Being Brilliant

The bus hit Dave with a thump, his thoughts started leaving his head, as if attached to the blood and skin on the bus’s windscreen.

The “Being Brilliant” course had started it all really.  Dave had merely wanted to irritate his new boss, his nemesis, archetypal fast-tracked manager, the character of an amoeba with none of the charm and the threat of dysentery with any prolonged exposure.  Dave was looking forward to working for Brian about as much as he would having his leg sawn off or going back to that school aged twelve.  He needed to stall for time whilst he worked out a longer term strategy.  Claiming that Brian was no better than an Auschwitz guard at Nuremberg when told he was just implementing the policies from senior management had not gone down well and ‘The Art of Being Brilliant’ sounded just the ticket to buy some time out.  It also looked like a doss.  It turned out to be more of a revelation than Dave could have imagined.

Dave’s life involved few non-work related activities.  In the pub his friends encouraged him to practice chatting up women, laughing at the unsuccessful results but claiming to be offering advice and moral support.  The oasis of calm was the French film class, Dave’s secret, something that revealed him to be a more than the boorish exterior evidenced by the tired work persona and drunken pub activities, somewhere to use his brain addled though it unquestionably was these days.  It was there he met Maya, bewitching and enchanting Maya.  Clearly way out of his league he resolved not to make an idiot of himself but he found himself far too often watching her than the film and his French was certainly not good enough to understand without subtitles.  Maya rarely made any eye contact but if she did she gave a little smile.  Dave was not good at reading body language it was as much a mystery as quantum physics it made him uncomfortable and, in contrast to down the pub, rather shy.

The ‘Being Brilliant’ course had been really quite good, it hadn’t been the hippy love-in he had rather expected but more a gentle nudge that perhaps he had more choices than he thought about how he viewed his life.  It had given him a curious impetus to change tack.  He began to look at life more positively and it had paid off, the response had been pleasing.  Dave’s new engagement at work represented a seismic shift.  None of his “friends” from the pub had seen fit to call him lately neither had he been down the pub, but he did not seem to mind he didn’t miss it any more than he missed them.

He had always participated in the French Cinema class to a degree, he would wax lyrical now and again but seldom bothered with the homework and further reading. so his contributions were most often glib comments to cover up when he felt he might otherwise look stupid.  However now he engaged with a renewed vigour, the odd insightful comment, the odd respectful silence and listening and this also had a noticeable effect.  He began to demonstrate a deep knowledge and love of characterisation and cinematography, to show a meaningful critique of the language.  This transformation was not lost on Maya who seemed more attentive, it was as if the sweet little smile had just broadened enough to round her face a little more, it might not be so discernible to those not used to focusing on her face but he noticed, he knew it was there.  That was when he had made his decision, he was going to ask her out.  Sure she would say no and that was something he could accept, even expect but he would be spared the haunting ‘what if’ and if he was going to try to be brilliant then this was the obvious place to start.

So today when he saw Maya across the street there was no point in delaying, the time was now, whilst that nervous adrenalin gave him goosebumps, if he waited he’d lose his nerve for certain.  He called over, she smiled and waved, he started across the road.

Everything went into a disquieting and surprising slow motion.  Maya’s glance to her left, the look of sheer horror that washed completely over her face like a tide coming in, the very large and very red Number 53 bus, the abrupt thump of toughened glass on a not so toughened face.  As his eyes closed and his head seemed to fog with the same colour as the bus he could hear the scream of Maya’s voice, she sounded really concerned.  Just before his head hit the ground she was calling to him, she was coming closer, that was a good sign too, that meant she liked him…, didn’t it?

He stopped like he needs to

Yuri was one of those girls who liked to be alone. One time, she went with her friends in Baguio City. It was the coldest time of the season and she did not bother bringing a jacket or a sweater. All she brought was a blue shawl that was as thin as her hanky.

There were five of them who went to Baguio. All of them girls. She counted again and regretted why she came. She hated odd numbers. And in this group, it looked like she was the fifth—the one with no partner. She’s close to the four girls but the tendency when you’re with a group that has an odd number is that one will always be left behind. In this case, that would be her.

The next morning, Yuri and her four friends decided to walk along Session Road. It was a busy day. A lot of people were heading on different directions. Yuri hated the crowd. It made her anxious.

