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victorusolano · 3 years

Text

FYD

When she called him at the office, she would never give her name, even if he wasn't in or couldn't come to the telephone and she was asked to leave a message. When they asked her, as invariably they would, she said whatever name came to her mind at the moment-- Tina or Fannie or Malou. Unless he answered, of course, and then, happily she said, "It's me." And he knew it was she and spoke in lower tones, in the voice that was reserved for them, for her.

If she were really quick on that particular day, she made up last names and changed her voice a little, pitching it higher or lower or making it all soft and gooey and breathy. Or she might speak like a foreigner with an accent or haltingly, like she didn't know English. Be Carla Benitez or Sharon Stevenson. It was a game she grew adept at. Soon, almost without thinking, she could come up with names and last names, drawling intonations, even occupations, in case they ever asked. The one named Kathleen worked at a bank. She'd always loved that name. Chris was still a student at the university, and Serena Yu didn't work at all. She sang for a band at a bar. As she waited for him to come to the phone, holding the receiver with moist palms, she pictured the Chiqui or Aleli or Teeny or Cookie or Sarina or Kay she had dreamed up. The sleek hair, the curving bodies, the linen suits and high heels, the green eye-shadow and the mauve lipstick, the dimples or freckles or the tiny beauty mark on the corner of her mouth. All real women.

At a certain point, she knew she could use her own voice, perhaps even her own name, and it would not matter. No one would ever know it was her because even if they wanted to, who could keep track of all the women calling him? After all that, she figured, nobody would care. Besides, it was exciting. To ask for him and in answer to "Who is this please?" say "Diana" or "Joy" or "Gretchen Castillo" and give whatever performance she was up to, later straining to hear how the person told him, what they said. The people at the office called him "chicker" now. She enjoyed that.

"Hello?" he always said into the receiver after the hooting and teasing in the background had faded. When she said hello, he always knew. "Why do you do that?" He asked her, once he was certain, of course, that she was not Eva or Marla or Teresa that he might have forgotten or not recognized. She could tell though that he wasn't sore or annoyed. In fact, she could hear the smile on his face, in his voice, and it made her smile as well.

"Because it's none of their business who calls you," she said laughing.

Once he asked her again. Afterwards, as they lay in each other's arms, as she warmed her cheek on his neck, he said, "But why do you do that?"

"Hmmm?" she said.

"Why all these names? Who are Candy and Victoria and Felice? Why not just say who you are?"

She raised herself on her elbow, her face flushed and slightly swollen, and looked at him blankly. "Oh," she said. "I told you. It's fun. They seem to enjoy it. Besides, don't you like having them think that a lot of women call you?"

It was a joke. A friend, more his than hers (and possibly this was the reason she did not like her much, though of course, he did not know it) said women called all the time.

"What's the matter? Does it really bother you that the people at your office think you're a ladies' man? Doesn't it make you feel good?" she asked.

He smiled.

"So I make you feel good?"

He didn't answer. Sensing she was being figured out, yet another thing that grated on her nerves, she turned away, sliding her arm out from beneath him so quickly that her skin burned on the sheets. Facing the wall, she buried both her hands under the pillow, beneath her cheek.

"Hey," he turned her back to face him but she resisted. "Hey, it's funny, that's all. You're funny." He kissed her and she unclenched her fists and relaxed, allowing herself to be pulled close to him. They did not talk again.

The last time she gave a false name at the office was when she called to make up for a fight they had, to apologize. She had lost her temper and given in to jealousy, resenting him for getting all awkward and uneasy just because they happened to sit a few feet away from his old girlfriend at lunch in a restaurant that day. He introduced them and they all said polite things to each other and then went on to have lunches at their respective tables. She was not even angry, not really, until after lunch in the car, he sighed with relief and remarked how glad he was the episode was over in too concerned a manner-- it seemed to her as though the incident mattered so much...

