//------------------------------// // ... O Ibayong Dagat // Story: Pamasak-Butas // by Comma Typer //------------------------------// Last day of the workweek. Business as usual. I get up and perform all my morning preparations. Breakfast today is hotdog and eggs but with some leafy vegetables and leftover pakbet to boot. I’m eating healthy this morning, and those eggplants swimming around on the plate prove me right. Weather forecast says there’s stormy weather coming up later. Related news says that the local pegasus weather branch wants to help facilitate the weather city-wide, but the vote remains no. Something about not enough research to see how Equestrian weather practices would affect a country already riddled with constant floods and typhoons. ~ ~ ~ Phones are great diversions. Sometimes, I give into earphone music and podcasts even though it makes me look dumb and unaware. Not today. Just a pure walk through town, scrolling through social media, seeing the usual posts. Some of my more successful friends and former classmates or co-workers from previous jobs talking about their travels and their stuff and what they had for breakfast. Some fun facts and memes to lighten up the mood because life doesn’t always have to be serious. Some news about my relatives and my cousins and where they are and what they’re doing. Some actual news, local and global. There are some accounts I follow that show Equestrian news. It’s become a necessity because we have to know the big stuff happening in both worlds now, even if it means seeing Squash Soup Declared New State Dish of Maresouri right above Dragon Lord Ember with New Plans on Territorial Expansion. Following individual Equestrian accounts was all the rage. We had creatures who had no idea what the words Internet and online meant until we came along and helped them use the tech. Mixed reactions followed. On one hand, it was a revolutionary new way to meet with friends and maintain friendships while being physically absent. On the other hand, there were protests throughout the kingdom; they claimed humanity was peddling an anti-friendship dogma by putting creatures out of jobs and eradicating true face-to-face friendship. Didn’t stop the creatures who didn’t care. Was fun to see them learn the ropes and fit into our platforms like they’ve always belonged. I could tell. I had first-hand experience with a pony who always liked everything I posted. Always commented something like, That’s great! Hope you’ll do the thing awesomely! ~ ~ ~ Coming in four days in a row, I expect those three ponies to come along for the fifth. I’ve resigned my fate to the magic of harmony or dumb luck. They are destined to come to my jeep and regale me with their bubbly personalities and their stories of what new thing they did here. When we round our way to the cemetery’s entrance, I raise my head, scanning the area for the excitable Equestrians.  They aren’t there. After four days, the stars stop aligning. Maybe those ponies are looking for me now and I just don’t know where they are. Trailing me espionage-style isn’t out of the question. Sounds pretty spot on if a pony really wants to befriend me. When the wheels turn to Dimasalang’s overpass bridge, I realize our paths won’t cross today. I pass fares along, being seated at the front, and the wind refreshes me. Chit-chat with a chatty mother who keeps telling me about her daughter and how she’s proud of her child’s work. Isn’t as chatty as the three ponies who may as well be parrots. No words said every two seconds, no unbridled curiosity over what’s this or that outside, no excitement to know me and everyone else. Nothing. ~ ~ ~ As I travel to the footbridge and walk past the street’s loaded stalls, absence follows me. Feel I might’ve missed something, that I should check my pockets and turn around just in case. Equestrians have a strange habit of turning up where you least expect them. So when I most expect them, they don’t turn up. I notice the vendors I’m familiar with. They’re familiar to me, but in eyes and face only. They notice me as well. Some stay silent until spoken to, some spill their sales spiel at you if you merely glance their way. They glance at me and the space behind me. Go down and hop onto my next jeep without incident. Someone’s selling powdered milk for babies; he leaves with nothing sold. Loud poor-quality radio music blares through the speakers. A talkative circle of friends chatter the day away with each other, hyped for the weekend. My soul drowns in the noise. The outside flies on without me. ~ ~ ~ Within months of the first portals opening—New York, London, Moscow, Vancouver, Paris, places like that—stories and