I want us to remember this day, this night. The details. A certain Monday in January, mid-afternoon. How we’re commuting to the city together for the first time — in a tricycle, then an FX, then a cab: all firsts in one roll. Hey, we’re never going to have seconds, so let’s remember. It’s a memory to be folded, tucked quietly into a breast pocket, because the ending is here, because I should be smart enough to know better, that the quickness of how things were going isn’t a promising sign. We went to a Starbucks in Katipunan to meet your friend, do you remember? I told you that I was just in this neighborhood about a day ago. You asked what for. I said I had to do a photoshoot for a friend, and you said, Oh.
The disinterest in what I do isn’t a promising sign either.
Your friend arrived, but you didn’t ask me to go with you. You were borrowing his car, lying to him about needing it to drive your grandmother to Cavite. That your own car is in the shop. I joked about ratting you out, slightly hinting that maybe I could go with you to meet your friend. You laughed. You had me wait for you at the McDonald’s next door while you went and fetched the car.
I ordered us something — you called it a “super meal” — and we ate it while driving. Remember. How you’re trying to get used to an unfamiliar car: a black Hyundai Tucson, bigger than you’re used to. Remember how I unwrapped your cheeseburger for you and handed you the fries and the Coke when you wanted them. You cursed the slow traffic as we tried to decide between going north or south. We finally turned around, away from the southbound lane, and towards Subic. It’s almost a two-hour drive and it’s nearing dusk, but we said what the hell. I encouraged you to say what the hell, even just for a day, a night, because every once in a while, you should.
I’m going to remember how the ice cream melted and you drank it like a beverage. How you pinpointed to me all the good restaurants along the way, places you wanted to eat at, have been, heard rave reviews about. A life I’m not a part of. I’m just the fleeting thing, the here and now. Because if not now, when? I smiled as you sang along “Hey There, Delilah” on the radio. You bad-mouthed terrible drivers and you taught me traffic coding, the politics behind Philippine plate numbers. We talked about a common friend’s dad’s recent and sudden death. I’ll think about, and maybe remember, your smile when I told you you were smart. You probably won’t remember I said that, but I will.
Remember that we stopped for gas somewhere along the NLEX and you’re searching frantically for the gas lever as the attendant waited for you. I was saying something about the car door alarm making tinkling sounds, and you wondered what’s making all the bumping noises in the back. We took turns guessing. We started worrying about the time and the toll fees. Well, at least you did. We’re shocked with how often we paid for toll just to use two expressways — me, especially, a tourist in my own home country, so used to the frequent freeways of the States. I told you to ask for directions and you told me about how you like playing dumb to strangers. We must remember you asking me to keep all the toll receipts so you can berate yourself with auditing later. I laughed, thinking it ridiculous, but kept them in a neat pile anyway. You asked me what that road sign we just passed by meant (it was for merging two lanes into one to make way for roadwork — remember?) and then you confessed about your fixed license. We talked about the road trip my sister and I took last year, coming from Santa Barbara and ending up in Denver.
We switched radio stations; you sang to “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” (private note to myself: remember that I thought you meant it for me?), we listened to Boys’ Night Out on 89.9 and I said how I thought they were only on Thursday nights, and you said no, they’re on every night. We listened to DJ Sam and his co-hosts talk about MOMOLs and emotional condoms and being guilty and other crazy things and theories about love. Your laugh at their banter was so hearty it drowned me.
I was learning about you. I’ll remember this. I noticed your paranoia, the meticulousness to the point of compulsion. I said you reminded me of my sister, always looking over her shoulder, counting receipts, budgeting, never as impulsive as I am. I never realized this about you. Here we are, with thirteen years of being acquaintances under our belt, always near but not near enough, and I don’t know a single thing about you. Or you me. I said I always thought you didn’t care about anything. You said you actually couldn’t afford not to care. But I’m glad to have been proven wrong, to be allowed this momentary glimpse into a sliver of your inner self. You worried. You’re a worrier. Head of the family, young siblings. College cut off. You worried, too, about the unlit expressways and you shouted in the dark, challenging it, cursing it. You switched headlights, over and over. You said the road looked endless here.
We must also remember the NLEX patrol car that came, blinking and flashing its lights at us. A silent siren. It tailed us and we thought it’s going to pull us over. It didn’t, but that moment I will remember. We were both white from nerves and our hearts beat ridiculously mad.