But even as she made her cutting remarks, even as she stomped out of the car and slammed it shut, she was already looking forward to the next time they would be together. How he would reassure her-- kiss everything away. How sweet it would be to be sweet with him again.

"Who should I say is calling, please?" the voice asked.

She paused. Later on, she thought back to this moment again and again and still she could not figure out what on earth made her say that. Why? Why not Wendy or Arlene? Margot dela Cruz or Angela Lazaro? She was not thinking. How unfortunate. It was simply the first name that came to her mind at that particular moment. Nothing more.

And there was no picture in her mind as she breathed anxiously. Waiting for him to come to the telephone, nothing came to her even when she heard the voice say, not without a teasing note. "There's a Beth on the line for you." No, she had been thinking about the words she say, how she was sorry, how she had been silly to feel so badly and how she loved him. She had been thinking that it was right to call him this way, in the morning. It was right to take just two minutes to make it better, so they would feel wonderful again and things could go back to the way they were.

"Hey," he said simply. "Hi there. I'm glad you called." She rushed to explain, to recite her speech, all the lines that were running in her head. Then she stopped, astonished.

"Hello? Hello?" he said. "Beth? Hi."

"No," she answered. "Not Beth."

"Oh," he said. "Oh, honey." He laughed.

She was silent.

"Hey, I'm sorry. I thought..." he broke off.

"No, it's alright. I'm sorry. It's my fault," she said. And then she began again.

He told her she didn't need to explain or be sorry. He understood about yesterday.

And she managed to say everything anyhow, in just the way she had planned to say it.

"I love you," he said, lowering his voice so no one else would hear it but her. But even as she said she loved him too, she wondered at the sound of his voice, and ached, because he never once said her name.

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victorusolano · 3 years

Text

FYD Series

She stepped down from the carretela of Ca Celin with a quick, delicate grace. She was lovely. She was tall. She looked up to my brother with a smile, and her forehead was on a level with his mouth. "You are Baldo," she said and placed her hand lightly on my shoulder. Her nails were long, but they were not painted. She was fragrant like a morning when papayas are in bloom. And a small dimple appeared momentarily high on her right cheek. "And this is Labang of whom I have heard so much about." She held the wrist of one hand with the other and looked at Labang, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud. He swallowed and brought up to his mouth more cud and the sound of his insides was like a drum. I laid a hand on Labang's massive neck and said to her: "You may scratch his forehead now."

She hesitated and I saw that her eyes were on the long, curving horns. But she came and touched Labang's forehead with her long fingers, and Labang never stopped chewing his cud except that his big eyes were half closed. And by and by she was scratching his forehead very daintily. My brother Leon put down the two trunks on the grassy side of the road. He paid Ca Celin twice the usual fare from the station to the edge of Nagrebcan. Then he was standing beside us, and she turned to him eagerly.

I watched Ca Celin, where he stood in front of his horse, and he ran his fingers through its forelock and could not keep his eyes away from her. "Maria — " my brother Leon said. He did not say Maring. He did not say Mayang. I knew then that he had always called her Maria and that to us all she would be Maria; and in my mind I said 'Maria' and it was a beautiful name. "Yes, Noel." Now where did she get that name? I pondered the matter quietly to myself, thinking Father might not like it. But it was only the name of my brother Leon said backward and it sounded much better that way. "There is Nagrebcan, Maria," my brother Leon said, gesturing widely toward the west. She moved close to him and slipped her arm through his. And after a while she said quietly. "You love Nagrebcan, don't you, Noel?" Ca Celin drove away hi-yi-ing to his horse loudly. At the bend of the camino real where the big duhat tree grew, he rattled the handle of his braided rattan whip against the spokes of the wheel. We stood alone on the roadside.