tales went around. Human-interest stories was the formal term, and they scattered everywhere. Cluttered the lifestyle sections on newspapers and news sites worldwide. There’s the feeling, this revival, of something old and new at the same time—the beginning of an era, they say. A nostalgia of innocence or a promise of a brighter future. Past the front-page news of politics and heads of state wondering what to do with literal magic and real-life fire-breathing dragons, we got these articles and stories of a hippogriff willing to let a kid experience flight for the first time or of someone’s “life-changing meeting with a unicorn.” Those first years were wonderful, even if it took me time to truly meet an Equestrian of my own—that took shape in a party of ponies from a portal in Oregon. Things got to the point where Hasbro did a little inspirational mini-series about it, complete without branding. They didn’t need egregious branding when their “franchise” had been a real world all along. It didn’t take long for permanent transfers to get going. First, it was moving in to the big cities like New York and Los Angeles—for some reason, the techie cities got more Equestrians than average; maybe it’s because our tech is mysterious impossible magic to them. On the flip side, things went the other way too. Though in smaller numbers, people relocated to the other side, some to live, some to work, some to retire as fully-fledged citizens of a magical land. Things looked better there: a fantasy world where magic was king. It’s true that dark magic lurked around and evil monsters that could wreck Earth called Equestria their home, but that was a given. Even if they were afraid of that, people were assigned to the safer spots anyway. With so many dreams coming true, who wouldn’t want to live there? One sembreak years ago, college freshman me stumbled upon Fermin, having come home from a trip with my buddies. Most went home in their cars, but I didn’t want to be a bother to them by hitching one of their rides. I lived the farthest from them, after all. After some food and idle conversation, I asked if he’d thought about moving on to somewhere else. Didn’t take long for him to realize I was talking about Equestria. The air’s better, for one, and there’re opportunities for moving up in life: his humanity can be of great use there. May even open up a totally new field in that world! Over there, things can be better and he doesn’t have to worry. He said no. Said it’s okay here. ~ ~ ~ I get down at the usual spot, Garlan not so far away as people inspect his wares What a crowd he’s sustained through his first week! They also keep taking selfies with Garlan once in a while, and he keeps barely smiling at the camera. First in line—if you could call an irregularly-shaped blob of people a line—taps on the cart just like Garlan does, doubtfully swinging his head left to right, whistling while he stares at his payment. Must be in a hurry. The griffon notices me as he stirs the food with his spoon. His first response: shoot me an eye-roll before refocusing on the pot. Not a good time to watch him. I start my way out. Screech! Ears ringing, turn around. Close my ears! The sound’s already gone, but the damage is done. Others look his way, and they see Garlan gripping the cash box. Death grip. The man has his hands up, stepping away from the mad griffon. Eyes shrunk, my heart pulsing, all silent.  “Don’t you dare steal from me!” Garlan squawks. No bothering with Filipino this time. Brandishes his claws. “I counted it, I saw you count it, so no excuses from you! Scram!” The man turns round and flees. We look at him run before we turn back to the food cart. As for Garlan, his feathers are ruffled, not unlike an aggravated fighting rooster ready for bloodshed. Goes back to cooking, tending to food and more customers. Anger lingers in his words, however. My feet quickly take me away. Can’t have that evil eye on me. ~ ~ ~ Maybe I should make amends with Garlan. Boyet had a point about letting go, to treat the griffon like any other vendor. Says nothing justifies avoiding him on purpose. Shouldn’t have a grudge against an innocent griffon doing honest work. It’s not a grudge. Besides, what do I know about him anyway? He has a good point. Not like Garlan will bite. Garlan can bite. I haven’t robbed him, though. ~ ~ ~ Half an hour into the workday. As I input more financial data into spreadsheets, there’s something lacking in the office. The rest seem to be here, but— “Boyet’s not coming,” Sarina says absentmindedly as she looks at her phone. “Sick daw. Just woke up.” I quickly check my e-mail. Sure enough, there’s Boyet’s message sent a minute ago. Down