Fermin is still on my mind. Wisps of memories fleet by in the morning as I trudge to the usual jeep spot.
My polished half-expensive leather-enough shoes meeting plain asphalt recall the tale of slippers and rubber shoes covering my once-small feet, brought by my parents to the quiet old man at the busy street corner. Introduced me to someone they called Manong. Served me delicious fried snacks. Never opened his mouth much. He talked but only enough to answer a question or to say thanks and welcomes.
Those oily bites gave off a crude smell. The sauce dripped and fell off the stick—lean in and let it drop to the sidewalk, lest it hits your feet. Had that happen sometimes, though I quickly wiped before my mother noticed. If it were my father, he’d just shrug it off. Told me the times he dropped his stick into the sauce, how he dipped his fingers in just to get it back.
Fermin’s corner wasn’t interesting. An ordinary corner by a streetlight and a couple eateries with no wheels, accompanied by buildings whose names I always forgot. All the interesting stuff was everywhere else. Up ahead, Ortigas with the big malls and the high office buildings where I heard people in suits sat in cubes and made millions. Go back, either you came home and had the little joys like betting on fighting roosters or you’d chance on one or two cemeteries if you wanted to become contemplative about Heaven or Hell. Go around instead, you’d land in the country club with big green golf courses, a hospital at the back of said country club, or an entire mall complex.
Fermin’s corner had nothing. A fully-functioning gas station maybe. Some other stores and a couple trees aside from the eateries. To young me, there was also no Addition Hills. That was just a place where other people lived and they weren’t my neighbors, so I didn’t care.
That lonely street corner was his roaming ground.
Now, I’m on the sidewalk, waiting for a jeep to catch me and take me there.
A shadow passes me by. Briefly darkens the jeep.
Up in the sky, a pegasus. No. Too big to be a pegasus. Definitely a hippogriff thanks to his beak. There he is, taking aerial photos of the place, and I’m part of his life now.
Maybe Garlan is Fermin’s reincarnation? Can’t be that far-fetched. Has that stoic face and all.
… Stupid idea.
~ ~ ~
I grip the overhead handle, jeep carrying me on. A couple people carry food inside along with groceries in big cardboard boxes. To the airport? An unusual and cheap way to get there with lots of baggage besides. I don’t know. I don’t mind.
I do mind. There’s talk about staying temporarily in Manehattan. No, I’m not mishearing things.
Or I don’t mind. Phones are good distractions.
~ ~ ~
The same three ponies come up to the jeepney. Takes a second to register that, yes, they’re the same three from yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.
Here they are, going here and there with their greetings to all. Seems they’ve added something to their arsenal: pulling elders’ hands to their foreheads, being blessed by old men and women who look kindly upon them, speak good words and questions to them.
They manage to sit across me again. For the fourth time in a row, we’re in the same vehicle, going the same way. Out of all the jeeps they could’ve chosen four days in a row, it had to be the same one I’m in. Not the jeep in front or behind or beside me, but the very one I’m riding in. Some may say it’s harmony or destiny magic working on Earth. I’m tempted to say that it’s more like dumb luck, but ponies don’t believe in dumb luck.
“It’s you again, Macario!” Weatherwise says, putting out his hoof this time. More personal than a wing-shake. We are getting closer.
I’ve shaken hooves multiple times. Still, I’m shaking a big lump of keratin. How exactly they grasp stuff still escapes me, but I do feel some of their “magic grip” or whatever it’s called, their hooves’ frogs making some little motions.
“How are you today?” Hot Shot asks nicely with her leaning head. Mane falls and bounces to the side.
Maybe to them, this cuteness is normal. It’s not cute to them; it’s just how it is. I cannot name anyone I know that’s close to being this cute. If they were evil, they could kill people with a goofy smile on their face and a weapon hidden in their manes.
Point a finger to myself. “Fine. I’m doing fine. Just another day at work.”
Skittles puffs her lips up. She won’t let me get away with a simple answer. “You don’t like your job?”
Not that I don’t like it. It’s nice and pays very well. Just that I don’t see myself doing clerk work forever. In a few more months, I’ll have what it takes to be a supervisor or at least a next-level clerk in a multinational corporation. Or handling my own business altogether if I’m feeling ambitious.
