywhere because I might find somewhere.”

The Ghost Man just shrugged his shoulder and without blinking pointed northeast.

“That’s nowhere! Why are you directing me to a road that doesn’t exist?”

“Because that’s where you want to go. You don’t want to go everywhere or anywhere. You’re just lost.”

“How can a free man like me get lost when I have the whole world waiting for me?”

“The world is not waiting for you. Just someone, but not everyone or anyone. I bet you are waiting to be found or else, free as you are, you can just go to any of these three roads and kept on driving. But you stopped. You want to be found.”

“No one will come looking for me. I am free now. I am my own man. I can go anywhere and everywhere I want.”

“Then choose a road, any road. Those roads have their own anywheres and anybodies,” and the Ghost Man disappeared.

The Free Man shifted gear and started going eastward but decided later that he should have gone straight north. He made a U-Turn trying to go back to that fork in the road. It shouldn’t have been far. He wasn’t driving that long. But he couldn’t find the fork.

So he kept driving, and driving mindlessly he did. This time, the humming was gone. He got tired and sleepy. Night was slowly creeping.

He slammed on the breaks. Furious, mad and frustrated, he got out of his car and saw that he was nowhere near where he wanted to go.

So he waited. To be found.

Friday not the 13th

I don’t know what it is about last Friday. What I’m sure though was that everyone I spoke to complained only of one thing–-turtle-fast traffic!

I shared the same sentiment. It was madness. The streets were jammed. My usual 30-minute ride to work became an hour and a half. Not to mention that a quarter of which was spent waiting for an empty cab.

It was one hot Friday. It wasn’t the 13th though but as I gazed out the cab window, each face wore a kind of gloom. Maybe they’re thinking the same thought I was thinking–I wish I were someplace else but here.

The only good thing about that day was the paycheck. I’d be compensated for the first half of the month that I toiled. The bad thing (again?), it was almost spent out even before I get it. Life, and all the bills that went with it, is a total sacrifice.

The day went on. I screamed frantically at my computer hoping to beat my deadlines–or I’m dead. And I lived. I even managed a few hearty laughs, a few good bottles of beer and a lot of insights. You see, when I took a cab to finally head home, Manong Cab Driver, to ward off any sleep spell, tried to manage a conversation with me not at all minding if my answers were as dull as grey.

“Where do you work?”

“Somewhere in Ortigas.”

“Call Center?”

“No.”

“What do you do?”

“Uhm, I write…”

“Really? That’s wow!”

Wow? I thought to myself. Why wow? Hmm.

“Maybe you can write about my life story. I hope to submit it to Charo Santos, you know, win P10k in the process and help my eldest son finish college.”

And so he went on to tell me how he came from a poor town in Quezon. Left his wife, only to come back with her all cold and lifeless. He has a son who wants to come here to Manila and be the one to drive the cab so he could retire. Of course, Manong Cab Driver has all good intentions. He wants his son to have a good education. He wants him to be a nurse. Nurses these days are the next millionaires, he said. They bring home the dollars.

“And what does your son want?” At last, I asked.

Manong Cab Driver went all silent. Then he said, "I think he wants to sing. He can sing, you know. But he’s no Christian or Mark Bautista. Are they siblings? Anyway, he has no future in singing. Nurses have. And he can then take care of me when I’m all callous and old. So, will you write my story?"

I blinked. For one moment there, I had the urge to explain that I’m into technical documentation. But that would be like bursting his balloon. He already had shared with me half his life.

“I’ll see. Maybe your story will be my next project.”

Stupid, I forgot to ask his name.

With all due apology to Manong Cab Driver. If only his life is an application program, I could have documented it.

The Virus

How many times has he dreamed of being alone with her? In his fantasy, he has been her rescuer, her clown, her prince, her one true love...

But now that he is actually ALONE with HER, he is not prepared to play the role of a dripping wet disheveled cursing knight in distress as she enters the elevator.

He then tries to evade her pitying glances. He looks down to his now shoggy pair of loafers. Just a while back, he accidentally missed his bus stop and in the middle of walking the distance, the rain poured out all its mighty menace on him.

Now he is soaking wet.

"Achooo!"

"You can't go to work like that--" She comments, her last word recoiling up and down his spine.

"Uh-huh. But I can't go home either. I have a deadline before noon."