The sun was in our eyes, for it was dipping into the bright sea. The sky was wide and deep and very blue above us: but along the saw-tooth rim of the Katayaghan hills to the southwest flamed huge masses of clouds. Before us the fields swam in a golden haze through which floated big purple and red and yellow bubbles when I looked at the sinking sun. Labang's white coat, which I had wished and brushed that morning with coconut husk, glistened like beaten cotton under the lamplight and his horns appeared tipped with fire. He faced the sun and from his mouth came a call so loud and vibrant that the earth seemed to tremble underfoot. And far away in the middle of the field a cow lowered softly in answer. "Hitch him to the cart, Baldo," my brother Leon said, laughing, and she laughed with a big uncertainty, and I saw that he had put his arm around her shoulders. "Why does he make that sound?" she asked. "I have never heard the like of it." "There is not another like it," my brother Leon said. "I have yet to hear another bull call like Labang. In all the world there is no other bull like him." She was smiling at him, and I stopped in the act of tying the sinta across Labang's neck to the opposite end of the yoke, because her teeth were very white, her eyes were so full of laughter, and there was a small dimple high up on her right cheek. "If you continue to talk about him like that, either I shall fall in love with him or become greatly jealous." My brother Leon laughed and she laughed and they looked at each other and it seemed to me there was a world of laughter between them and in them. I climbed into the cart over the wheel and Labang would have bolted, for he was always like that, but I kept a firm hold on his rope.

He was restless and would not stand still, so my brother Leon had to say "Labang" several times. When he was quiet again, my brother Leon lifted the trunks into the cart, placing the smaller on top. She looked down once at her high-heeled shoes, then she gave her left hand to my brother Leon, placed a foot on the hub of the wheel, and in one breath she swung up into the cart. Oh, the fragrance of her. But Labang was fairly dancing with impatience and it was all I could do to keep him from running away. "Give me the rope, Baldo," my brother Leon said. "Maria, sit down on the hay and hold on to anything." Then he put a foot on the left shaft and that instant Labang leaped forward.

My brother Leon laughed as he drew himself up to the top of the side of the cart and made the slack of the rope hiss above the back of Labang. The wind whistled against my cheeks and the rattling of the wheels on the pebbly road echoed in my ears. She sat up straight on the bottom of the cart, legs bent together to one side, her skirts spread over them so that only the toes and heels of her shoes were visible. her eyes were on my brother Leon's back; I saw the wind on her hair.

When Labang slowed down, my brother Leon handed me the rope. I knelt on the straw inside the cart and pulled on the rope until Labang was merely shuffling along, then I made him turn around. "What is it you have forgotten now, Baldo?" my brother Leon said. I did not say anything but tickled with my fingers the rump of Labang; and away we went — back to where I had unhitched and waited for them.

The sun had sunk and down from the wooded sides of the Katayaghan hills shadows were stealing into the fields. High up overhead the sky burned with many slow fires. When I sent Labang down the deep cut that would take us to the dry bed of the waig which could be used as a path to our place during the dry season, my brother Leon laid a hand on my shoulder and said sternly: "Who told you to drive through the fields tonight?" His hand was heavy on my shoulder, but I did not look at him or utter a word until we were on the rocky bottom of the waig. "Baldo, you fool, answer me before I lay the rope of Labang on you. Why do you follow the Wait instead of the camino real?" His fingers bit into my shoulder. "Father, he told me to follow the waig tonight, Manong." Swiftly, his hand fell away from my shoulder and he reached for the rope of Labang. Then my brother Leon laughed, and he sat back, and laughing still, he said: "And I suppose Father also told you to hitch Labang to the cart and meet us with him instead of with Castano and the calesa." Without waiting for me to answer, he turned to her and said, "Maria, why do you think Father should do that, now?" He laughed and added, "Have you ever seen so many stars before?" I looked back and they were sitting side by side, leaning against the trunks, hands clasped across knees. Seemingly, but a man's height above the tops of the steep banks of the Wait, hung the stars. But in the deep gorge the shadows had fallen heavily, and even the white of Labang's coat was merely a dim, grayish blue. Crickets chirped from their homes in the cracks in the banks.