“Sure, it’s good, but you don’t see me prancing up to work with a big smile and a heart balloon.”
Shouldn’t have said that.
“Well, I can imagine a few who’d do that anyway,” Skittles replies, levitating money for the fare. Of course, she can imagine that. Sounds a bit miffed though. Knew I shouldn’t have said it.
Although, speaking of prancing up to work: they’ve asked me about my job, and I’ve said my piece. It’s about time I ask them. I’m curious how they take their work, and it doesn’t hurt to know what their jobs are. It’s only fair I turn the tables on them.
“Say, what do you do back at home?” I ask. Lean forward to show interest. “Like what do you do for a living?”
Hot Shot pointed to herself, squeaked a little gasp. “Like our jobs? Well, we’ll let you guess from our cutie marks!”
I’ve played this game before with another pony. I don’t blame them, not fully. When one’s personality and passion is symbolized and put on your body for all the world to see, it’s a piece of cake to turn it into a guessing game. Makes for a good icebreaker: trying to figure out what they work in, what they love, and what their personality is just by analyzing their cutie marks. The ones with abstract shapes and weird item combos had a field day like that one with a glass of hot water on his flank. Smacked myself when he told me his name was Hot Water, that he worked as a spa pony with a stake on jacuzzis.
For ponies like Hot Shot with her chili cutie mark, though, it’s a quick guess.
“You farm chili, no?” Given how farming is still a big thing in Equestria, it’s not that far-fetched. Not even close.
Her closed eyes and her huge grin tell me I’m right. “Yeah, I do!“
Time to turn to a squirming Weatherwise. He’s hiding his flank so I wouldn’t cheat. Too bad: I have a good memory. “And you handle, uh, rain clouds?”
“Sort of!” he says. Head shaking up and down; supposed to be a nod. “I’m Steeplechase’s weather manager. That’s where we’re from, in case we didn’t tell you!”
Two down, one candy-chess pony to go. “And you… like to play chess. You’re good at chess.”
She leans up to me. Would’ve been uncomfortable if she wasn’t grinning and wagging her tail like a dog. “Is that your final answer?”
It has to be. I don’t want to be fooled by these cutie marks. The queen chess piece could mean that she’s good at chess. Or it could be that she’s a high-society type of pony. Or that she knows how to navigate places because the queen is the most versatile chess piece. Or she doesn’t play chess but makes chess sets for a living. Or she just likes crowns and other royal headwear.
Or she’s just good at chess. That’s my final answer. Whatever happens, happens.
“Yeah, you play chess.”
“Half-right!” she chirps, leaning back onto her seat. “I am good at chess—heh-heh, if I do say so myself—but I’m also good enough at leading ponies that I’m Steeplechase’s Season Officer!” She spreads her forelegs in the air like the seasons lie in her hooves. “The Season Officer leads and organizes the town’s seasonal operations: from the Fall-Winter Squad and the Spring Cleaning Troupe, all the way to the Summer Team!”
Good to know. I say, “That’s great!” and I mean it wholeheartedly. Nice to be in the company of a pony leading from the front.
“Yeah, it is!” Hot Shot chimes in. “You should see how fast we can do it… if we want to do it fast!” Her hooves dance a little on the seat. “We do it slow and steady. We’re not like Ponyville or Applewood where everything's done by the minute! Can’t go fast when you’re dealing with syrup, after all! That’s our hometown specialty, by the way!”
The Earth pony hums a few notes before looking at me again. “Hey, do you want to know how I became a chili farmer anyway?”
This will be fun. Should’ve expected their life stories to come up by now. The setting’s become perfectly cool for a good tale too: ponies’ manes rippling in the cold quick gust.
“I belong to a family of chili farmers,” Hot Shot begins without warning.
Her friends huddle around. I huddle too, lean more forward.
“We made all kinds of chili, and that was why a lot of our food was spicy at home, but, you know, it’s all healthy! Even helps with headaches and migraines too, but you should talk to Aunt Bell for more of that!
“Anyway, while I was a growing filly, I tried very hard to get a chili cutie mark by helping out on the farm. Planting the seeds, watering the soil, harvesting the crops… but nothing worked! My cutie mark wasn’t there, and it never appeared for years!