with cold and flu. Should’ve told you earlier. Woke up only now. My apologies. Should return Tuesday! After sending him a take-care reply, my workload grows. I have to pick up the slack. We all have to pick up the slack. The calendar says today won’t be a very busy day. That doesn’t matter. Have to keep it running. ~ ~ ~ Takes a while to consider what’s happening today: the night at Dan’s house and surprising Ma’am with some pony help. I take notice whenever the boss calls his wife in between meetings, asking whether she was okay, that he’ll pick her up later. So far, so good. Usually doesn’t talk about her or even to her this publicly at work. Part of his scheduled personality: the time for the best woman in his world is, sadly, not now. Later on, a business e-mail comes my way. I check for keywords. It’s an update from Tarts and Bagels. I open it up. Check again. Tarts and Bagels? My e-mail application is filled with hearts and cake emojis. Very stylized message compared to the usual black and white fare with the occasional dark blue text. The actual contents are more professional: Good morning friends! How are you doing? We hope that you’re having a fun time there! To let you know, the cake is ready to deploy! We’ll be showing up around eleven. Just give us the go signal if you want us to come earlier. See you in a few hours everybody! —From, the Tarts and Bagel staff! ~ ~ ~ Almost lunch. Boss stands up and just tells us: his wife came down with something over the morning. Has to drive her to the nearest clinic for a check-up. Jogs his way out, gets in his car. Speeds away with screeching tires. When the car goes out of sight, he doesn’t leave my mind. She’s never been sick before, at least not while I was here. Goes to show how sweet and true his love is for her. Still, can’t take away the bitter from the bittersweet. “Um… so do we cancel?” asks Quinto. He’s just come to my side, looking at where the boss’s car used to be. Right. The cake surprise. Watch says there’s still time. “Yeah, let’s… wait, is that…?“ Through the window, a pony comes trotting into view. Instantly turns her way to the windows and waves at us. Carries the saddle bag where she stores her day’s lunch. They’re going without our signal. These ponies have too much initiative. ~ ~ ~ It’s Tart again. Came in to enjoy another lunch with us before the big cake surprise. But we tell her about what happened to Ma’am. “… Nothing too serious from what we can tell,” I say. “To be clear, we’re not canceling the surprise. It’s only postponed. I’m sure you can store the cake somewhere in your freezer or something.” “We can, but we need the space for our other cakes.” The pony rubs her hoof across the table. “But even then, this is a very special occasion. We can’t let her down. I’ll see what we can do.” I spread my hands open. “Don’t stress on it. This isn’t an anniversary or anything. We don’t surprise each other with tall wedding cakes just for a visit—“ She plants a hoof firmly on the table. “Yeah, but that’s why we’re here!” This? What is this? Raising her voice like she’s trying to start a revolution? Given her tone, this will be her speech about what this simple gesture means to her. Like the climax of one of those episodes. She puts her two forelegs on the table and stands up. I’m right. “We want to spread the fun, the joy, and the value of baking the way we know how! Part of that is baking pastries for someone—for a friend—just because! Why? We love them, we love our friends, and we want to brighten up their day! That’s why I got my cutie mark in the first place: I baked a friend in need her favorite tarts to show that I’m with her and that she still has something—and someone—to enjoy life with!” Points a hoof out the window. Owns the great view with her sweeping hoof, sun shining down on her flowing mane. “I won’t hole up here, pity the poor woman, and give her a template greeting card. She’s begging me to give her something from within. My heart can say nothing else!” Tart ends it with a final huff and sits back down on her chair. No hard time breathing. Just sits back down and looks at us dead in the eyes like that’s nothing. Okay then. At least she’s committed. ~ ~ ~ Before you’re used to ponies as everyday people, saying goodbye to them is like waking up. Rare is the happy ending since tomorrow resets it. A new day comes along and there’s work to do, still another thing to do. We’ll still get to see Tart though. Just have to visit her instead of the other way around. She does have her passion in the bakery, after all. Can’t spend all her free time in another company, so she has to stop visiting us for now. After that bundle of pony joy