Ride by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

Ride
by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

You had a glorious morning. Your history paper got you a B+. Everyone
noticed your new skirt. They started selling waffle dogs in the cafeteria. The
rest of today’s classes were cancelled because some genius had phoned in a
bomb threat. It was glorious.
And now, a taxi’s stopping for you. You hadn’t even tried flagging one
yet, and it’s usually so hard to get a cab at lunchtime. It’s a rusty, egg-white
Kia Pride named Tenderness, though, but that’s okay, because the day had
gone well enough.
You get into the backseat. It smells like an angry cherry—a potent,
pushy sweetness. The seats are loosely wrapped in gray, ribbed velveteen,
although it seems to have been less gray before. And it is probably this
extra-despicable gray that makes the air inside feel thick and tainted. On the
dashboard graced with motel stickers, a legion of angels prays to an open air
freshener can.
The driver is the vaguest-looking man you have ever seen, like
someone had wiped any distinct feature off of his face with an oily rag. He
sort of has thin, wet lips, sort of has slits for eyes, sort of has a moustache.
Dark, limp hair clings onto the sides of his face in indeterminate lengths. His
thin body is slumped against a wooden bead seat cover, the seat reclined a
little farther back than was normal.
“Saan tayo, miss?” he asks as he glances at you, pensive.
You tell yourself that the cab is better than taking the jeeps and trains.
The cab is all yours. You don’t have to mingle with hordes of warm, rancid
bodies, figure out the least fatal way to cross streets, fight off perverts and
all the other hassles of the cheaper commute.
“Sa San Mateo Village po. Sa Pasig,” you reply with a smile.
Tenderness starts chugging down the road. You wobble in the backseat,
concentrating on what you could see out the window. A KFC, a Pancake
House, a Pizza Hut, a Yellow Cab, a Seattle’s Best, a Max’s, a Jollibee, a
Starbucks, a Shakey’s, a McDonald’s, a billboard for Hang Ten, a billboard for
Chowking, a billboard for Gateway, a billboard for Penshoppe. Splintered
shanties and other hostile haunts serve as filler.
You recall the large tarp at McDonald’s. It’s such a relief that Twister
Fries are back. You love Twister Fries, and it’s a pity they’re not available
year-round.
Tenderness approaches the new tunnel to C-5. The tunnel had taken
three years to build because of a rift between the contractor and the MMDA.
You remember the ridiculous traffic jams during its construction, how it used
to take forty-five hellish minutes to get past that little bit of road. But that’s
over now. The tunnel’s speeding things up like it’s supposed to, and it looks
great at night.

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Ride by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

The white tiles lining the walls glimmer. You bask in this for a few
seconds until the tunnel ends and the flyover begins. As you soar on a slab of
concrete, the convenience of it all goads you to smile. You smile.
You swoop down to Libis. Another strip of big, bright buildings and
billboards draws near. You remember all those nights out with your friends,
looking threateningly young and beautiful at Eastwood’s cinemas,
restaurants and bars. You are hip because they are. They frequent certain
modish places, wear certain stylish clothes, own certain expensive things.
You always have fun with your friends. They send you Friendster testimonials
describing you as “light-hearted,” “a fun-loving girl,” “the girl with the
brightest smile,” and that is who you are. You’ve never cried in front of them
or begged them for comfort or advice since you’ve never let yourself fret
over anything for too long. You have no right to worry. You are a very lucky
girl.
Libis washes out into the rest of C-5’s gray. This is the hardest part of
the ride home. And it isn’t because there’s nothing much to see save for
factories, abandoned warehouses, warehouses-turned-badminton centers
and other dreary, box-like spaces, although this lasting murk does seem
appropriate. Your eyes drop to the cab’s stubbly floor mat. Along this part of
the road is where your brother got killed.
The two of you were on your way to school. Your brother was driving.
You insisted on staying in the backseat to nap off a hangover. The car turned
the corner, entering C-5, when a mini-van rammed into it. The mini-van’s
driver was distracted by something you don’t remember anymore. That was
it. And this is why you don’t have your own car.
You spent six months last year mourning with the family, and you did
mean every single, sullen moment. And even though you still miss him
immensely, there’s not much else you can do besides that.
Your parents still talk about the usual could-and-would-have-beens.
Could have gotten this job, would have loved this movie, etc. You don’t really
mind it when they do this, but you never join them. Being in that accident
made you realize that you just have to relish everything around you, that you
can’t waste time dwelling on what you can’t change.
He’s dead. It’s devastating, but it happens. Bad things happen to
people. Good things happen to people. It’s all a matter of working with
what’s thrust your way. You made it out alive and he didn’t. Now that you’re
past the shock and sorrow, you have to keep going, to be grateful of what
you still have, to be upbeat about whatever else is in store for you.
Tenderness makes a right towards Ortigas. You look out the window
again. There is a crack in the glass, and you imagine all the bad thoughts
being filtered through it, swirling and diffusing into the street with the
exhaust. You are cleaner after a few blocks.
Home is now five minutes away. You feel safer and safer as Tenderness
passes by more and more gated villages. The large houses protected by
sharp iron and bamboo barriers soothe you. So do the identical guard posts
with their white stucco walls, red brick roofs and automated entrance and

