Drinks and Perceptions
Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.
- The Wonder Years
One fine Saturday afternoon –
fine, meaning no rain, not too much sun and cash on hand – four (three males with a variety of sizes and a girl with pale skin) young people –
young, meaning almost legal but not there yet, full of teenage hormones and up for anything – met for the first time after almost a year. For a moment there was that awkward silence that people always get when slapped with nostalgia from upfront. Who could even blame these kids?
Let me tell you about that four young people: the first (who was also the first to arrive) was a tall, scary-built lad who has nice eyes and smile that will either make you love or hate him. He was wearing a plain, v-necked shirt, pants, the usuals and a red-to-almost-maroon bonnet. His silhouette says one thing:
Don’t you mess with me. The second was a funny young lad with full-of-funny-thoughts eyes and an only-funny-things-come-out-here mouth. In short: he’s,
surprise, funny. The third was a lad with thick-rimmed glasses, thin arms, and loved lotion. And yes, he’s
really smart – and he can’t walk slowly. He always looked busy and on-the-run. The last was a girl with a young mind, an old soul, full bangs and poor eyes, and as what the funny young lad said, “Looks very anemic.”
They were friends from grade school, were fortunate enough to still be able to keep their friendship and were thankful for the wonders technology can do. Sometimes Facebook can be very useful, even beyond what its purpose is for and despite all the applications it offers that are really unnecessary.
For a long time, all they did was walk around the very small shopping mall. I reckon they’re planning on putting blindfolds and still be able to walk around without getting lost. Yes, that was how long they were walking. They talked about the present – school, grades, professors who talk about ghosts and unknown history, professors who don’t give a damn, friends who eat sardines with coffee, friends who listen to “medieval period” music, and petty matters that infuriate them and their petty reasons. They even got into criticizing fast food chains and how ice cubes take half of the glass’s space and less was left for the actual soda.
The guy with the beanie shared what he had learned from his History professor. “Once there was a datu who ordered one of his officers to go around town and take every woman’s v-card.”
“What?! True?”
“True.”
“Who was that datu? Tell me!” the funny guy asked. They all had to laugh at that!
“Whoa. What a job! And the officer was actually being paid for that?” the girl with poor eyes asked despicably.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a tough job – having sex with different woman you come across to. That would need a lot of energy. Tiring job, indeed.”
“Yuck,” the girl stated.
“And I’m saying this as if I know how it feels like,” the funny guy said. He pointed the guy with the beanie. “Wait, you know how, don’t you?”
“Damn, no!”
“Yuck, still.”
Once, they stopped to check out some of the pins on sale. The funny guy with the full-of-funny-thoughts eyes was actually aiming for the balloons which he thought was free. He was wrong, by the way. They spent almost a quarter of an hour just to pick pins and assess what was ugly and what was funny. The smart guy with thin arms wasn’t interested because he was busy waiting for his cash.
“Hey,” the girl with poor eyes passed a pin to the guy with the beanie.
“'Dancer Inside'… No.”
“Really?” she asked, dubious. She rummaged the container for more. “This,” she passed another one.
“'Engot Inside'… Maybe.”
The girl with poor eyes sniggered. “Maybe.”
Their afternoon went on like that: walked, stopped by and talked, walked, stopped by and talked, laughed, reminisced.
“You look like Sam Concepcion,” the funny guy said, referring to the guy with the beanie beside him.
“What?!” the girl with poor eyes disagreed. She was idiotically infatuated with that Concepcion guy and wasn’t keen on unreal comparisons.
The guy with the beanie laughed. The girl hoped he didn’t actually believe what the funny guy had said. The thin-armed guy was busy waiting for his money again. Better not disturb him!
Surprisingly, they got tired of doing nothing, and they could literally walk blindly in the building and still come out unscathed. Finally, someone had suggested having a drink – drink, meaning not anything plain, but something with alcohol. You know, teenage hormones and adventures.
So they finally got out of that boring mall and set off to a place they’re all familiar with. It was the same place they’d gone to, and they sat on the same couch they’d sat on before.
“This was the place where you’ve talked about bacteria and all the trivia,” the funny guy recalled, referring to the guy with the beanie.