leaves us, things go downhill. A client asks to cancel today’s meeting at the last minute because he’s already made up his mind and apparently needs no counseling. Cue confusion and arguments, multi-tasking with our mouths running and our hands typing or writing and our feet stumbling. When the boss comes back, he is tired and flustered, wiping his sweaty face. Wife’s down with severe diarrhea. Has to stay in the clinic overnight while she gets treated for a quick recovery. Also angry about the last-minute changes. Last-minute anything is a bane to a stickler to schedule. Have to endure him complaining to the client on the phone, lecturing him on punctuality and wasting people’s time. All of us play catch-up until quitting time, or what should’ve been quitting time. We flounder with work still left, with more data to update and more papers to print for the weekend and next week. Half an hour overtime, more than half the team’s already left. We, the ones who remain, care about the extra mile. Or they want to beat the traffic rush to get home early so they can enjoy Friday night sooner. We don’t last forever. One by one, the others leave. Hernando’s got papers to do for an interview for a job opening in Equestria. Ivory has a family trip tomorrow and she has to wake up extra early. Loretta says she can do no more, that she’d just be slowing us down with her tired self. Quinto just admits he’s going so he won’t be late for Dan’s party. Work slows to a crawl disguised as a speeding car. We work fast but not smart. We bumble along and ask questions. No one can answer, so we check the documentation which is always slower than asking the expert. I promise Sarina that I’ll hold down the fort and finish the work. All looks fine. Just a little over my pay grade, but if Boyet can go above and beyond, so can I. And so, the last one—Sarina, the faithful veteran—leaves me to my own. Leaves me alone in this darkening office with its mass of computers, papers, and printers as my “friends.” ~ ~ ~ No man should be an island. I’ve tried to be one, but an hour later, I am a sinking ship. Misplacing things, almost pressing on the wrong buttons, second-guessing and triple-guessing things before overthinking myself silly, tripping on my own two feet. All frantic. Wish they haven’t left. Wish the boss is here. Wish Boyet didn’t get sick and that he’s here. Pushing myself up against a mountain, no end in sight. I want to go. Then the rain begins to pour. Raindrops land on the windows. ~ ~ ~ Seven-thirty, and it’s soaking wet. There’s a jeep I must catch, but I’ll be late anyway. “Sampung fishball po.” After my wondrous trip through the rainstorm and waiting for the jeep in vain, I wind up in Garlan’s food cart. All alone, all to myself. And him too. Garlan says nothing as talons pick up the plastic bag of frozen fishballs. Methodical, he adjusts his talons here and there as he pours the fishballs. Enough dive into the boiling pot, the new fishballs with the leftover ones. It’s difficult to hear the sizzle in the rain, but it’s there: crisp music with continuous pops as the notes and the percussion. Fishballs going szzt! as they drop into the pan with little splashes, bubbles clustering around and frying the snacks. Garlan doesn’t do much after that. Stirs them around so the food doesn’t get unevenly cooked. Fishballs don’t need constant stirring in oil. They just fry. Still, it’s bewitching. They slowly grow in size, from flat shapes to less flat starchy goodies. Bubbles collect around their girth, the little bites darting around like hyperactive paper boats on lava. I grab a stick. Before poking the fish balls together, I glance at Garlan. Not doing much. Checking his inventory, but then he notices my look. “What do you want?” he blurts out, reacting in English. Probably studied a lot on Filipino as an informal business language. Language crash courses haven’t prepared the griffon for random humans staring at him while he measures his wares to see if he has enough sauce for tomorrow. “Ah, curious lang,” I answer. Self-defense. “I’m just curious.” I roll up my sleeves—can’t let the oil spoil my corporate clothes—and prepare to pick the fishballs. Since they’re the only food being cooked, I don’t run the high risk of an oil bubble boiling my skin. Even then, I’m used to it. Comes with the territory of a sometimes hopeless street food addict wherever the food’s around. Fun trips and good times, having to pick your orders in a sea of bobbing shapes while others pick along with you, armed with their own sticks. Sticks colliding, maneuvering around other sticks and other people, careful not to get someone else’s food. Poke the fishballs. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. With the stick, I can feel them. Letting the stick pierce one, then two, entering the oil. Hot air coats my hand and arm. The sizzles become more real. Five, then six, then seven. I have ten now, all lined up nicely along the stick. Like potato chips on a stick but wider and a little healthier. The sauce jars are closed. Can’t let the rain soil them, though rainy air cools my hot hand. Open the sweet sauce, my favorite since I was a kid. My sweet tooth never went away. It just came by less and less. Dunk the stick inside, let it bask in the dip, pull it out. Food’s ready. Behold the masterpiece in my hands: ten flat fishballs impaled on a stick, oozing with thick brown sauce trickling and dropping onto the pavement. Have to lean forward to not stain my shoes and pants. Not that it will matter. They’re already deluged in stormwater. Then I glance at Garlan. He’s finally done counting. Looks at the now empty pot. He catches my glance. Doesn’t say anything. Time to spill my thanks. “Salamat.” Garlan nods. Just nods. He’s satisfied another customer. Also got more money. The griffon counts his coins and bills another time and writes down the numbers into his books. Around us, the soaked and soaking outside. Furious rain rages on, obscures my vision. Building lights glow hazily. Cars scramble for a way out, their own lights as translucent swords. Bare sidewalks, dotted with few brave souls bracing the weather. Fewer are those standing out here, waiting for anything to hitch onto and ride off into the deafening night. The gale splashes rain onto me despite the cart’s umbrella, but that’s okay. It’s just me, a griffon, and a snack under a rainbow umbrella, illuminated by warm lights. I can endure this. I can rest and wait here. “Oh, hey!” I lurch to the side, see who said that. To my surprise, there’s those tourist ponies again, all three trotting under one floating umbrella. The unicorn closes it with her magic as they enter the cart’s bigger umbrella. Must’ve run all the way here. Easy to get unlucky with public transportation in the storm. “Surprising to see you out here!” yells Hot Shot. She smells the food and double-takes, hoof close to her muzzle. “Um… is that…?” “Fishballs,” I blandly say, raising my voice against the rain while gesturing to the food stall. Flash a smirk at them. “Bet you don’t usually see an Equestrian cooking this.” It doesn’t take long for them to see the griffon by the pan. Garlan greets them with the same stoic face he’s greeted everyone else with. The ponies return the favor with dumbfounded expressions. Definitely didn’t expect a fellow Equestrian dishing out hometown food. “Sorry,” he says to them with a dismissing wave. “Haven’t prepared any veggie stuff for you ponies.” Weatherwise rubs his belly in reply. “That’s okay because we’re full! We had a buffet over at that Megamall place! The chefs were super nice to us and they had lots of stuff there! They even had a birthday party, and we joined in the songs!” “Oh, should we tell him about our trip to the studio?” asks Skittles, nudging the other two ponies with her sodden umbrella. Ah, they finally went there. Finally met some of their other-worldly “makers” or, more appropriately, their other-worldly artists who subconsciously conveyed another world on television. How that actually happened, I’ll never understand, no matter how much researchers on both sides try to break it down for me. “It was alright,” says Weatherwise, winding his hoof around. “It was all nice, yeah. Met the staff and we all had a good time socializing and talking about life. Even showed us some sketches!” “Though I realized that we may’ve sort of gotten over that phase years ago when we went to Vancouver,” added Hot Shot. Must’ve met all the big names over there. Little room left for novelty and thrill over our crew. “I see.” Tap my feet, thinking of something else. “So… you’re waiting for someone? Or you just wanted to see me, huh?” I finish with a sly smile. “Not really!” Skittles cries out. Backs down and giggles anxiously. “Well… sort of,” she says, scratching the back of her head. Weatherwise takes off to hover over the ground. “After giving up on waiting for a taxi, we roughed it and got here. We were hoping to see a free jeep ‘cause you get off here so maybe we’d find more of them here... and here you are!” Yes, here I am. Drenched and aching to ride already. Let’s hope chatting with them won’t make me miss my ride. “You go home around this time?” asks the pegasus. “Nah.” Open my mouth to take a bite of my food, but his ears twitch a little. I stop. Have to be polite, be considerate. “I usually go home at five,” I