Remember every bit of the darkness, those few moments when there’s nobody else in the black road but us and we felt so alone. Yet not lonely. We had each other and I was straining to remember everything. You talked so much but not too much. I commented and laughed at this. How you’ve changed. When we were younger, you wouldn’t say a word. We graduated high school with no more than a few words and a hundred thousand stolen glances between us. Now it’s the complete opposite, and I wonder what else has changed, what other misconceptions I have of you.
We reached Subic a little past eight. You stopped by a 7-Eleven to use their restroom. It’s on a bit of a romantic location, right next to a small bay. Men drank beer out in the patio, surrounded by walls full of crawling and hanging vines, smothered in bougainvillea. A place called RestoBar sat in the middle of the water at the end of a narrow pier. The air reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke and odd, pumping music. You’re intrigued about it, too, but you thought the place was too far out to walk just for curiosity. For the hundredth time that day, I wish I’d brought my camera. But I still feel like it’s too personal a detail to open before you, and so I set my mind to work in remembering instead.
We drove around Subic and the outskirts of Olongapo City, and then back again, U-turning at the Victory Liner roundabout, looking for a quiet place to eat at. You said something about color-coded jeepneys. We passed by some potential places, you joked about food chains. We passed by Korean and Japanese restaurants but we’re kind of jonesing for Chinese. You said if we can’t have Chinese, we must at least find a pizza place that could only be found in Subic. We passed by a carnival and we planned on stopping there after dinner. We drove by the beachfront and we can’t even see the beach. It’s so dark.
Finally, we settled for Yellow Cab, a pizza chain found all over Manila, even though I didn’t want us to settle. But you said you never eat there anyway so it’s almost the same thing as trying something new. You just wanted me to have my pizza, knowing that I like them. I internally blushed at this and of course exaggerated it in my head. With you, I always exaggerate. You give me ample reasons to. After you parked the car, it blared its alarms and you didn’t know how to turn it off and I was laughing and you were cursing and laughing and saying that the car was scandalous, breaking the quiet of the night. All the passersby were looking at us. You managed to shut it up eventually.
I got us their New York’s Finest pizza. I asked you to open my bottle of iced tea. I remember you telling me as you did this that your younger brother likes Shakey’s Pizza. I remember thinking that, yes, the door is opening. Slowly. Then — focus, remember — we ate out on their veranda and watched the few cars that were passing by, the night sky, pedestrians out late, most hand-in-hand. You smoked. I didn’t know you smoked, it never came up, and it’s supposed to be a dealbreaker, but I didn’t feel like reasoning with myself just then. However, the sense of our impending and inevitable end became stronger. I didn’t feel like reasoning with that either. What is to be lost with tolerating everything for just one last night? I felt strangely at peace with whatever was coming.
I gave you the last slice and we were so full. You smoked one more cigarette for the road and then we drove to the beach. We parked right out on the sand and we worried about getting sand in the car but we said what the hell. We walked out to the shore, the smooth, seamless part where the ocean meets the land, and we dared each other to take a dip. Neither of us did, but we stood there, wind against our faces, wondering about the other and about how cold the water was. You were cold; I wasn’t. We hugged ourselves for warmth but not each other. I wished, terribly, that you would. I wonder if you wished it too, to have the courage to do it, or at least admit we want it. We talked and I regret that I slipped off at this time, and forget what we were talking about then. We walked back to the car because you said we don’t have much time. It’s always our enemy. In elementary, in high school, even now. It follows us. I sat on the passenger’s seat with the door open and my back to you. I took off my sandals, let my feet dangle out the door, and patted the sand off. I remember you playing with my hair from behind, that half-blonde hair you claimed you didn’t like. The tingle from the tips of my hair down my spine from your touch, one of our rare touches, made the ending a lot sadder than it already was.
We drove to the carnival and found that it’s still open but the rides weren’t. There’s a flutter of activity everywhere still, and a lot of noise. You went to use the restroom while I watched a Miss Gay pageant from the back of the crowd, laughing at the wits of the contestants. We walked around after you came back, eyeing the closed rides and the game booths. You wanted to bet on a color game because you saw a guy win three hundred pesos but you worry about losing, the toll fees for on the way back. Because that’s who you are. We watched another game briefly then moved on. You wanted to ride the cable car but it’s closed like the rest of them. Then our attention was caught by what seemed to be the only open ride called Taga-Disco. A crowd has gathered. Several people sat without seatbelts inside a giant rolling and bucking bowl, like a bull ride, trying not to fall off their seats or on their asses as they tried to stand. You were bent over laughing and you said you want to bring your friends there in September, on your birthday, in your own car. I didn’t know if I should be offended by that or not, so I chose not to be. Instead I stayed in our only now and laughed hysterically at the ride, the absurdity of it.
