The Tune Up

ALFRED DELA CRUZ Short story 1 (revised)

Fiction III

THE TUNE UP However can’t you see, that you’re so desperately, A standing joker like a vocal one-liner? Instead of sing-along, this song is monotone, I gotta get some soul, I gotta get some feeling. “That’s Not My Name,” The Ting Tings

THE BELL RANG and my thoughts on Kafka simply vanished into thin air. My professor wished us a happy weekend and turned his back to erase the writings on the board. I hastily tied my hair into a bun, slid the heavy textbook into my bag and lunged towards the door. “Yeah, see you next week, too, Emily!” I heard a friend shout behind me. Without a glance back, I waved my hand. 3:30 on a Friday and I get to go home and stay there till Sunday evening. Finally. Hello weekend. After what seemed like an exodus of similar pedestrians going before me to get their bags inspected to enter the LRT station, the air around me grew cooler unlike the atmosphere outside. After buying my train pass, I casually walked to the train ports and waited along with the thickening crowd of

T h e T u n e U p | 2 of 10 strangers around me. It wasn’t long before I heard the cringing of the railings and bells and mechanical pumps, and the atmosphere shifted to frantic as many tried to get as close to the edge of the ports. It was new that I was elbow-to-elbow with complete strangers in a public place like this. The doors slid open and a horde of people started to rush out, like bees swarming boisterously in a thick gray blur of unending current. I successfully forced my way in, leaving the other swarm of bees waiting to charge behind me. I was already able to secure a newly emptied seat when the crowd of students, managers, mothers, by-standers, vendors, lovers, grandpas, tourists, nuns, office-workers, nurses and many others hurled themselves toward the sliding doors of the train. And then through the glass windows on my side, something caught my eye. I saw a pregnant girl who looked like she hasn’t even finished high school. She should probably be in the mall, hanging out with some friends or having her nails and hair done, yet there she was— carrying an unborn child while, like everyone else, fighting for a seat in the public train. My heart skipped a beat as sympathy and guilt shook my entire being. Please let her in, please let her in. A middle-aged man forcefully sneaked past her, she stepped back to get some air and relieve herself of the apparent struggle she was battling. In a second attempt, she charged, squeezing her way in while desperately trying to protect her belly, but no one other than me must have noticed her. Something inside me wanted to get up and yell at the maddened crowd and pull her inside, but something also seemed to have glued me to my seat. The doors started to beep, pushing half of the mob back—including her. The doors started beeping and slid close, and the train started to move. For a second, I thought she was about to cry but her face gave away nothing but exhaustion. That particular afternoon wasn’t much of an experience. Perhaps because I go back and forth from Quezon City to Las Piñas every week that I’m already used to the grinding of the crowd and my occasional passing up one or two trains to avoid the mini-stampedes. My next train was much smaller, the agony was doubled. In my stop, I usually hail an airconditioned bus. And from then on, the heavy traffic almost didn’t matter. It was comforting to just sit by the window and witness the streets of Buendia and Baclaran turn into the yellow and white posts that line Las Piñas. And by 6 P.M. I was finally in front of our house, paying for my tricycle fare. “How was your trip, honey?” my mom asked as she swung the door open to welcome me. She still had this white, corporate blouse under a floral apron. “Tiring, of course. Where’s Dad?” I kissed her. “He’s on his way,” she answered closing the door behind us. “Dinner’s almost ready. I cooked some seafood spaghetti, what do you think?” “I’m dying, Ma. Call me when it’s ready, I’ll just be upstairs.” I have a normal family. My folks love each other very much—although they’re not always that affectionate and they often get into petty fights, I know they’ll grow old together, I just know. I’m in my sophomore year—in a prestigious school, and my sis, the youngest, is the Wonderwoman of academics— always getting straight A’s. My brother, he lives for video games and basketball and his friends (who also