continue, “but some things went wrong today and I had to do some overtime.” Skittles turns her head to the rainy road, witnessing the chaos outside while brilliant shining jeeps, taxis, vans, and SUVs turn a blind eye to our plight. “Getting a ride seems pretty hard now,” she says. Thanks, Miss Obvious. “Yeah… hold on, is that a—“ It is. A jeep flashing their lights at us. A barker pokes his head out the window and howls destinations through the rain: the right destinations. Escape at last. I rush with them, shielding my food from the elements with my free hand, closed umbrella in my armpit. The rest of me gets wet while the unicorn lifts their umbrella around with her magic, keeps her and her friends dry. The ponies get ahead. Someone leaves, gets down and bumps me on the way. Those three get past the two people holding on to the jeepney by the bars, hanging outside without a care for the pounding rain. Now there’s room for four more, barker shouts. My feet step into the jeep. I’m told there’s no more room. “May apat daw, ah!” I yell, braving the rain. They said there was room for four! But they tell me again: no more space. Barker apologizes, rocking his hands at me like he’s giving up. The rain torments me, washes my face. When my eyes pass over the jeep’s length, something strikes. A fleeting memory returning: Ponies take up more space sitting down than me. I leave, hopping off then get splashed by a puddle. Can’t argue with the ponies. Don’t want to give them a bad impression tonight. Try to see them: the ponies wave at me, saying goodbye, hoping I’ll find another ride soon. They all disappear. Hot Shot, Weatherwise, and Skittles are on the way back to their comfy, cozy hotel room. They don’t have clothes to wash nor do they have any work for the rest of the trip. They can just rest, take a bath, and do their thing. Whatever it is. Get me out. Haven is the cart, so I return like a defeated dog. Hot in here, the pan still boils without a hungry stomach nearby. The rushing breeze shakes me in storm-cold shivers. A sticky feeling. My hand is stained with the sauce, though the food’s remained dry and safe. Here I am, a wet and dirty mess. Good thing I don’t have anywhere formal to go tomorrow. The trip home will be horrible. Stupid me, trying to follow in like a kid. Should’ve remembered how ponies take up space sitting down. Should’ve eaten when I had the chance, when I was safe. Would’ve had a free hand too. Rest my back on the wall. Then have to move and stand straight: moss just got on my shirt. Wipe it off, dirty my hands more, stain my shirt. Almost kick the air. Instead, my shoe slides and water gets pushed to the gutter, reuniting with the rest of its friends as they all flow away. Crashing darkness covers the sky. It’s rain, eternal rain, endlessly splashing on all places in its thin sheet of white everywhere. Sidewalk’s water reflects the lights above but all distorted, all murky and wavy. Garlan breathes a loud sigh. That gets my attention. There he is, looking at the street where the last jeep and so many others used to be. Looking at the foggy and rainy horizon. Nothing in this lively watery darkness but me and him. “I never liked those ponies,” speaks his beak. Rasping voice says he’s middle-aged, but he looks like he’s in his prime. No sagging cheeks or baggy eyes here. His feathers seem full and healthy too. I continue to look at his eagle eyes, those words ringing in my head. Griffons don’t really bond much with ponies, but here’s a frank griffon. “You’ve met them before?” I ask. Garlan shakes his head. “Nah, but I’ve seen their kind. Seen them many, many times. Always telling me something about themselves even if we’ve never crossed paths.” The griffon bends down and a click goes off. Kills the fire under the pot, boiling oil beginning to cool. Bubbles dissipating, sizzles dying, oil calming down. He rises back up, warm feathers shining under the yellow light against the dark and stormy outside. “You know how it is.” He closes plastic packages of food for good and seals the sauce containers. “You whittle and crunch your talons down to nothing. Get through the day just to earn enough money for next month’s birdseed. Next thing you know, some pastel eyesore wonders why you don’t bother fixing up your lousy excuse of a nest. They could fix it up lickety-split if it’s their homes, they say.” Something gets unloaded. Only now do I notice the three wheels that’ve been there the whole time. He’s pulling some things from a cabinet: the tricycle seat and its handles. “Ponies’ll gab about hard work all day long, no matter where you put them. The farm, the factory, the office… anywhere—from apples to