“I was afraid I’d never grow up to be a chili farmer even though I obviously loved chili. What if I got my cutie mark in something else? What would my family think of me?… but, then, I tried cooking the chili instead. Made everything chili like chili sauce, chili flakes, chili sandwiches, chili oil, chili wine, and chili-flavored hay! There were so many things you can make with chili if you just tried. With all the other ingredients we had, the recipes were endless!
“But it was when I served my special chili cakepie on Hearth’s Warming Eve—it was then that I got my wish! They saw my cutie mark before I did, but when they told me and I looked and saw my own cutie mark with my own eyes... I squealed for joy!”
By the end, some passengers stare confused at the squeaking mare. That’s okay. We like a good tale even if it’s just to pass time. The storyteller gushing over her own story certainly helps.
“Yeah, she’s like that,” Weatherwise says, jerking a hoof at her. “Me? I wasn’t that dramatic.”
A ruffle of his feathers, and then he starts his story. “I always played around with clouds ever since I was a foal, but I always had a soft spot for rain. It’s a good day when it rains: the smell, the cool water, just splashing around and having fun. My mother encouraged me to volunteer for the local weather service, and… well, the rest is history.”
Kind of short, but not every pony’s cutie mark story is an epic for the ages.
“And I went to a chess club at school,” yells Skittles out of nowhere, “and my friends taught me chess and yeah!” Shoots her forelegs in the air, whacking the ceiling.
I flatly stare at her. “Really?”
She looks genuinely baffled at me, brows high. “What? You get my story straight to the point! Shortest one too!”
The unicorn gets a light punch from Hot Shot. “Hey! It’s not a competition!”
Cue a pony slap fight where they lightly tap each other and giggle like it’s a friendly pillow fight while Weatherwise avoids getting hit without moving from his seat.
~ ~ ~
Our jeep ascends an overpass bridge. For a few precious moments, we see a couple small skylines. Oases of state-of-the-art modernity in a plain of ordinary houses, shops, and slums.
Skittles breaks the silence. “Well, what got you into doing that finance thing?”
If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t mind my answer. However, I know Equestrians, or at least ponies, have a different mindset. We don’t have cutie marks. No advertising to the world our passions or what we’re good at thanks to a magic flank symbol, no sign or easy solve to determine who we’ll be.
Talking to Equestrians and learning about their ways of life on the news and online—seasoned with watching the show occasionally—taught me that cutie marks aren’t the end-all-be-all of a pony’s life. Still, it looms over them like a specter of stability, a rock-solid foundation for their futures. Maybe they’re stable and we’re not. Order versus chaos. Something like that.
“You could say that I’m good with handling stuff, understanding a company’s assets… what they have and what they should do with it. I like to help others use what they’ve got. Or maybe I’ll start my own company too. Don’t know what exactly it’d be, but construction’s a hot one these days.”
The ears on Weatherwise perk up. “Oh, you like construction?”
“Not exactly. I’m keeping my options open. Though, I do have a friend or two over there who can teach me the ropes pretty quick.”
They don’t make a show of it, but their smiles widen at the word friend.
~ ~ ~
If there’s anything different this time around—anything different with ponies getting down with me by the footwalk—it’s that they’re more distracted today.
Why are they with me again after the first stop? They’re going further east. This time, they’ll be enjoying the wonders of Ortigas, and then the rest of Pasig before a short night swing in southern Quezon. They’re taking an optimal route too: the jeep goes straight to Ortigas. Just pull out and they’re in. Shop ‘til you drop action plus a million other things to do like ice skating.
Only halfway there, the thrill’s overtaking them. Skittles is the most distracted of the three. She coos over postcards and other souvenirs in the stalls, but Weatherwise stops her. There’s plenty of postcards in the malls, he says.
“But I want a real souvenir!” she whines while being dragged away by her pegasus friend. Points a hoof at the wares of a vendor confounded at the desperate unicorn.
~ ~ ~
On the second jeep ride, I realize how entertaining ponies can be, the perfect solution to fighting boredom on these trips. Pointing here and there, talking about this and that building or vehicle or person in the distance, willing to share to this pony or that creature on their social media—Equestrian social media even. Silly me. I should lighten up one of these days and stop fretting too much about these horses.