T h e T u n e U p | 3 of 10 live for video games and basketball). Like I said, we’re pretty much normal. Average is the word if you ask me. I’m not complaining about that. It’s just that sometimes I’m looking for more things to happen in my life—something incredible, huge, groundbreaking! I just want more. “Daaad…?” I said with the largest smile I could plaster on my face as I added some parmesan on my pasta. “I told you, Em. I can’t give you a car yet. It’s too expensive, too early and too risky for you to be driving around especially now that you have night classes,” he said with that sense of finality in his statement. “But everyone else in school is driving one. I don’t understand why you wouldn’t let me—” “When you graduate, I’m sure you’ll have one by then,” he replied, picking up some garlic bread. “Or when I get a job,” I murmured and hoped they didn’t hear me, or if they did, they ignored it. “Mom, talk to Dad, please! Do you guys understand how hard it is to commute?” “Honey, you wanted to dorm near your school and now you’re complaining?” she answered. “Yes, but if I had my own car, it would be easier to go from the dorm—” “Which is, like, across the street?” my sister butted in. “I think if Dad gives you a car, he should give me one too,” my brother added, sipping on his glass. “Shut up, you two. I’m serious!” “You want a car? Fine. Give me all A’s, I’ll give you any car you want,” my dad challenged. They all fell silent. “That’s unfair! You know I can’t do it.” “I think that’s a good idea, dear,” Mom said to my dad as she took a sip from her glass and faced me, “Emily, if others can do it, why can’t you?” “Unbelievable.” “Oh! Before I forget. Some girl called this morning. I think it’s important. It sounded like she was crying, but she’d hung up before I even asked who she was,” she said. “Why is everyone telling you their problems, anyway? Do they have any idea how dead your brain is?” my brother joked. My sister tittered, but I just mocked a laugh in reply. We spent the rest of dinner debating (me, negotiating) about this straight-A challenge of my dad for me. I thought it was impossible. Well, it could be possible if I manage to put all my distractions away for the entire five months—which, I can’t. It’s not even a question. I need my life. It’s the only thing left that’s keeping me sane. It’s just not happening, I thought. I’m never getting a car my entire college life. Never. Just as I was reading through some of my emails, the phone rang. “Whatcha doin’?” a male voice asked as soon as I picked it up and greeted. “Hey, Cor. Nothing much.” “I’m bored,” he said dryly. And I wasn’t exactly in the mood for chit-chat. He probably noticed it so his tone suddenly shifted into enthusiasm. “Hey, Em, I was thinking maybe I could swing by tomorrow morning? Mum’s makin’ kimchi and she wanted me to send you guys some.”

T h e T u n e U p | 4 of 10 “That’s perfect! Tell Tita our ‘thank you’s!’” I exclaimed, slightly pushing the phone harder onto my ear. Now you’re talking, I thought. “Yup, okay. But that’s not all. I have something greater than Mum’s kimchi to show you tomorrow!” “A surprise… For me?” “N-not really. It’s more of mine, actually. Ha ha! But I’m sure you’ll be thrilled to meet her.” “Oh boy,” was all I could muster. “No, not this time… She,” he said with the boldest emphasis on that pronoun, “is perfect. Wait till you see her. And you have to come with us on our first official date.” He sounded so happy, it’s almost ridiculous. “I’m chaperoning? And why doesn’t that excite me, I wonder!” “You neeeed to go, Em. I’ll kill you if you don’t. I mean, how could you refuse me? This is a very special day for me, and I’m your best—” “Fine, fine! Just be sure you pay for my bus fare this time okay? Better yet, get a cab, for cryin’ out loud.” “I’m sure that won’t be a problem,” he said in a sing-song manner again. I can tell he’s way over boredom now. “Whoopee,” I said. Frankly, if you ask me, I’m not that thrilled about Corey’s new girl. I’ve actually met three of them, and they have all been disasters. I’m telling you, if they do not worship Paris Hilton, they’re sloppy upperclass airheads who’d just been introduced by a friend of a friend. I remember the first time I agreed to chaperone for Corey and his date (he’s usually scared on first dates). We ate at this fancy Japanese restaurant because, well, she said she fancied some sushi. Next thing you know, she was awkwardly trying to pick up her ramen noodles with chopsticks. It was pathetic! She could’ve used a fork and I’m sure Corey (and I) wouldn’t have minded. It’s just unbelievable how some girls would go so out of their way to impress a guy. Even worse, it’s Corey! If they only knew how easy it is to impress my friend here, I bet they’ll be surprised—bored, even. But then again, I’m not that thrilled to hang out with Corey, either. Whenever he does drop by at my place to, say chill or whatever, I never finish my homework and studying for Monday’s school. We just couldn’t stop talking. I’m telling you, you could talk about anything with him. Usually, when we feel like it, we’d go to this coffee shop about twenty minutes from my place for no exact reason and we’d spent hours and hours just hanging out by ourselves. You just never get bored of telling him things, and he never gets bored of listening to you. I like that very much about him. One time, I told him how much it excites me to open new things or packages or books or magazines because I find them so addictive to sniff for some reason. Unlike a random friend who’d have probably laughed, thought I was weird or that I’ve got some serious problem or something, Corey just smiled and said “Maybe I should try sniffing my new stuff next time.”