The thick, unpleasant smell of dangla bushes and cooling sun-heated earth mingled with the clean, sharp scent of arrais roots exposed to the night air and of the hay inside the cart. "Look, Noel, yonder is our star!" Deep surprise and gladness were in her voice. Very low in the west, almost touching the ragged edge of the bank, was the star, the biggest and brightest in the sky. "I have been looking at it," my brother Leon said.

"Do you remember how I would tell you that when you want to see stars you must come to Nagrebcan?"

"Yes, Noel," she said.

"Look at it," she murmured half to herself.

"It is so many times bigger and brighter than it was at Ermita beach."

"The air here is clean, free of dust and smoke."

"So it is, Noel," she said, drawing a long breath.

"Making fun of me, Maria?" She laughed then and they laughed together and she took my brother Leon's hand and put it against her face.

I stopped Labang, climbed down, and lighted the lantern that hung from the cart between the wheels. "Good boy, Baldo," my brother Leon said as I climbed back into the cart, and my heart sant. Now the shadows took fright and did not crowd so near. Clumps of andadasi and arrais flashed into view and quickly disappeared as we passed by. Ahead, the elongated shadow of Labang bobbled up and down and swayed drunkenly from side to side, for the lantern rocked jerkily with the cart. "Have we far to go yet, Noel?" she asked. "Ask Baldo," my brother Leon said, "we have been neglecting him." "I am asking you, Baldo," she said. Without looking back, I answered, picking my words slowly: "Soon we will get out of the Wait and pass into the fields. After the field is home — Manong." "So near already." I did not say anything more because I did not know what to make of the tone of her voice as she said her last words. All the laughter seemed to have gone out of her.

I waited for my brother Leon to say something, but he was not saying anything. Suddenly he broke out into song and the song was 'Sky Sown with Stars' — the same that he and Father sang when we cut hay in the fields at night before he went away to study. He must have taught her the song because she joined him, and her voice flowed into his like a gentle stream meeting a stronger one. And each time the wheels encountered a big rock, her voice would catch in her throat, but my brother Leon would sing on, until, laughing softly, she would join him again. Then we were climbing out into the fields, and through the spokes of the wheels the light of the lantern mocked the shadows. Labang quickened his steps.

The jolting became more frequent and painful as we crossed the low dikes. "But it is so very wide here," she said. The light of the stars broke and scattered the darkness so that one could see far on every side, though indistinctly. "You miss the houses, and the cars, and the people and the noise, don't you?" My brother Leon stopped singing. "Yes, but in a different way. I am glad they are not here." With difficulty I turned Labang to the left, for he wanted to go straight on. He was breathing hard, but I knew he was more thirsty than tired.

In a little while we drop up the grassy side onto the camino real. "— you see," my brother Leon was explaining, "the Camino Real curves around the foot of the Katayaghan hills and passes by our house. We drove through the fields because — but I'll be asking Father as soon as we get home."

"Noel," she said.

"Yes, Maria."

"I am afraid. He may not like me."

"Does that worry you still, Maria?" my brother Leon said.

"From the way you talk, he might be an ogre, for all the world. Except when his leg that was wounded in the Revolution is troubling him, Father is the mildest tempered, gentlest man I know."

We came to the house of lacay Julian and I spoke to Labang loudly, but Moning did not come to the window, so I surmised she must be eating with the rest of her family. And I thought of the food being made ready at home and my mouth watered.

We met the twins, Urong and Celin, and I said "Hoy!" calling them by name. And they shouted back and asked if my brother Leon and his wife were with me. And my brother Leon shouted to them and then told me to make Labang run; their answers were lost in the noise of the wheels. I stopped Labang on the road before our house and would have gotten down but my brother Leon took the rope and told me to stay in the cart. He turned Labang into the open gate and we dashed into our yard. I thought we would crash into the camachile tree, but my brother Leon returned to Labang in time.