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Ride by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

exit poles. You are not the subject of their disdain. You are the one living a
good life.
You should be glad about this. You always have enough money. Thanks
to over a decade of private education, you are pretty smart. Thanks to over a
decade of private education, you look perfect for magazine ads. You have
plenty of people to spend time with. Your parents tell you they love you
everyday. You are alive. Nothing is wrong.
Tenderness reaches your village. You give a small wave to the guard
and he acknowledges. As the cab lurches past the entrance’s speed bump,
you feel increasingly secure.
“Kaliwa o kanan?” the driver asks sleepily.
“Uh, kaliwa po,” you reply. Tenderness turns left. “Tapos deretso lang.”
“Malapit na ba?” the driver asks, still sleepy. You haven’t even passed
one block.
“Um, malapit na po,” you mumble.
His question is strange to you. No other cab driver has ever asked you
this. And you are already in the village, which is certainly close enough. The
strangest thing about the question, though, is that it doesn’t seem
unnecessary. You actually enjoy his urgency. It seems to improve your sense
of security. You are telling someone that home is nearby. Better yet, you are
assuring someone that it is, and by doing so, you may have just affirmed
yourself. You might really be okay. It’s true: you are almost home, and you
are fine.
Two blocks pass.
“Malapit na?” the driver asks again, his voice still drowsy.
“Malapit na po,” you say gratefully.
Another block passes.
“Malapit na, miss?” he asks again, his tone growing more sluggish.
“Opo. Malapit na.” You try to sound as encouraging as possible.
Tenderness passes the final block.
“Malapit na?” the driver heaves out.
“Doon po sa kaliwa,” you reply, pointing to your house. “Yung puting
gate. Yung maraming halaman.”
Tenderness swings to the left without slowing down, jerking to a stop
right by your gate.
You glance at the meter. An even one-twenty. You realize you are out of
smaller bills and begin scooping out twenty pesos in coins.
“Dalian mo,” the driver grunts, looking at you groggily.
“Teka lang po,” you murmur, plucking out the last peso. You lean
towards the driver’s seat, handing out the fare. Something catches your eye.
It is the driver’s large, red, erect penis. It is completely out of his pants,
and the driver is fondling it with his left hand.
The driver reaches out for the fare with his right hand. You drop it in his
palm hastily, grab your bag and get out of the taxi, not even bothering to
check if you had dropped anything. You slam the door. Tenderness quickly
chugs away, petering out the corner.

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Ride by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon

You step onto the sidewalk and stare quietly at the length of your
clean, well-kept street. After a few more moments, you take your key out and
enter the house.
The maids are having lunch in the kitchen. There is no food out for you
since you aren’t supposed to be back until the evening. You grab last night’s
Twister Fries from the fridge, forego the microwave and head upstairs.
The door to your brother’s old room is open. You take a peek. It’s being
renovated into an extension of your room. You had convinced your parents to
let you have it since they wouldn’t give you a car. It took you some time to
persuade them, but you knew they’d cave eventually. It was the least they
could do for their only child, or so you told them. Your brother’s stuff had
been moved out. All that’s left are the taped corners of his Blur and Lightning
Seeds posters, lingering on the walls like scabs. There is a thin layer of
sawdust on the floor.
You enter your room. On the wall is the new photo collage you had
made of you and your friends. Each photo is essentially the same: beautiful
you huddled next to beautiful others, smiling or puckering precisely at the
camera, some hip event bopping willfully in the background. The photos
overlap each other.
You sit at the foot of your bed, grab the remote control and switch the
TV on. You flip through the channels while eating cold fries. A commercial for
Koko Krunch, a commercial for Tide, a commercial for Glade, a commercial
for Pizza Hut, a commercial for Barbie, a commercial for Frenzy, a
commercial for Smart, a commercial for Motorola, a commercial for Mentos, a
commercial for Pepsi. Shows serve as filler.
You stop at a random sitcom. You listen very, very carefully to every
little bit of dialogue. You pay very, very close attention to the actors’ hands.
You pick out random details from the actors’ clothes, like the little girl’s
purple headband, the sexy woman’s black miniskirt and the tall man’s bright
red tie. You bite your lip.
The penis won’t go away.
All this time, it has been wiggling around in your head. Mocking.
Triumphant. You just can’t ignore it. It is everywhere you look, as if your eyes
themselves were projecting it. It throbs happily with power.
You switch the TV off. The penis dances its stubborn dance on the
blank, black screen, partly blocking your reflection, penetrating the peace.
Suddenly, there is an intense pressure in your chest. Everything in your
room seems different, dangerous. There is nowhere else good to go to, but
you can’t bear staying in place. The pressure surges out of you, pounding
everything around you into a contemptible pulp. Soon, there is nothing solid
left, and this strange, sinister stew surrounds you.
You tense up, clutching onto your bed sheets to anchor yourself. Your
breathing slows down till it stops entirely. There is blankness for a few
moments. And then, the deluge.
You bawl, you yowl, you shriek. Your face is like one of those water
walls in the mall, a sheet of tears coursing continuously down its surface, and

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your lips and tongue grow numb from this steady, salty stream. The front of
your shirt turns darker and darker, the stain creeping quickly across the cloth
like panicked mildew. You are a hideous, heaving lump of snivels, squeals and
snot. You look threateningly old and ugly.
The great flood lasts a full thirty minutes, eventually, mercifully,
dribbling down to a great headache. As your temples detonate again and
again, your hands let go of the bed sheets. The room is becoming familiar
once more. Bit by bit, everything around you is congealing into their old
forms. You take the remote control in your trembling hands. Its body is
plastic. Its buttons are rubber. It is real. You switch the TV back on.
It is a newsflash. You see footage of your university in ruins. The
newscaster announces that someone had bombed five different buildings
simultaneously.
You move even closer to the screen, concentrating on the wreckage.
Each dull, gray chunk was once familiar to you. A chunk of a toilet you had
peed into. A chunk of a bulletin board you had glanced at. A chunk of a
bench you had rested on. A chunk of a walkway you had shuffled through.
As you continue to stare at the debris in dismay, you notice how your
tongue rests against the roof of your mouth. How your hair adds warmth and
weight to your head. How your eyes blink so often.
Slowly, shock translates to joy. It is glorious. Today, you survived. ●

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