While they’re doing that, Sarina pings me a message. Says the boss plans to bring his wife along around lunch tomorrow. No birthday or anniversary or any other special occasion: just a simple gesture for her. She rarely comes into the office, so it’d be fun to shake up her day.
I don’t know if it’s us sucking up to the boss. Maybe. Maybe not. Singing to her won’t be bad though, so I text Sarina that. Don’t mind brushing up on my ukulele skills, rusty for ten years and counting.
~ ~ ~
The ponies haven’t gotten down which means they’ll continue without me to the business center and its fancy buildings.
However, I notice that they’re trying to tolerate everything. Hot Shot’s put on her air mask though with an embarrassed blush. The others haven’t put them on yet, but they might soon. Understandable. Pollution is effectively non-existent in Equestria. Even their biggest cities like Manehattan have clear skies and clean air everywhere. Something to do with their harmony and connection to nature.
On the bright side, that doesn’t stop them from calling a friend and chatting about their day to him. He’s apparently a changeling living as an on-the-rise actor in Canada. That should be cheating, but if you’re born with the ability to shapeshift and you see open spots for a theater play, it’s a no-brainer.
“Hey, Metrid!” Weatherwise calls out to his phone. “Here’s the first friend we made here: Macario!”
They point the phone to me. I see the changeling’s face with his bug eyes and his hard orange chitin. Waves at me like I’m far away. His insect wings flap rapidly in anticipation, and they buzz.
“Oh, hello!” he sings with a nasal voice.
I wave back. It’s courtesy, no matter how many people look at me crazy or odd. I don’t care. I’m surrounded by ponies, a pony baker has lunch with our firm, and a griffon replaced a familiar face, so talking to a changeling isn’t a stretch.
~ ~ ~
I finally get down on my spot. This is the closest the ponies get to my workplace.
It all ends with goodbyes being shouted at my face, their heads out the windows and their hooves waving wildly and a speeding SUV swerving to avoid hitting those hooves.
The jeep vanishes out of sight. Alone again.
Good wishes on their trip. Hope they don’t go broke. It’s tempting to fork out cash every step of the way, given the hefty shopping centers and how you can run a marathon up and down the stairs in those things. Then again, there are escalators and elevators—
“O, ikaw.”
Hey, you.
That’s me.
Garlan, staring at me. Some look my way, but it’s just eat and talk and tiny glances. They are nothing to his eagle eyes narrowing down. Winnowing me down, shooting me down.
Points a talon at me.
“You’re gonna eat or not, ha?” he speaks. An accusation? “You’ve been staring funny at me, so make up your mind!”
Getting confrontational. What’s he doing anyway? Who does he think he is? He’s not wrong. I was just looking—
“I was just curious, that’s all,” speaks my mouth. Not sure if I should’ve said it.
“Then stop ogling me, unless you wanna eat!” Garlan shouts. Gestures to the food that I can buy and eat right now if I just go there and do it. “Or if you’re a scaredy-cat, just leave! Fewer heads to worry about!"
And just like that, he goes back to frying food. Sizzles continue, people go back to eating and talking and complementing the roadside chef, though others look at me odd.
Intimidating. Told off. Left to hang high and dry. On the hot seat for no good reason or all good reasons.
Never mind. Head for work.
~ ~ ~
Walking things off alone, feet and legs moving like machines.
Perhaps it would’ve been different if they just deserted the spot. In the nothing, I can say there used to be something, someone I knew. Let the mind speak and remember what used to be there, who used to be there.
Being chewed out like that, a griffon going around like he owns the place: it’s not right. Fermin would’ve appreciated the stares like that, being observed for doing nice work, doing what he liked. Like those Krispy Kreme donuts they prepare and glaze in the open, except it’s not machines and conveyor belts but a person doing everything. His soul touches the food, uplifts everything. There was and is an art to it—not the kind of art you’d find in a fancy restaurant, but still an art. Something to observe, something to look at, something to like looking at. Nothing wrong with that.
It could be that Garlan isn’t a human but a griffon, and I don’t talk to Equestrians on a daily basis. At least, not until this week. Maybe it’s that the griffon is a lot more novel to me than I thought. Perhaps I’m still feeling my way through this.