There was light downstairs in the kitchen, and Mother stood in the doorway, and I could see her smiling shyly. My brother Leon was helping Maria over the wheel. The first words that fell from his lips after he had kissed Mother's hand were: "Father... where is he?" "He is in his room upstairs," Mother said, her face becoming serious. "His leg is bothering him again." I did not hear anything more because I had to go back to the cart to unhitch Labang. But I hardly tied him under the barn when I heard Father calling me. I met my brother Leon going to bring up the trunks. As I passed through the kitchen, there were Mother and my sister Aurelia and Maria and it seemed to me they were crying, all of them.

There was no light in Father's room. There was no movement. He sat in the big armchair by the western window, and a star shone directly through it. He was smoking, but he removed the roll of tobacco from his mouth when he saw me. He laid it carefully on the windowsill before speaking. "Did you meet anybody on the way?" he asked. "No, Father," I said. "Nobody passes through the Waig at night." He reached for his roll of tobacco and hitched himself up in the chair. "She is very beautiful, Father." "Was she afraid of Labang?" My father had not raised his voice, but the room seemed to resonate with it. And again I saw her eyes on the long curving horns and the arm of my brother Leon around her shoulders.

"No, Father, she was not afraid."

"On the way — She looked at the stars, Father. And Manong Leon sang."

"What did he sing?"

"Sky Sown with Stars... She sang with him."

He was silent again. I could hear the low voices of Mother and my sister Aurelia downstairs. There was also the voice of my brother Leon, and I thought that Father's voice must have been like it when Father was young. He had laid the roll of tobacco on the windowsill once more. I watched the smoke waver faintly upward from the lighted end and vanish slowly into the night outside. The door opened and my brother Leon and Maria came in. "Have you watered Labang?" Father spoke to me. I told him that Labang was still resting still under the barn. "It is time you watered him, my son," my father said. I looked at Maria and she was lovely. She was tall. Beside my brother Leon, she was tall and very still. Then I went out, and in the darkened hall the fragrance of her was like a morning when papayas are in bloom.

Disclaimer & Fair Use Act Statement

This content may contain copyrighted material whose use has not been specifically authorized by the copyright owner.

This content is made available for literary criticism, research, and educational purposes, and the public good.

#labang

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victorusolano · 3 years

Text

FYD Series

It was one evening of summer. Anyone's skin can be steamed when exposed to the open air of the night. There, perched like a bird on his writing desk, contemplating seriously in a small dimly lit room was - Xenon. His family was all disturbed by the climate condition, so they went out of town to some nearby beach resorts. Xenon on his volition stayed alone, in which he likely enjoyed making love with the old typewriter resting in a great silence. He thought that this is what he needs to write a story tonight and the deadline of his paper is tomorrow before the sunset.

Two weeks ago, the writing task was assigned to him, by the chief editor of the literary magazine he is working with; and till this night it had remained untouched, and unmarked, though the time left was enough to say generously to finish one short story. However, catching up the race between him, and the ongoing moments is now useless. Words and meanings ran away and went to a place nowhere to be found. I should eat a dictionary, He murmured to himself. He took a glance at the old wall clock and looked away at the open window, stared blankly across the survey of height and to the dark space outside.

When he reconciled his thoughts; he gave a sweeping look at the old pictures of the family photos and old framed certificates of academic achievements of writing contests. He nailed his attention to a class picture of his college.

It was before the day of graduation; like a dreamy shot, his recollections swirled in a throwback changing a milieu; a trance to a memory. He can even smell the old odor of the room where he was in the picture: the blackboard with the doodle half-erased drawings of impish boyhood, girls prepping up in a rush as the bell rang when the class was announced dismissed. “Wait for me at the powder room, just need to fix this” the president of the class pointed at the board trying so hard to erase the drawings. “Come on here now Xenon!” The tall pale boy invited him to take his place for picture taking along the corridor. The boys, in a disorganized choreography, set themselves like a tableau; rowdy as they were. They were teasing, joking, thumping in harsh horseplay. “It's the last day!” Declared joyfully of one of the boys.