zinnias. It’s so perfect, they sing at work and live on playing shanties.” He raises a talon, gives me a hardened look with those furrowed eyes. Fixes some more tricycle stuff with a punch of his free claw. Still looks at me, watches me like a hawk, like I’ll disappear if he takes his eyes off me. “Thing is, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. They’ll work hard at what they want to do—whatever those butt tattoos or some other destiny magic says. It’s always something to do with their talent or passion. Problem with your cutie mark? Just talk to your friends. Have it all talked about and fixed in a week or two.” Wind picks up speed. My shirt and hair flap in the gust. Teeth clatter too, but Garlan holds my attention hostage. A groan leaves his beak. “They don’t understand what the rest of us do. They don’t understand that they’re lucky: they got a princess to rule their paradise, their dreams come true every day in their land, they’re well provided for and have all the opportunities to do whatever they wanna do… things can only get better every day. Only issues they got are world-ending monsters and friendship problems.” He stops fixing up his food cart or tricycle. Wags his head and chuckles. His laugh dips pathetically into the rainfall’s noise. “We griffons? We just work, take whatever we can get. Take anything to just move up, to have something.” His claw goes over the money box. Grips it for a second. Almost unlatches it before he hesitates. He unlatches it. Eyes the money inside. Equestria was all the rage in the wake of first contact. That didn’t mean we never got news about the world’s other kingdoms. Weeks leading up to the Manila portal’s grand opening, news went around about how those kingdoms prepared for it. Mount Aris did a good job: an archipelago wasn’t a far cry from their own home, and they could both fly like an eagle and swim like a fish, which made relating to us an easy task; sent a full-out delegation, complete with chefs, musicians, photographers, everybody else they could throw at us. The dragons were also coming in because of the volcanoes: none actually dug into them, though a dragon research team got access to study them and see how their volcanoes differed from ours. There were also the breezies who liked our flowers and got overjoyed at our diversity of plants: despite how frail they looked, they were bold, dressing up and arming their own representatives like Indiana Jones, ready to explore our jungles together. No official word came from Griffonstone other than one ambassador and some boilerplate praise for the opening. Considering the photos of Griffonstone I could find, taking trips to the other side wasn’t the griffons’ top priority. Rundown roads partly covered in hay. Rotting birdhouses, inches from falling off their nests. Trash scattered high and low on nest-made floors and ground. Forever gray skies deadened with infinite clouds, horizons closed permanently. The griffons themselves: whiling the hours away with games and gambling. Squabbling and not much else. Their existence: lie dormant, move while waiting. No life. A beacon of hope could be found in a few counterculture griffons. They wanted to spread friendship with free baked scones and friendship lessons. Even now, though, progress is slow. Old habits die hard. Another groan comes out of the beak. He’s checking his cart, probably for any snags in the tricycle parts. He stands up. Stops. Looks upon the pot, its cooling oil coming to sleep. “When you have to work because there’s no other way. When your family depends on your work so they can live and not just be. So they can jump over here because lodging’s cheap, because it’s way better than that pecking order of pigeons back home.” The pot is tipped. Oil runs over to a bin. After seconds of scrubbing with water and soap, the pot gets shoved into a cabinet. Garlan wipes the sweat off of his feathery head. His wings spread out, pinions relaxed and feathers stretched out. He looks at me. Half a scowl comes up. “What’re you waiting for?” I blink a lot. Am taken aback. Open and close my mouth like a dying fish before I can say, “I thought you still had something more to say.” He rolls his eyes one more time. “Go ask someone else to flesh out their life story. You know enough. Or too much, but… agh, never mind…” The griffon gets the rest of the cart ready to roll out. He hovers around to check his tires, making sure to stay dry under the umbrella. Keeps his wings closed so they don’t get wet too. Something falls on my shoe. I look down. Under the lantern light, a brown splatter gleams. Sauce on my shoes. Not that they are already wet and dirty thanks to the