But I was here first.
I don’t recognize many of his customers. Not that I know any of their names or that I’ve seen them before but still.
Maybe I’m right. Or maybe I’m greedy.
Maybe I just don’t know.
~ ~ ~
As usual, Boyet comes in from his unusual bakery trips. As usual, Tart’s with him, carrying her baked goods.
Not as usual, Tart’s brought along a crew of ponies from the bakery, all to help us brainstorm on what to treat Ma’am with when she comes by tomorrow.
For a couple of ponies, they’re quite aggressive with asking us questions, determined to craft the perfect baked gift for her. They bring out charts, but they don’t present like us. The slides are colorful, cheery, and there’s even a little song there—something about their passion for baking and making people smile.
We settle on mango cheesecake.
After that, the ponies leave. Some of us watch them prance away from the office. It’s amazing, really. One moment, the room’s livelier than ever.
The next, they’re gone.
~ ~ ~
We’ve done a lot by the time we’re out, but it’s nothing to write home about. I’m happy that what I did helped others and that I can go home again.
Tomorrow is Friday. The weekend draws near.
As we approach the main road, talk shifts to the exciting stuff for tomorrow: surprising the boss and his wife, and the hectic get-together over at Dan’s house (my earlier suggestion of moving to a proper bar were declined). Such get-togethers always carry surprises. Who knows? Sarina says they may end up with a pony coming around and maybe a yak or two—says they just moved into one of the older houses here. Word gets around fast. And it’s not like this will be an exclusive function: it’s just a big table in the garage. Anyone can come in and drink as they please, including ponies and yaks ready to get plastered.
Inevitably, the topic shifts to Equestrians. The going-on’s in the news with some recent trade agreements, more portal hubs to be opened in ever smaller cities, and the continual hot button issue about whether there should be a magic school for humans or not. Meanwhile, on one of the news channels, some pundits debate on whether the seaside towns should encourage hippogriff immigration to improve our fish output.
Out of all of us, Boyet’s the most enthusiastic about Equestrians. Talks a lot about the bakery, Tart’s family and friends, what they did back in Equestria, what they do in their spare time here on Earth, and so on.
From what I can tell, Boyet was sold in on the whole Equestria thing when they came here. He’s never been to the other side, but he welcomed any Equestrian who happened to be here instead of somewhere else on Earth. At times, he was too welcoming: his long-time-friend-since-high-school Quinto told me about how Boyet pet a sleeping pony once and how he was rewarded with being screamed out of the vicinity. That’s not to mention calling griffons Filipino just because our national animal was an eagle and that the sea-lion was “sort of a national animal but not really, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” There’s also how he bought truckloads of mangoes to attract bat ponies thanks to some meme.
He’s sometimes more excited about Equestrians than his own kind. I can’t just say it’s heat of the moment because he’s been doing this for years. But, good for him. Keep doing you, Boyet. Just don’t get us into trouble with your stunts.
He coughs again as a cigarette’s smoked away. Cover my nose, blot out the stench, and we walk on.
~ ~ ~
We get to the stop at Shaw/Mencia. Waiting begins again, each of us taking a jeep in turn or in pairs. Never enough room for a trio this time around. Slowly but surely, the sky dims and we diminish in number. Seven becomes six, six becomes five, five becomes four, four becomes us three.
While waiting, Sarina decides to catch a bite from Garlan’s food cart.
Talking and reminiscing made me forget about that. Or I’ve intentionally tried to ignore it, but to no avail because I just had to look his way. Between the rainbow umbrella, the tempting smells, and the hissing of the oil, it’s hard to miss. And there’s a griffon too. Very hard to miss that.
Sarina orders from Garlan. He treats her like he’s treated everybody else: a hungry customer. A plain “Salamat,” a plain thank you, and she comes back with her food: fishballs dripped in spicy vinegar.
She goes away in a jeep seconds later, food in hand. We say goodbye to her.
Just me and Boyet now by the sidewalk. Headlights zoom by and neglect us as the sound of traffic overwhelms our ears.