His consciousness lurched back into reality like a warp of time; he put his palm on his face. Now, he began carelessly to at least write something. The editor will kill him flat tomorrow; I need to finish at least one tonight.

He took a glance at the old wall clock which struck exactly twelve-thirty midnight. He returned to his writing desk, wiped out apple cores and peels, and decided to transcribe anything that comes first into his mind, a short story must be short and should have a story, he said to himself. But what story should I write? desperate he was, hope suddenly became absent; tomorrow I'm dead! Misfortune has taken its form now: all he accomplished about writing have flown away, he began to think that all structures of narratives are bogus, workshops and seminars he attended are all hoaxes. No formula could teach someone how to write. He then remembered a book called Under The… What? It’s something ahm… He tried it with difficulty to remember. Suddenly, he remembered Tree - then he told himself, all writing may be divided into two groups, good writing, and bad writing; good books come out of good writing while bad writing produces failures, again and again, he scanned the line like an X-ray of that passage from a book which was a foreword by RK. A failure He exclaimed silently; not even of Montes’ Of Fish… and etcetera, What would I be writing about dogs or flies? Then he recalled Peter's Touch Move. I am no longer a kid! That conviction made him more worried there, he is now sure that a block along the streamlines of thoughts is hampering him to be productive and creative. No is now a strong resistance, to be Noel’s Games is something, and to finish a writing task today is a different thing. He remembered it all well; call me Tina or Fanny – No one calls me! He snorted.

It was almost three in the morning and no matter how hard he tried to have an idea and flood an ink in the paper, it just equated to frustration. A scrap of papers had been spilling off the bin and onto the floor, so he decided to take a walk outside for a while and jog. The objective of his motivation was like a plan, he thought that maybe he needed to activate an endorphin from his brain, in a matter of two minutes he got changed his clothes, he wore that unlaundered navy blue jersey shorts, he wore the other day; he paired it with a billowy old white cotton shirt, and put on his ash-colored rubber shoes which was a birthday gift, and went to the plaza.

He went on jogging around the track field. Quickly, it made him asphyxiated on the sixth round, but he decided to run two more and two rounds of walk to complete the set; good enough for an hour jog today he thought. Thirsty as he was, he wanted to look for water, so he went to an all-day convenience store to quench his dried throat. “Good morning!” a sweet greeting of the store staff, he smiled back and padded to the panel doors of chillers; grabbed a bottle of water, he opened it right away and in a spur-of-the-moment, he drank it all without thinking that he hadn't paid it yet; he remembered, so he went to the counter, and scanned the bottle, he grabbed some chips, and instant coffee, pay the total, and left.

At the park, He again tried to process what was going on with him. The situation of being a writer seemed to change from what he has believed for the past years; beginning from his aspiration to be a writer someday which now has been achieved. Now is a challenge against himself, am I just being lazy? He rebuked the thought hastily, laziness is a big word, he would like to think that he is more of a selective participant rather than being the word lazy… these thoughts wire loomed in his mind. He walked toward a wooden bench at the park but at that moment, an answer did not come; he decided to sit for a moment while looking at the cadastral and being engulfed by the tranquility. When suddenly an old man spoke, “What are you looking at?” the old man asked, breaking the silence. Astounded Xenon was; as he did not realize the presence of the old man sitting next to him at all before. Xenon tried to find a complete grasp of how it could happen?

“Nothing sir” he answered back at an instant without an inch of hesitation.

“Thinking?”

“No, sir”

“What exactly do you have in your mind and how would you like to describe it, before you sit here beside me?” The old man asked. “Well I am thinking of so many things, I am thinking of my article, a short story of some sort, it’s my deadline today, and I need to submit it this afternoon” Xenon responded as if caught in a corner with the question.