weather. Sauce. The sauce leads me back to my food. There. Here in my hand. Food’s still there. Stick still in my hand, fishballs still dripping sauce. Closer to my hand, they’re still warm. Near my mouth now. Stomach growls. Reminds me: I’m hungry. I don’t take long looking at it. I take one piece and eat it. Hot, but not too hot. Little crisp on the outside, completely chewy on the inside. The sweet sauce covers the senses—thick and rough. Then comes the fishy aftertaste, a hint of the full-bodied fish it used to be before it got crushed into a pulp. Another fishball. Eat slower, let the tongue roll the bite around, savor the sauce. Another fishball. Chew as fast as I can, digest the meaty gum. Another fishball, and I lick and drink the sauce before my teeth sink in. I repeat, repeat the sensations prancing in my mouth, dig deeper down the stick. Such a long time since I last tasted this. Such a long time since last week. Only me, the rain, the food, him. Trees and wires sway. Tarpaulins flutter in the violent breeze. Near barren, the café across the street has people. Diners don’t mind the fury outside. Waiters try to serve their customers peacefully: Don’t mind the rain outside. Please enjoy your dinner! Cars come by on the road, their swift figures casting more wind on me. The rain and the wind only perfect the delicious hot food dancing in my mouth. Let the diners stay inside. I am here, bravely and boldly eating in the storm with a stick. Delicious. A familiar flavor. I look back. Fermin almost appears in the lightning, but the light shifts back into Garlan. He’s almost done packing up. Anything food-related is gone now. The food cart has become an ordinary if bulky tricycle. I go in for another bite. And bite my own teeth and stick. Hurts a little. Can sense the sauce but nothing other than the nothing flavor of stick. It’s gone. I put the stick down in the little trash can Garlan hasn’t put away yet. Put my hands out in the rain and wash them clean from the stain. My heavy soaking clothes? I’ll think about that later. Cheap scratched third-hand watch tells me it’s getting late. Have to look for an open jeep, starting with a pair of headlights coming in from the left. Down the road, the jeep fast approaches. I hold my arm out in case they haven’t seen me yet. “Say,” Garlan speaks up over the storm, head raised, “I’m curious about one thing… ah, Macario, isn’t it?” My name grabs me and I look back. “Yeah, it’s Macario. How’d you know?” That rare smile again on his beak. “Your tag.” I look down. Sure enough, there’s my nametag. The one everyone in the firm’s supposed to wear in the name of being professional. Must’ve forgotten to put it away when I rushed out tonight. He turns off the overhanging lantern while I put the tag away. The light dies, plunging the stall in shadows. A nearby streetlight protects us from total darkness, shaping us in harsh yellow hues. “So, Macario—” but he coughs. Covers his beak before speaking up again. “I was just wondering: why do you keep staring at me like a ghost?” Good question, and— Like a ghost. A people watcher? You remind me of someone? Novelty of a griffon selling local street food? Haven’t seen you before? The headlights glow brighter. The horn blasts like a truck telling me to go or die. Someone shouts that there’s room for one more. “Isa pa! Isa pa! Isa pa!” I look at the griffon. The griffon looks at the jeep. Move my feet a little, aiming for the jeep. Don’t want to miss it in the pouring rain where one slip means falling flat on the road. I don’t forget him. I turn to him one more time and say: “Garlan, you remind me of... of a good friend I had.” The jeep stops beside the stall. The barker tells me to rise and enter. ~ ~ ~ I come in dripping wet, water stretching across the floor. Dull lights reveal watermarks of shoes past. Not a lot of people here. They shy away from my damp clothes, my damp body. Don’t care. I’m on the way: that’s what matters. We start moving again. Everything slowly starts moving again. How I’ve missed everything moving! Sitting down after all this standing up with the rain so close. I am no longer idle. I am moving. I can rest. In the distance, through the jeep’s open back, I see Garlan looking at the jeep. Looking at me.  Before he’s erased by the rain, a talon waves at me. I lean forward and wave at him. I’m sure he sees me and my smile through the storm. ~ ~ ~ In my dream, there is no more mourning. There is no dead hand to pull me into death’s quicksand. Only a welcoming lion-bird’s claw. He tells me to move on. There’s life yet to live, he says. Be unshackled from the dead hand. I take the griffon’s talon and we travel onward. So I move on.