T h e T u n e U p | 5 of 10 Another time, he borrowed my iPod and heard this song “Kids,” he suddenly asked “Who’s MGMT?” turning the screen to me to point out the album art. “They’re this band from the UK and they’re indie and techno sort of pop. What do you think?” “Hmm. They’re cool, I like ‘em. Can you also put them on mine?” He asked, returning to his trance as he nodded his head to the song. I told you, he’s the best. THE NEXT MORNING, I woke up earlier than usual. It was still a bit dark outside. I tried to go back to bed but I couldn’t sleep anymore. I’m not really one of those light-sleepers or insomniacs. I’m just not a very big fan of sleeping even since I was a kid. Some people manage to get a long uninterrupted sleep for twelve hours, but not me. When it’s 6 or 7 in the morning, even if I’d slept at 2 or 3 already, I’d still wake up. Maybe it’s my body clock, or maybe I just hate it when the sun’s already too high for the start of my day. Perhaps I agree with some people’s saying that sleep is an extension of death and not life—certainly not life. “Mom, Corey’s droppin’ some kimchi Tita made!” I shouted to the kitchen. “Ay! Umalis sila nang maaga!” our helper shouted back. “San pumunta?” I went to the kitchen to ask her. “’Di sinabi.” “I see, okay. Um, Ate, I’ll go get ready, I’m going somewhere with Corey. I already told Mom and Dad.” “Okay. Mag-de-date nanaman kayo ha…” she grinned, flashing a very white set of teeth. “Sige, gusto mo, ikaw makipag-date?” I shot back at her but she just giggled. “Anyway, I’ll be back in the afternoon to get changed. I’m going to a concert with my friends tonight.” I took a quick shower, brushed my teeth and dried up. I slipped on a plain v-neck and tucked it in a brown leather vintage belt and a pair of semi-tattered light blue jeans that hugged my thighs just perfectly for what I expected to be another hot day. But then I decided to bring with me a thick, knitted gray cardigan so I’d be ready for any air-conditioning or Corey’s impulsive decisions to a Tagaytay getaway with this girl. My phone buzzed for the first time that day. B there in a few. Get ready 2meet her! Sometimes it’s so hard to be happy for him. It’s either you don’t understand his enthusiasm for a little thing or you get tired of his being happy all the time, it makes you sick. What a very nice thing to feel for a friend, right? But Corey knows I’m like this. He knows I’m not exactly satisfied with my life and the things and friends I have, but he’s always put up with me. “Life is all about choices, you know,” he told me one time we were playing scrabble. “No, that’s not true,” I argued. “Many things could put you down. You never wanted them to be there. They just happen. How do you explain it, then?” I added, scribbling down plus 18 points to my score.

T h e T u n e U p | 6 of 10 “Well, you let those things make you miserable and not feel your worth,” he replied as he inserted his hand into the purple fabric sack of letter blocks. “I think, you have many things to be happy about—I mean, we all do. You’re just too clouded by your negativity. You complain about everything, you see every minute detail and tell the world how much it annoys you. You think that will make you happy?” he lectured, positioning the pieces of blocks in front of him. “No… But I’m like that. Complaining is the outlet of my frustrations, what do you want me to do? Change?” “Exactly. You choose to complain, and you choose to be negative,” he rebutted. “Now I didn’t say you should change all of that since you believe it’s what defines you as a person. But are you happy that way?” he added with such conviction I found impossible to refute. I felt a pang of disgust as he placed in “H-O-A-X” onto the scrabble board, setting the “X” on the very rare and tougher to reach “triple score” square. With an “in your face!” expression, he counted his number of points. It was almost 1 in the morning and I was already more than 50 points behind. I felt too tired and frustrated to conjure up another “but” for him. But maybe he was right and I just couldn’t accept and all the more, believe it. I understand that I complain more often than other people do, but I’ve never looked at it as a spell for my eternal gloom. But maybe that’s why Corey and I never even got close to being “together”. We’ve always had totally different philosophies. Most girls would probably feel that sort of magnetism towards Corey by his speeches—either accompanied by an election-themed appropriateness and conviction or hopelessly romantic straight-as-hell stare. But I guess I’m not ‘most girls’. And I’d like to think that is why we’ve remained tight over the years. Nonetheless, I wanted to be supportive and do what I was supposed to do then—see this girl all throughout including her innards, and make sure she’s ready for Corey’s performing a heart transplant on her… Or something like that. I heard the doorbell. “I’ll get it!” I shouted towards nowhere and no one in particular. I opened the door, and there I saw Corey standing behind our gate, wearing his favorite goldrimmed aviators, a relaxed-fit brown shirt and some greenish cargo shorts. His unkempt short black hair jiggled as the light breeze swept against it. He was carrying a medium-size jar of what appears to be the kimchi his mother made. “You readeh?” he asked with a slightly mischievous smile. “Hey. I didn’t hear any trikes go by,” I said as I received the jar of kimchi and invited him in. “Did your driver bring you, where’s your car? Is she there, waiting? Do we pick her up or—” I inquired, glancing around looking for his dad’s SUV or a fleeing tricycle… and of course, the girl. “Just put that jar inside and come with me. Quick!” he replied. “Okay, okay. Go fetch us a trike… Jeez, what’s the rush?” Walking back out, I was only beginning to wonder where Corey had suddenly gone and who owned this obviously brand new car until he hopped right out of the driver seat and did a sort of “tadaa!” as he flicked his hands in the air.