“Excuse me, sir - you've been here all the while?”

“Yes”

“I… did not see you’re here, I am sure of that!”

“Well I am exactly”

“Exactly? like how? I’m sorry sir!”

The old man gave him an artificial laugh before he uttered another word. “There so many things we trouble so much in this life – we don’t see now details of why we’re here or how did we get there, time runs too fast, we don’t see that - I like this place,” An eminent pause before Xenon was able to respond, “I'm sorry for the intrusion, sir!” What he wanted to mean in that is like a stop.

“Are you alone or waiting for someone? I'll just then look at another bench around.”

“No,” the old man said.

Without a second the old man said, “You can sit here, I don't own it anyway - I am the same, like you…” he turned a look to Xenon “I as well wanted to take a walk and free the mind of so many things.”

Xenon did not believe the words, like the same he tried to process the thought, it cannot be possible for two people to do something the same or thinking completely parallel at the same point of time at exactitude, and meet. He’d like to dismiss the idea with a general conviction. “Yes, I am thinking if this is appropriate to have your autograph?” The old man said, Xenon wondered very oddly. The old man was very well informed, he thought as if he was under surveillance. “Hold on a second, sir - How did you know that...? I am… ahm” He can’t find the words again. “Writer?” The old man responded so very quickly to help him grasp the words. “Yes! You've already told me, I think no less than a minute before the whole sentence that I have calculated.” - “What?” He was surprised by the old man’s precision of thoughts. “You see now my friend, It seems that you're not paying much attention to the details, you’ve just told me that; this day is your deadline of a narrative to some sort that you needed to submit later this afternoon.” He repeated it like a backmasked vinyl recording to him.

He did not answer back and noticed something which he cannot sham his feeling. he thought it was talking to some kind of a prophet; an oracle, the old man gave him a creep but it was never of fear he felt that time, when the old man said, you're not paying much attention to the details: and it provided him a connection, an impulse releasing the secret of his lingering dilemma. It seemed that the old man had known him before and was reading his mind in silence. And before he could say another word, the old man got on to his feet and walked slowly in the distance. “Where are you going, sir? I thought you wanted my autograph?” He replied instantly. “I was about to do that” he slipped his hand on the pocket of his shirt and brought out a pen. The man moved close to him and said, “maybe after you finish the story you are about to submit today – I want surprises, I love that. It sounded more of a challenge to him. “I'll just wait for it once it’s out,” the old man continued, “I'm expecting that one will be good too, like the others.” Xenon felt being seized. Then in no time delay, he asked, “Sir, may I know your name please” The old man looked away and replied with a serious note. “I never had one.”

“I grew up in a home,” the old man continued, Xenon did not understand what he meant by the word home.

“I never knew who my parents are”

“You mean you're an orphan, sir?”

He sounded that question as an inquiry, not a statement or a report; he could not completely believe when the old man said, never had one. He assumed, while the slightest of what he can accept, that someone in his infancy had given him any name at least any among the common names, like Peter or Jeff.

“Yes, may I?” The old man was demonstrating to take a seat, he snatched the opportunity, and released a deep sigh before Xenon could make his reply.

“Yes! Surely, sir”

“I would like to tell you a story – may I?” Without averseness he agreed — this is what precisely he doesn’t have at this very moment — He felt a pity to himself that the old man at least has something to tell a story. He thought resentfully. “Now, what is your nearest happy memory? – something that may be a remarkable one?” The old man asked. “Well, I can still remember my days when I was in college, you know a scholar of some sort, a nerdy bookworm student and sometimes nasty. I enjoyed the friends and their all varieties of personal attitude, the mentorship and all; that experience gave me a feeling of a second home too,” he ended his recollection with a ruminating smile.