"By noon, you'll go down with the flu and you'd be lucky if you can concentrate at all on finishing your report."

"I'll take that risk-- aacchu!"

"Save the virus and do yourself a favor, go home."

"No."

"You know what, sometimes, you need to think of yourself first."

"How can I do that when all I can think of is you--" He suddenly blurts out. He bits his tongue and curses himself. How could he think that loud?!

"Wha--"

"Ehrr-- I mean-- why aren't we on our floor yet? We're running late!"

"Did you mean that?"

"Yeah, I do! We're going to be really late! Oh, we haven't pushed a button yet, that's why!"

"You know what your problem is? You don't really care about me. Because if you do, you'll listen to me. I'm concerned about you getting sick. And you know what else? You're not thinking of me at all, because if you really do, you won't keep me guessing about what you really feel for me--"

And as he stares back at her sad eyes, he feels rooted at his drenched spot, dejected all over again.

Suddenly, she says in a caring soothing whisper, "Really, please Zach, take a cab, go home, change into dry clothes and be back before ten. I'll cover up for you. Then treat me to a nice lunch later."

She then pushes the "open door" button and waits for Zach to step out of the elevator.

Before the door closes, he catches her mischievous grin that turns into the sincerest and sweetest of her smiles.

Somehow, he feels warm now. Almost dry even. Maybe he doesnt' need to go home and change?

But he can't let Suzanne down. For today, he is not just daydreaming.

First and Last Favor

Leila will always refer to his smile as the Mint Chocolate Chip Baskin Robbins ice cream of her heart. Seeing him smile, like he does now, sends shivers up her spine making her hands and feet cold, yet her heart warm all over. She can’t explain why every time Ned smiles, she starts to feel as if nothing else matters but his cherubic face, and the stubborn “zing!” in her heart.

And there is also his pair of eyes that become slits under his dark eyebrows whenever he laughs. There it is again! His face looks like the perfect portrait of a face all aglow with sheer happiness.

No, Ned’s smile isn’t for Leila. She doesn’t even know who it is for. All she knows is that Ned is now laughing while carelessly clutching the phone to his ear.

The hell she cares who he is talking to!

Hell, she cares. A lot. In fact, there’s nothing on her mind but Ned and his smile, Ned and his laugh, Ned and his cherubic face, Ned and the sound of his voice, Ned and everything that makes the “zing” on her heart sounds like Bach, or maybe Beethoven, or Skid Row.

Yes, she cares. She has a fancy word for how she’s feeling now. Love at first day at work.

But Ned doesn’t. Try with all her might, Ned will never see her as special as the one whom he is talking to over the phone. He doesn’t even know her name and her table is just next his, and it’s her first day—

“Leila? Leila, right?” Ned covered the mouthpiece and turned to Leila.

“Yep, and you’re Ned, right?” Leila said while trying to sound casual, although she felt herself choke.

Ned winked and carelessly shuffled through the papers on his table, the phone now cradled by his shoulder to his ear. Then he turned to Leila and in the most gentle voice said, "Heard you were the fastest typist ever recruited by Butter Fly Limited—will you please help me with this?" and handed Leila a paper with marks and comments on the margin.

Leila took it, read it, "What help do you need? I mean, this is uh—"

“I don’t want to type it myself, can you please, please?” implored Ned as if all that matters to him is Leila’s help.

Leila smiled, half-heartedly. She turned her computer on and waited for Ned to tell her he was just joking.

But Ned wasn't joking. He now put down the phone and turned to Leila again.

"Thanks, really. The truth is, I can't make myself do it. I like it here, you know, but sometimes one has to leave things that he likes to be with things and people he loves," explained Ned.

Well, then, good luck,” is all Leila could say. She could have asked him what he meant but she couldn’t make herself do it. There was a gargantuan lump in her throat, and she was trying so hard to fight back the tears.

Leila ran the word processor and clicked the new blank document icon. She blinked at the paper lying alone on her clean table.

This is Ned’s first, and well, last favor. It gripped her heart with a wrench of unimaginable hurt and regret. She couldn’t still believe as she read the letter in front of her, Ned’s letter. Though harder she stared, words didn’t mutate into a memorandum. The first sentence still reads, “This is to tender my irrevocable resignation effective immediately.”