T h e T u n e U p | 7 of 10 My jaw dropped. “You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I said. “You like it? You like it, huh?” he boasted, nodding his head and passionately smiling at this sleek, shiny little silver vehicle in our presence. “Emily, I’d like you to meet… Bianca!” “I—I—wow. I mean,” What the hell? I’m stuttering! “I can’t believe this! When? How did you get it?” I walked closer to the auto and past Corey, in disbelief. “Well, I told you my folks owe me after Ate got her second brand new. Doesn’t she look great?!” he followed me and nudged me with his elbow. “You finally have your own car,” I added dryly. It was as if thin little shards of cold glass shot through my lungs as I heard him say that. My heartbeat shifted from soft lub-dubs to heavy thundering drumbeats, the filth of envy suddenly intoxicating me. “C’mon, let’s go somewhere… Anywhere!” he beamed. “Oooh. And I made sure she had a connector so we can play our music! I told you, I’m the best,” he said, rushing to his new baby. I slid into the front seat and boy did it feel brand new. I could still smell the newly removed stickers and plastic coverings—nice. Is this Bianca’s way of welcoming me? Inside was surprisingly spacious. And it was an automatic! I checked my side and there was even a cup-holder! She was indeed perfect. “So, where to?” I asked and saw him fasten his seatbelt. I also did mine. He had this huge smile plastered on his face, just like that of a kid riding a mini rocket in Disneyland. “I’m not sure,” he answered, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He turned to face me. “How does Tagaytay sound?” “Can’t. The girls are picking me up at 6 for the concert.” “Oh yeah, The Ting Tings… Well have fun without me,” he shot back. “Is this jealousy in your tone? Hmmmm, somebody’s jealous!” I joked. “What? Me? Jealous? Please!” “Hah! You totally are!” “No way, tell your friends I have you till I say I have you.” “Fine,” I surrendered. “Coffee. Your treat.” “Sabi na nga ba, nag-aantay ka lang ng libre e,” he said, putting back that mischievous smile and turning the key. “Asa! I’m saving my cash, dickwad.” “Wushoo! Excuses!” he chuckled. “Tara na nga,” he said, pressing on a mish-mash of buttons, pulling the two-way lever, and stepping on the accelerator. Then very smoothly, the sedan moved forward. We are in a mini rocket ship after all. “So how much did you pay to get on top of Bianca?” I asked casually as we went past the subdivision gate and along the main road. “Hey! You’re making her sound like a prostitute. Kadiri ka!”

T h e T u n e U p | 8 of 10 “Ha ha ha! What? I wasn’t—hey! You’re the one who started personifying her, remember?” I joked, half apologetically. “I know, but don’t you get it? She’s my new girl, to put it. I want you to respect her, okay? No matter how silly that sounds,” he said as we slowed down into a stop, along with the other vehicles that were now piling in. “Respect the frickin’ car, got it.” The traffic enforcer in ultra bright orange uniform was letting all the vehicles to our left proceed first. “So how much?” “Meh—let’s just say a few grand less than market price. I got this auto-retailer cousin, remember?” he said, tapping impatiently on the wheel. “Wow. Really good for you, Cor.” I pulled my iPod from my pocket, “Now I’m the only one who’s gonna have to endure the painful commuting,” I added, placing the thing onto the car’s setting, and turned it on. It was playing “Mr. Brightside.” “Who said anything like that? Of course you’re riding with me whenever you want and no matter what happens… That’s a fuckin’ promise,” he declared, his tone almost creeping me out. But with that stupid smile he went back singing along with the Killers. I wanted to tease him for being too casually cheesy as he’s never told me something like that. But I found myself wanting to believe it. He was so out of tune even for a simple, mostly monotonous song, yet you could tell he didn’t care whether he had it correctly or not. I, too, sang along, emphasizing the right lyrics and raising my voice so that he could hear the right melody, but joining him only made him sing even more passionately. Again, I noticed how different Las Piñas is. Aside from the absence of baby blue and pink male urinals, the main road seems very narrow, making the sidewalks a place to expect running across anyone familiar. I found it strange yet amusing to still feel secured despite being already around twenty blocks away from home. Arriving at the café, we saw no other customers except for us and a teenage couple who had heavy textbooks opened and all sorts of pencils and markers in front of them. But apparently they were too distracted by each other’s presence. Not that I found the sight too unusual. It’s just that I found it too inappropriate. In fact, if anything, it was verging on pornography. I expected Corey to nudge me and point out what I’d already seen but he must’ve been too eager for the coffee to even bother. We merely went past them and strode directly towards the counter. “Hey, have you heard the rumor, one of our batchmates is pregnant?” he asked, grabbing a bite off his donut. He looked outside to check his brand new sedan, his face looking serious. “I’m not even surprised,” I said dryly, slicing my own donut into pieces. “Do you believe that, Em? Knocked up as early as right after high school—just like in the movies, just like in the news!” I was getting bored with our topic yet he seemed so greatly concerned. “I blame the guy,” I said, munching on a piece of donut. “Ha?” “I said I blame the guy.”

