One mile to every inch

Met Pancho, Propesor Joel and Kristian in Seattle's Best. When I got there, Kristian was fiddling with another book of another dead Chinese guy, Joel was fiddling with a Moleskine (ooh, pretty) and Pancho was fiddling with a cup of coffee that suspiciously resembled sewage.

We were outside, underneath a big red umbrella, Baby Back Ribs announcements behind us. (I have rather fond memories of that space. Hello, Sarj? Remember?)

Minutes later, they were off to worlds of their own, with the words bleached, wrist, splendor, dipping, sinister and soon in accompaniment. I sat in my corner, stealing Pancho's coffee, and thought about a short story that didn't want to be thought about.

More minutes later, I got up, went inside, and came back out with four glasses of water.

Three poets looked up, all sorts of havoc in their eyes. Not to mention that carelessly, seemingly contrived disarray their hair arranges itself into.

I shrugged. "This is why all ye poet types need a sane fictionist to keep you grounded. Or keep you alive."

They drank the water. Maybe out of courtesy. Maybe to remove the taste of reality from their mouths.

Later later, three poems were born, with various degrees of agony.

"That's a love poem!" said Joel, lighting a cigarette.

"Gago, hindi," retorted Pancho with signature pa-cute scowl.

Kristian giggled, pushing his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose.

Later later later, more insanity. Sheng Banzon had risen from the crypt of family accounts, cross-region drives and self-induced isolation and honored us with her esteemed company.

(*cough*)

Joel left, pirated DVDs in tow. "I need to talk to my student," he said in parting.

"Matutulog lang yun," said Pancho.

Later later uli, once the ribbing started and died and started again, Sheng said, "Isaw?"

The heavens unfastened, like Neruda said.


*


Isaw sa UP. Kristian drove a La Sallista car. Sheng had cool shortcut moves plus profanities yelled within her mother's car, borrowed for the day. Walang aircon si Pancho.

Isaw sa UP.

Kristian left. Walk away, man. That's it, walk away.

Sheng rubbed her tongue between her two front teeth as she said, quite declaratively, "Beer."


*


Beer with Sir Butch Dalisay. I was still nursing the 1/12 that I drank two hours before as we waited for him, the almost-full bottle squatting dejectedly in front of me. Sir Butch had ordered his fifth San Mig light. Pancho was gesticulating. Sheng's brother was stranded in Filinvest.

And then it started raining.

And then we all went home...

...where I spent most of the night looking up peculiar words like pule in Encarta.





PS
Abrupt ending, I know. But I have (ick) class tomorrow, so toodle-loo.