~ ~ ~
Minutes later, we’re homebound. Boyet isn’t the only familiar face around here. The people around us are no strangers. We know them the same way they know us. Coming home from work, fine clothes testifying that they’ve been slaving away at the computer or recording stuff on paper forms, interviewing people or being interviewed by people, negotiating deals. Our semi-formal attire clashes with our crude, coarse, reality-tested jeep: tight spaces, hot and not-so-fresh air. Trash can tied by a rope. Driver calling out to a fellow jeep driver as well as a trucker in casual house clothes, both driving in a lane alongside. The word-processed sign informing us that only coins should be used in the morning: Barya lang po sa umaga. The smoky stink of diesel. The lustrous flashes of phone lights on faces. Dim orange glows shine from the ceiling.
Like everyone, we hold on to the ceiling handle. United, we don’t know each other and won’t see each other again for the rest of our lives.
Not much traffic for us today. Buildings whiz past us. The lowering sun casts its dying embers on us. The windows shine a greater orange, reflecting a brilliant sunset sky to us. Dark clouds threaten overhead, but the sun ensures a bright future for us if only for half an hour.
We cross a bridge and exit Mandaluyong.
A tap on my shoulder. “Oh, I forgot to ask you about that.” It’s Boyet.
Turn to him. He looks too curious. “Ask about what?”
Eyes scan the floor. His gaze rests there while his feet shuffle. “You know about Garlan. You’ve tried some of his food, right?”
I look up. “No. Not yet.”
“Ah, that’s okay… it’s just…”
I sit up. Got my posture right, but there’s something more with Boyet shuffling around, trying to find the right words but failing. Maybe it’s a personal problem. If that’s so, I question bringing it up here where everyone can hear us.
His mouth opens again, hands rolling to find the right words. Says:
“I… I wonder what happened to Mang Fermin.”
Ha?
Huh.
He means well. He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell anyone about it. The others weren’t that close to him, but they know of him anyway. To them, Garlan’s presence means that Fermin’s moved on to work somewhere else. Or moved back to Albay where he started his food cart thing. Or changed jobs. I was told that, before becoming a street food vendor, he washed cars and before that, he sold newspapers and sodas in glass bottles, and before that, he toiled in the field back home, born to a family of abaca farmers. Wouldn’t be surprised if he refused to retire at a hundred even if his status in life never changed.
Unsure if that’s good or bad.
“He died,” I say bluntly. Get it over with.
Boyet becomes crestfallen. Scratches his head, hands shake in the revelation. “Uh… oh. I… ah, pasensya… I didn’t know…”
“That’s okay.” Okay for now, I’d add. “I wasn’t sure when to bring it up, especially with Garlan grabbing everyone’s attention. Didn’t want to sound like a jerk hating on the new guy because he’s new.”
“Is that why?”
That is why what? Shades of artificial orange and shadowy black shroud his brows. They ask me why, why, why.
“Why what, Boyet? Ano gusto mo?” What do you want?
He only shrugs.
“I tried it,” he says. “It’s good. Sarina tried it too; you saw her. I bumped into Loretta on the way yesterday. She said she likes Garlan’s food too. Even Arno likes it, and you know how bad he talks about ‘dirty food.’”
His face stares at the other side. Past the people on the other-side seats. Faint sights of trees, walls, and street signs emerge to vanish the next moment. The old engine rumbles, not enough to take me away from him.
“I think… Cario, you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”
No.
“I… I think… I don’t think you’re shy or anything like that.”
Raises a finger in the air. Almost hits the ceiling. Lips purse; tongue rolls in his cheeks. Gazes upon me with those asking eyes.
No.
“You see, Cario… I think you’re avoiding Garlan.”
Headlights flash on our heads. Briefly unveil our faces. On Boyet’s face, burning words I must answer.
No…?
If Boyet were a pony, it would make sense. Ponies are known for being blunt and straightforward with everything. Early on, less than a month after the local portal hub opened, a pony came up to me and greeted me. After a minute of polite conversation, he asked if it’d be alright to share a problem he’d been having for the past year or so. If I indulged, we’d end up sharing our secrets and, if things got real bad, we’d tear up in each other’s arms. I then remembered the infographics warning me of pony scammers being lovey-dovey for fast cash.
Luckily, a jeep came just in time to rescue me from that situation.