T h e T u n e U p | 9 of 10 “What?” He was in disbelief—almost disgust, actually. “Why’s it always the guy’s fault for you, huh, Em?” “You guys have your uncontrollable urges… We don’t.” I answered plainly. “Know what, if you’re so confident about your own kind, why don’t you form a celibacy club for girls? Let’s see how many will join…” he joked but he himself didn’t find it funny. “Fine,” I said. “What did you want me to say?” “Forget it. Shouldn’t even have started the topic—” “But what’s so surprising about teenage girls getting pregnant these days? To think, many of the girls in our high school have done it by junior year. I just feel sorry for them, that’s all.” Actually, I didn’t feel sorry for them at all. They know far too well the consequences of their actions, and they go along letting their hormones carry them to their doom. What’s to feel sorry about that? I think it’s pathetic. For a fraction of a second, the image of the pregnant high school girl in the train occurred to me, but I immediately shrugged the thought off. “I can’t believe how prejudiced you are,” he replied, taking a sip. “I know that was heartless—what I said. But I’m not taking it back,” I shot back at him, ripping open the sugar packet and emptying it into my cup. “Yeah? What if it was one of your friends? What if it was me who got someone…” his voice seemed to have trailed off with the coffee’s smoke. He glanced away and started playing with the receipt from a while ago. “A mistake like that is stupid, and I’d be ashamed you’re my friend,” I replied, looking around to see if someone had heard me “Why? You knocked someone up?” And then all of a sudden he went pale. He drew a sharp breath and began to fidget. “What? Me? No. Of course I didn’t,” he said, turning his face down. “Corey?” I said, moving closer to him. “Is something wrong?” He looked up at me, eyes watery and bloodshot. THAT NIGHT IN THE CONCERT I was literally inches away from a dancing and twirling, hyperactive fireball of Katie, the vocalist of The Ting Tings. She had her usual platinum blond, 80’s mess of a hair; she wore this white, fluffy fur frock and some striped purple and green stockings. Jules had his usual wayfarers (this time its frame was a metallic turquoise), he wore this black leather Ramones jacket on top of a cherry-red shirt. He was, of course, behind the drum set, pounding on with the wooden sticks—pretty much the same positions in their live performances I’ve marked as favorite on YouTube—only they were much, much closer to me now. They changed up the melodies of the songs especially the more popular ones, and they made quite an impression with the other tracks, making an ugly visual mess and unpleasant butchering of the songs. The crowd was very lively and most knew the lyrics by heart, just like I did. It was impossible not to get carried away by the dynamic array of colorful lights, the perfect crisp of the music and the hyperactive crowd. The feeling was electric.

T h e T u n e U p | 10 of 10 But every now and then, in the middle of each song, I would turn to look at my friends. I wondered if they also had another show stuck on replay in their heads. You know, thoughts that might have been bothering them. But their overly bemused eyes revealed just that. Don’t get me wrong, I am enjoying this… It’s just that, somehow, some part of me felt like I should be somewhere else, doing something far more relevant and right. Although I told myself that was the only place I ought to be that night—among the maddened crowd, with just my girls. I shouldn’t be asking for more. It was until my friends began taking pictures in front of the already band-less stage that I realized the very similar crowd of students, managers, mothers, by-standers, vendors, lovers, grandpas, tourists, nuns, office-workers, and nurses had gradually begun dispersing. And then something caught my eye. 101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 10101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101 01010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010 101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010101010