Close Your Eyes, Count to Ten

You Ended This Day

The skin came off the potatoes smoothly. The only time I learned how to peel anything was because of Erika. I took a chopping board from the kitchen and she sliced the potatoes neatly and quickly, yet in precise strips. She could start working at fast-food restaurants as “The Amazing French-Fries Machine!”

               Alesana’s screamo songs were blasting from the speakers while we were preparing the fries. And while she was frying them, she was singing along the song “The Third Temptation of Paris”:

               Desire leaves me numb to all the pain surrounding me / Storms will arise to condemn me / I will not die before her eyes / It ends tonight…[1]

***

Alesana and Typecast are two of our favorite bands. In our hanging-out sessions at the Town & Country bridge, Erika and I often exchanged information about ourselves, especially on the bands we liked the best.

               The two of us shared one trait we liked about these bands: their lyrics.

               “To me, their lyrics seem to tell my story. I always feel insecure towards other people, like if they’re best at what they’re doing, because I often feel like I’m not good at anything at all. I wanted to strangle them, to hurt them, you know? But in the end I’m not doing anything,” Edge said told me while we were at the bridge. “It’s a…release, I guess, d’you know what I’m saying?”

               “I thought it would be because you’ve been heartbroken many times,” I replied, it was meant to amuse her.

               She gave me a sinister look, the kind of look that seemed to gash through my soul. “I’ve never been heartbroken before. Have you?”

               “Oh, I wish you would never feel that,” I replied, remembering someone.

               Just how true the words we said to each other are, I had no idea.

               This happened plenty of times. One moment she’d be talking about one thing, and then I’d doubt if what she told me was true. In another time, I’d be telling her things about myself, and then later on I’d doubt if she believed me. This feeling went on for a while until we sort of became comfortable about telling each other whatever, that it didn’t matter if we believed each other or not. I had the feeling we just needed to talk, and to be comfortable to talk about anything to someone seemed like a difficult commodity to come by at the time. I had other friends, of course, but I could never talk to them in the manner that I talk to Erika.

               With her, it just seemed different. She seemed different. And when I’m talking to her, I feel like a different person.

***

If I remember correctly, this would be our third French-fries-session inside my house. I couldn’t exactly remember what triggered this strange habit. One day, she called me, asking where I was, and I told her I couldn’t leave the house because my Mom would be working late, and she wanted to go, and while foraging the fridge for food, she found some potatoes in the vegetable compartment in the fridge, went to the kitchen, took a knife, and then proceeded to peel the potatoes like it was what she was born to do, sliced them into thin strips, and fried them herself, then we bought some beer, and just talked and smoked while talking about random things about ourselves, the world outside, new trends in Emo music, among other things.

               One day, my Mom was surprised to find a plastic of potatoes in the fridge. She couldn’t remember buying them, so I told her I intend to cook my own fries.

               “I could just buy you readily-sliced fries from the department store. You’ll just have to fry them.”

               “No, ma, I prefer to prepare them by myself,” I boasted. When in fact I have no idea how to fry anything. I did try frying a hotdog once, only to burn one side of it. My Mom of course has no idea about a certain girl called Erika coming over our house when she was away.

               I guess my Mom has her suspicions, but she was simply ignoring it.

***

Erika sprinkled salt to the bowl of still-hot French fries, while I made my way to the fridge to bring out the beer she bought on her way here. She plugged her Mp3 player this time, and then plugged it to a pair of speakers she bought from CD-R King, and from it blasted songs from Eyes Set to Kill, Saydie, Flyleaf and Paramore—her other favorite bands. I didn’t mind since the genre were still the same, and the melody and lyrics were top notch.

               I nibbled on some fries while taking careful sips from my beer.

               “You coming to Francis’s gig tomorrow night?” she asked.

               “If my Mom won’t work late.”

               “Oh, come on. You remember Francis right? That skateboarding dude?” Erika said.

               I remember him, all right. It was an uncomfortable thought.