The old man started after his last word and said, “home Oh yes! I grew up in a home too, you know. But it was different, — there are all sorts of people from all diversities you know? minor age killers, thieves, abandoned children, and those who escape from their hostile relatives and parents — there is one thing that is common among all of us resident mates. We are all looking for someone who could give us genuine love; so to every opportunity of adoption; though we don’t want to go away from home, we grab it in hope for a foster parent. On the contrary, after a week or so; most of us go back and never want to go out. The result rather turned worse, trust became more absent.”

“That must be interesting – go on please” Xenon eagerly butt in. “We didn’t have a good foundation of education there.” Xenon in his skeptics let the old man claim his privilege of a good start of his story, “though a mother staff is there to attend the everyday needs of the operation of a foster home, there is always a lacking that only a real parent could provide the never-ending emptiness lingers every day. When you were being born and grew up in a home you’ll never find a name in your birth identity, the space in the paper reads either baby boy or baby girl, or at least a consolation part is you have your last name written on your birth certificate, then at your legal age, you will then be advised and go on a series of counseling to condition your mind that you are now ready to be set free and join the outside world. On the other meaning, you will now look for your own. All years of staying there, all favors of your daily needs are all in the form of a plea and request, it’s like a nauseated chick being asked to walk or run.” Xenon, unconsciously now conceded and pondering deep to the part brimming inside him, the visual in his mind provided a still picture that speaks a thousand and more ideas to write.

He felt like hanging on a cliff and wanting more. “Go on, please!” He said. “Very well,” the old man continued. “Overwhelmed you are now huh? - There was an incident that night when everybody was all sleeping in our respective quarters; the boy’s place was on the east of a pavilion near the high walls while the girls’ was just near the lobby entrance. I never got an interest of why is that because I never asked, I am always like that timid among other orphans, I was very young then, not even that I know what an introvert means but I enjoyed my solitude; they often think that I am weird, but I have my way of covering, a defense mechanism, mostly I pretend; which always sets me in a situation turned more difficult at the end. It was an unforgettable experience that everybody there will never forget. A fire, a huge one that killed one group of orphans in quarter D at the corner pavilion, maybe fifteen or twenty souls in there burnt alive.” Xenon’s shoulders twitched at the mention of being burnt alive! But he remained silent, leaving the old man to continue.

“How did it all happen, sir?” he went on curiously. “I expected that would be your most obvious next question” As the old man continued - “The mother staff on duty that night left the door locked and she brought the keys with her and stride past for a moment to meet someone outside, but she never calculated it right that a kettle in the kitchen was also left on a stove, she enjoyed the romantic rendezvous with the guy she has been seeing for the past weeks, the next series of event happened so fast as the fire spread all the rest of the quarters, I happened to escape quickly and help the young ones to get out, well I would like to say thank you for my insomniac.” The old man paused there for a while. “Investigations went on afterward but of course, the subject of the incident died just like that; an isolated one. But the tremor lives like a resurrection and even to this moment whenever I recall the experience I can still feel the trauma.”

His feelings were automatically snatched. “Pitiful souls,” Xenon added, “true, indeed!” The old man replied. “Well just like other closed call stories, the ending was still unknown and then life just went on, I finally said goodbye to the orphanage and faced a life of my own.” The old man got up on his feet and walked away slowly. “Where are you going, sir?” xenon asked. “Home,” the word gave him a sensation like a blank white paper inked with lots of things and images of a scene scribbled in no exact direction; he imagined an abstract picture that was difficult to understand from that story.

Unexpectedly, it gave him a feeling of freedom. A unit of work that he is required to finish a story from that conversation. And the task is waiting for him now at home. “Sir, could I just at least have your name?” The sun had shone its glimpse in the sky. The illumination gave a picture of cucoloris lighting patterns of shadows of the old man’s face, like a mirror from afar. “Could you please tell me your name?” Xenon asked garishly. The old man stopped, and said, “You should fix the ending.” He tried to catch the sounds from afar. “Will you?” The picture of him was already filtered out of the blinding lights.

THE END

This is a work of FICTION. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

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