“Yuri, aren’t you cold?” asked one her friends. She was wearing a red trench coat and black, knitted bonnet that covered both her ears.

Yuri shrugged and continued walking. She was not cold. But she noticed her hands were starting to dry and get numbed.

As they were walking, weaving through the thick crowd, Yuri slowed down. She felt so out of place. She watched her four friends getting a distance until all she saw was the vast crowd. She lost them.

She escaped the crowd and went to the other side of the road. There were less people. She went straight ahead and saw the park. She looked around and counted the people. She liked counting. One-two-three-four…. She repeated. There were just four of them. Yuri smiled. It’s an even number. She liked even number.

Yuri sat on the bench. She just sat there. Not knowing that her four other friends were dead tired looking for her. She had no phone. She left it in the hotel. She closed her eyes and felt the cold air touched her numb cheeks. She went into dreamland.

Yuri did not know how long she’s been sitting on the bench. But when she woke up, a man was standing in front of her. He was smiling and was looking intently at her. She did not say anything. He looked at her. He scanned her face down to her pair of blue Chucks. Yuri gave him a weird look. At his feet she noticed different kinds of sweets.

“Want to buy some?” said the man, still smiling at her.

Yuri went through the goodies. There were 15 kinds. It’s an odd number.

She went through the 15 kinds of sweets. Her eyes stopped on the peanuts that are coated with sugar. She loved peanuts. But she also liked the tamarind balls with sugar. She also liked the anchovies coated in sweet chili. She could not decide. She was starting to crave and salivate.

“I have no money,” she told the man. Her face was both apologetic and disappointed.

The man took some of the coated peanuts, put it in a small paper bag and gave it to Yuri.

“Here, eat it. Don’t bother paying,” he said and left. Just like that. He left.

Naidi Hills (part 2)

The covered ground was particularly green that day. “The rising sun looks really nice when you’re at Naidi Hills,” Paul would often tell her. So she would make it a habit to wake up early in the morning and climb the hill and witness the sunrise. Unlike Paul, she is a morning person. She could wake up as early as three in the morning and there’s no trouble for her. Paul really hated it though. It’s probably the reason why he gave her a duplicate for the bike’s lock. So she won’t have to bother him. Just to spite him, she would still call his name from his window and ask for permission. Paul would look out from his window, his eyes half-open, and throw anything he finds in his room. Last time, he threw one of his Chucks at her and instantly, it bounced off on top of her head. She cursed him after that and kept the Chucks as revenge. Paul begged her for it  but she did not budge. Converse happens to be Paul’s favorite shoes in the world.

It rained the night before so she wasn’t sure if the sun would show up that day. She easily found her favorite spot on the grass, put a cloth on top and languidly sat on it. She looked around and smiled. The place was all hers, she told herself. While sitting, she reached for her backpack and took his notebook and pen. She loves scribbling just about anything when she’s waiting. Going through her old notes, she found this:

“To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves. What’s worse than knowing you want something, besides knowing you can never have it?”

She paused and thought for a moment. She remembered the day she wrote this. She just finished Carson Culler’s The Heart is a Lonely Hunter and went straight to Paul’s house to share the book. They usually do this. Share a book and discuss it afterwards. They both have the same passion for literature. Or at least that is what she thinks.

Thirty minutes after, the sun did not show up. She waited for another fifteen minutes and found her behind starting to feel numb. She rode her bike and hurried to go back to Paul’s house. Suddenly, she felt the need to see him.

That day when she came to his house, Paul had a visitor.

…to be continued

Naidi Hills (part 1)

More often than not Margarita borrows Paul’s bicycle. She would call out in his window even though she knows that he is still sleeping. “Pollydude, I will borrow your bike!” Instantly, she would unlock the bike and keep the duplicate inside her pocket. And like a thief without a trace, she would bike away towards her favorite spot. It was five in the morning and the sun was just about to  shine. While biking, she would remember what Paul said to him the other day. “You should get your own bike you know. They say that bicycle is the vehicle of the novelists and poets!” Margarita gave him a scowl. “I am nowhere near being a novelist, much more a poet!”

Fifteen minutes more and she would reach the hill, her favorite spot. She would sit there and wait for the sun to rise, like she always does.

…to be continued