“You know how it is,” I say to Boyet. Lock my fingers together. “It takes time, you know.”
It’s not easy to talk to Equestrians. Ponies are the hardest, but it’s something I encounter with anyone from the other side. When there’s such a thing as a Princess of Friendship, dragon arm-wrestling contests to determine status, and government-sponsored Feelings Forums, interacting with Garlan—interacting with them will take work.
I decided back then: we’re coy, they’re not. You get shy ponies and then you get people like me. Like-minded pony introverts are no small group, but even then, if some pony was sad, they’ll broadcast it with super sad faces: no big need to hide it away; if they try, it’s hard. I can tell there’s something with the creatures from the other side.
And, after dealing with more ponies all week than I’ve had over the past few months, it casts Boyet’s attitude under new light. The ponishness has gotten him, and he isn’t stopping. I want him to stop.
“Or maybe… baka lang… maybe you think Garlan is disrespecting Fermin and that he shouldn’t be there, no?”
There he goes with his theories. To their credit, ponies can tell when someone’s having a problem.
“Was it that obvious?” I ask.
He leans forward. “When you told me Fermin was dead, I was able to piece it together. Not that obvious, but, you know...”
I look. Try to look away, get my fraying mind together. I need rest.
“I mean, I understand,” he goes on. “You told me about him being there when you were a kid, there with your parents...”
Dinner would be nice. I should invite a neighbor to come over. Or skip to bed and watch some YouTuber react. Or watch the TV news with my family. Or sleep and recharge.
“But… you know… maybe it’s time to… well, move on.”
I don’t shout at him. Can’t say I don’t scowl.
I somehow say, “Yeah, about that. Sorry, but that will take time...”
“Eh, how much time? Or maybe you’re holding on to it for no good reason naman?”
Just shrug at him. “Posible.”
Boyet’s eyes pierce me. Their looks, sharp under murky light.
“Look... this will take some time. I can’t speed this up. Maybe I’m taking too much time, yes, but… ah, thank you for this, okay?” Offer him a handshake. “I’ll sleep on it, think about it overnight. Okay, pare?”
Okay, buddy?
He grabs my hand and shakes it. “Yeah, yeah...”
It’s a long handshake.
It’s a longer ride.
~ ~ ~
High-rises imprison the sun. The night sky covers us and our thoughts. Around us, a blanket of headlights and rear lights. Car horns and engines keep me awake and lull Boyet to sleep.
~ ~ ~
I wake Boyet up with a shake and wave him goodbye before I go down. He waves back as the jeep speeds away, gloomy lights sparkling on his worn-down face and the worn-out metal floor.
Here I am: the other side of the road, past its islands of shrubbery—some living, some dead. An old painted wall stands across me, a blatant ad for a major local paint brand: depicts images of progress, of smiles and bright buildings infecting the city. Climb it, you’ll enter a cemetery. The towering trees behind the wall don’t tell anyone this, but the dead harbor nearby.
On my side, the houses and little stores that make up home. A little retail shop with glass doors as its only sophistication; the rest are aisles of general faceless merchandise and parked cars blocking the entrance. A junk shop on the side, sacks and plastic bags of reusable scrap hanging on the front gate and the grids inside: newspapers, cans, rags, plastic bottles...
As I walk farther into the village, I pass houses shrouded in the night. They give off their gentle lights from behind the windows. The only primary source of illumination outside is the streetlight, its mirrored glow bouncing off the windows of cars crammed to the side.
~ ~ ~
In a dream or horde of insomnia, Fermin. Not my grandfather, not my friend. His face, his kindly beard, a face of infinite wisdom and joy and determination and other good qualities. His face shines.
An old forgotten but remembered paradise in the junction. Faces of half-remembered eaters, delicacies dangle from their sticks, oil and sauce swim and fall in zero or full gravity. Taste a taste remembered from last week and a decade ago. Through storms, deaths, birthdays, graduations, jobs, life: Fermin.
I fall. Clouds climbing, ground always closer. Flail around, scared, never screaming but I should’ve.
A griffon’s image wakes me up.
It’s still deep at night. Soft moonlight touches my window, my cold hand. Cold sweat. Outside, horns and honks in the distance.
I go to sleep again or for the first time.