We walked around some more, talking about everything we’re seeing. The rides, mostly; the people. Then we walked out and you asked me for coffee. Even remembering this now, months later, my heart does funny flips. Of course I said yes. I was a coffee person after all, and if I remember correctly, you aren’t. We were talking and you turned into the wrong traffic. You asked why is there an island in the middle…? and before you could continue that sentence I told you you’re driving the wrong way. You said, Shit, and quickly made a U-turn. We laughed and our hearts settled. We drove to Harbor Point, a mall that was about to close for the night. It was past ten. You asked the security guard where the Seattle’s Best was and we laughed because he thought you were asking for the shuttle bus. We went to The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf instead because we both had never been there. We asked the barista what he thought would be a good frappé to order and he recommended The Ultimate in vanilla. We ordered it and put it under your name. The frappé arrived and they spelled your name wrong. We rotated seats because your cigarette smoke kept finding me. You smoked while I drank and I secretly kept the receipt. It was that, and this prose, that are the only proof of this night ever happening. We don’t have any photos, or any recording. We have nothing but receipts from north of Manila and our firsthand account of it. Therefore I must write this now, before I forget them one by one and I become unsure of its existence. This here stands as proof.
Coffee Bean didn’t have a restroom, so I dared myself to use the one in the opposite Starbucks that was about to close. You said I wouldn’t dare. I dared and I did. You shook your head, smiling, when I emerged successfully. We talked about the Coffee Bean’s poor interior design and the mirrors that gave off a bigger feel to the place. Suddenly we were debating and I don’t know what about. I didn’t like arguing with a law student. We might’ve been talking about the slow escalators and you invented some fact about them automatically going slow when nobody is in it. I called bullshit and you just laughed and swore it was the truth (it is, as my ignorant self learned later on, the truth). The coffee made us sleepier, for some reason. Exhausted with the games. We walked back to the car and you commented about how cold it was. You outstretched your arms and I thought you were reaching for me and so I instinctively, without even thinking, neared you and almost, almost pushed myself in for an embrace. Then I checked myself, and stepped away. I was embarrassed for a split-second. I wondered what would’ve happened if it happened. Under the Subic skies and the closing mall, witnessed only by the thin stream of people coming out from the last full show. I wonder what we would have been then. We didn’t even know each other that well and neither of us knows how to start, or if we even should.
We drove out of Subic and headed back to Manila, paying the same toll fees, filling the car with the same gas. We drove the same dark roads. You cursed bad road signage. There was not one good radio station in this area at this time of night, just that one time when I lucked out on Boyce Avenue’s cover of fun.’s “We are Young.” Perfect, then it ended quicker than I’d liked. We settled between Papa Jack and some chill music that I didn’t like but would do. Then. We began to talk. You and I, seriously. Enough with the quips and the banters and the meaning underneath words. You got me started talking. You asked me to tell you a story, asking me about D— and A— and I laughed at the bluntness of your question. Exasperated that it took us this long to ask about something we’ve been wanting to ask. I asked you about C—. You told me about how you broke up and I began understanding you. In return, I told you how we broke up and you began understanding me. We’d never talked like this before, and I was excited about what we would find. You illuminated a lot of things without even meaning to. I began to fall in love again, so near the end, and it scared me. You started talking about your family, what happened in college, and your failing self-esteem. The world on your shoulders. I told you that you have an inferiority complex, and you said you like having it because it’s not a complex, it’s the truth. You see yourself inferior and you make sure people see you that way. I quieted down even though I wanted so badly to disagree. I thought you’re underselling yourself, but I said nothing. I see you bigger. If I said something, it would’ve changed everything (or not — remember, the end?). I think you worthier than what you believe. You’re trying to sound truthful and modest but I think you’re intentionally underestimating. I didn’t say a thing.
Before we knew it, we reached our exit. We were home, or at least I was. It’s a little after one in the morning, and we’d made good time. I wished it wasn’t over yet, but here we were. Everything was leading to this. You drove me home and you walked me to my door and it felt like a Dashboard Confessional song. My mother opened the front door and you and I exchanged good-nights. I thanked you and wished you well. I had all the details in my head as I waved at you. Every little thing. I memorized you, that last time I saw you, that probably last good night we’ll ever have the right to have together. Everything about that night I kept with me, in the form of these words. I packed it with the rest as I flew back to Los Angeles the next day, a bit broken. The ending has begun, and here’s the view.
TINY WORRIES 