“Ha! I told you so,” the girl with poor eyes said, egging the guy further. You see, the guy with the beanie has multiple personalities: at times he’s too private – he wouldn’t say anything; other times he’d talk about his perceptions and opinions about issues that bother him and he wouldn’t stop; he’d talk about religion and ignorance and government and outer space; and sometimes he won’t talk about anything – too snob. Teenage hormones, always the issue.
They had two buckets of beer and some stuff to feed their stomach. The guys talked about the past – their love lives before:
“She can’t look me in the eye,” the guy with the beanie said, referring to the girl he had dated even before he hit puberty.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“She even had a song for you. What was that again?” the funny guy contemplated. “Oh right! ‘I Love You, Goodbye’.”
“Yeah, right,” the guy with the beanie snorted.
“I even researched about that song,” the funny guy continued, and then he sang. “'Wish I could be the one…'”
“Geez.”
Friends who got pregnant:
“She was?!” the girl with poor eyes asked, surprised.
“Yes. Her baby’s three months old.” The thin-armed guy provided the details.
“Unbelievable. She was just into sports before. And I even thought she doesn’t do boys,” she recalled, still a bit incredulous.
Friends who were actually bisexuals and a whole lot of negativities:
“Is he really gay? Seriously?” The girl with poor eyes was always the naïve one.
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
“I do. But wasn’t he, you know, in denial before?”
“Couldn’t accept what he was yet…”
“And now he’s out. Wow.”
The girl with poor eyes was quiet (she only said something when she knew what the guys were talking about, but other than that, she was as silent as the dead) because she was not good with small conversations and talking about the past. She just swigged down glasses of beer until she had finished almost four bottles. The guys were talking; she was listening along.
“Are you okay?” the guy with the beanie asked.
“Yeah, sure,” the girl who’s been drinking too much answered, although she was sure the world was spinning.
And all the shits fell into places.
Note: It didn't end drastically. There wasn't anything illegal that happened. Nothing was "sacrificed" or "surrendered." Oh God, don't think of it that way. I just don't know how to end that story.
And another thing, all accounts are what my revolving brain can remember. I wasn't really sure who said what, but it was said. Fun, fun, fun Saturday, not Friday!
Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.
- Octavia Butler
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
Drinks and Perceptions
Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose.
- The Wonder Years
One fine Saturday afternoon –
fine, meaning no rain, not too much sun and cash on hand – four (three males with a variety of sizes and a girl with pale skin) young people –
young, meaning almost legal but not there yet, full of teenage hormones and up for anything – met for the first time after almost a year. For a moment there was that awkward silence that people always get when slapped with nostalgia from upfront. Who could even blame these kids?
Let me tell you about that four young people: the first (who was also the first to arrive) was a tall, scary-built lad who has nice eyes and smile that will either make you love or hate him. He was wearing a plain, v-necked shirt, pants, the usuals and a red-to-almost-maroon bonnet. His silhouette says one thing:
Don’t you mess with me. The second was a funny young lad with full-of-funny-thoughts eyes and an only-funny-things-come-out-here mouth. In short: he’s,
surprise, funny. The third was a lad with thick-rimmed glasses, thin arms, and loved lotion. And yes, he’s
really smart – and he can’t walk slowly. He always looked busy and on-the-run. The last was a girl with a young mind, an old soul, full bangs and poor eyes, and as what the funny young lad said, “Looks very anemic.”
They were friends from grade school, were fortunate enough to still be able to keep their friendship and were thankful for the wonders technology can do. Sometimes Facebook can be very useful, even beyond what its purpose is for and despite all the applications it offers that are really unnecessary.
For a long time, all they did was walk around the very small shopping mall. I reckon they’re planning on putting blindfolds and still be able to walk around without getting lost. Yes, that was how long they were walking. They talked about the present – school, grades, professors who talk about ghosts and unknown history, professors who don’t give a damn, friends who eat sardines with coffee, friends who listen to “medieval period” music, and petty matters that infuriate them and their petty reasons. They even got into criticizing fast food chains and how ice cubes take half of the glass’s space and less was left for the actual soda.
The guy with the beanie shared what he had learned from his History professor. “Once there was a datu who ordered one of his officers to go around town and take every woman’s v-card.”
“What?! True?”
“True.”
“Who was that datu? Tell me!” the funny guy asked. They all had to laugh at that!
“Whoa. What a job! And the officer was actually being paid for that?” the girl with poor eyes asked despicably.
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s a tough job – having sex with different woman you come across to. That would need a lot of energy. Tiring job, indeed.”
“Yuck,” the girl stated.
“And I’m saying this as if I know how it feels like,” the funny guy said. He pointed the guy with the beanie. “Wait, you know how, don’t you?”
“Damn, no!”
“Yuck, still.”
Once, they stopped to check out some of the pins on sale. The funny guy with the full-of-funny-thoughts eyes was actually aiming for the balloons which he thought was free. He was wrong, by the way. They spent almost a quarter of an hour just to pick pins and assess what was ugly and what was funny. The smart guy with thin arms wasn’t interested because he was busy waiting for his cash.
“Hey,” the girl with poor eyes passed a pin to the guy with the beanie.
“'Dancer Inside'… No.”
“Really?” she asked, dubious. She rummaged the container for more. “This,” she passed another one.
“'Engot Inside'… Maybe.”
The girl with poor eyes sniggered. “Maybe.”
Their afternoon went on like that: walked, stopped by and talked, walked, stopped by and talked, laughed, reminisced.
“You look like Sam Concepcion,” the funny guy said, referring to the guy with the beanie beside him.
“What?!” the girl with poor eyes disagreed. She was idiotically infatuated with that Concepcion guy and wasn’t keen on unreal comparisons.
The guy with the beanie laughed. The girl hoped he didn’t actually believe what the funny guy had said. The thin-armed guy was busy waiting for his money again. Better not disturb him!
Surprisingly, they got tired of doing nothing, and they could literally walk blindly in the building and still come out unscathed. Finally, someone had suggested having a drink – drink, meaning not anything plain, but something with alcohol. You know, teenage hormones and adventures.
So they finally got out of that boring mall and set off to a place they’re all familiar with. It was the same place they’d gone to, and they sat on the same couch they’d sat on before.
“This was the place where you’ve talked about bacteria and all the trivia,” the funny guy recalled, referring to the guy with the beanie.
“Ha! I told you so,” the girl with poor eyes said, egging the guy further. You see, the guy with the beanie has multiple personalities: at times he’s too private – he wouldn’t say anything; other times he’d talk about his perceptions and opinions about issues that bother him and he wouldn’t stop; he’d talk about religion and ignorance and government and outer space; and sometimes he won’t talk about anything – too snob. Teenage hormones, always the issue.
They had two buckets of beer and some stuff to feed their stomach. The guys talked about the past – their love lives before:
“She can’t look me in the eye,” the guy with the beanie said, referring to the girl he had dated even before he hit puberty.
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“She even had a song for you. What was that again?” the funny guy contemplated. “Oh right! ‘I Love You, Goodbye’.”
“Yeah, right,” the guy with the beanie snorted.
“I even researched about that song,” the funny guy continued, and then he sang. “'Wish I could be the one…'”
“Geez.”
Friends who got pregnant:
“She was?!” the girl with poor eyes asked, surprised.
“Yes. Her baby’s three months old.” The thin-armed guy provided the details.
“Unbelievable. She was just into sports before. And I even thought she doesn’t do boys,” she recalled, still a bit incredulous.
Friends who were actually bisexuals and a whole lot of negativities:
“Is he really gay? Seriously?” The girl with poor eyes was always the naïve one.
“Yes. You didn’t know?”
“I do. But wasn’t he, you know, in denial before?”
“Couldn’t accept what he was yet…”
“And now he’s out. Wow.”
The girl with poor eyes was quiet (she only said something when she knew what the guys were talking about, but other than that, she was as silent as the dead) because she was not good with small conversations and talking about the past. She just swigged down glasses of beer until she had finished almost four bottles. The guys were talking; she was listening along.
“Are you okay?” the guy with the beanie asked.
“Yeah, sure,” the girl who’s been drinking too much answered, although she was sure the world was spinning.
And all the shits fell into places.
Note: It didn't end drastically. There wasn't anything illegal that happened. Nothing was "sacrificed" or "surrendered." Oh God, don't think of it that way. I just don't know how to end that story.
And another thing, all accounts are what my revolving brain can remember. I wasn't really sure who said what, but it was said. Fun, fun, fun Saturday, not Friday!
Sometimes being a friend means mastering the art of timing. There is a time for silence. A time to let go and allow people to hurl themselves into their own destiny. And a time to prepare to pick up the pieces when it's all over.
- Octavia Butler
← older / top / newer →
a woeful & chaotic diary since 071409