***

It was a weekend in July when Wendell asked me to join him to the nearby skate park. Erika wanted to come along, so we went. It wasn’t really a skate park, more of a wide street with smooth roads, with metal pipes with small stands made smooth by wax for grinding, wooden tables with sheets of steel on the side to ollie on, and an average-sized ramp for nose grabs, but no indies, unless you wish for your skull to c***k open.

               While we were walking, the air was full of energy. Energy that I was breathing in, my nostrils feeling its gush and I was so happy. I didn’t know why I felt like that. Was it because there was a very beautiful girl walking with me? The sun was shining down on us; we felt awesomely different in a world of complete ordinariness: Wendell, Erika, and I were all wearing black shirts with skinny jeans and sneakers, except for Wendell who was wearing fat skating shoes. People on the street were eyeing us, probably praying that we weren’t troublemakers. We couldn’t blame these people for looking at us with judgment spelled across their faces. For just the previous day, a renowned TV show featured the Emo culture, causing stereotypes to emerge at once. Devil’s music, they called it, enhancing depression in the mind, giving the listener bad vibes rather than good ones, causing suicide among teens.

               They don’t understand. Suicide is not done because of the music. It’s done because the doer thinks it must be done. But that is just my opinion. And it’s also not because of fashion, or emotions or feelings. To me it’s beyond that.

               Upon arriving at the skate park, we began to see familiar faces. Not familiar in the sense that the three of us actually know them, but familiar in sense that they were all people from different scenes: punks, metalheads, but looking around, we saw no one-sides, no tight skinny jeans or nerdy-glasses.

               Their eyes were also onto us. A big man with dreadlocks approached us. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, just brown pants. He was carrying his skateboard.

               “You better go man,” he said to us. “This ain’t no place for Emoes.”

               “I just wanna join the spot,” Wendell said. “These are my friends.”

               “You see those dudes over there?” he pointed to the middle of the skating area, where three guys have stopped skating and was looking at us. They didn’t look Emo to me. “Those are metalheads who can snap an emo head into two. This is our spot. Go find your own.”

               “What’s going on here?” a voice boomed from somewhere.

               A really tall guy was walking towards us. He was really tall, he was like five-foot and eleven inches, towering above us all. He, too, was carrying his skateboard. He didn’t look like a metalhead, a punk, or an emo.

               “Emoes,” the guy with dreadlocks said.

               “f**k, since when did we call people that?” the tall guy said.

               “This ain’t no place for them, Francis.”

               “Since when did you have a say about anybody who wants to skate here?”

               The guy with dreadlocks didn’t say anything.

               “If you got a problem with them, you and your little friends can leave.”

               Clearly there was a pissed-off look from the dreadlocked guy. He walked away and joined his friends. They talked for a while, before leaving.

               “You tell me if you run into trouble with anyone around here,” Francis said. “I own the pipes, the vert ramp, so it’s almost like I own this spot. It’s my say who can skate here, and who can’t,” Francis said. I was so sure there was a boastful tone in his voice. We thanked him, and he said that it was no problem and he even offered to skate with us.

               At first, I thought it was just what he wanted: to skate with us. I know basic skateboarding, I could do ollies and shove-its, but because I didn’t own a skateboard, my knowledge of basic skills turned from average to sloppy.

               Erika didn’t know a thing about skateboarding. So, Francis offered to teach him.

               I watched as Francis taught Erika how to balance herself on the skateboard, their hands holding, his arms brushing against hers, their eyes sometimes locking together, while Wendell was mingling with other skateboarding dudes. I wanted to rush towards Francis and strangle him to death because clearly, he was taking advantage of Erika.

               But Erika, it seemed to me, was letting Francis take advantage over her!

               There was a knife being buried inch by inch on my chest, slicing through my rib cage, penetrating my heart, cutting the veins like a million cobwebs. My breath grew heavier, and my fingers were shaking. I couldn’t look anymore. A screamo song ran over my head: And if my breath will go / I’m not so sure to take your hands again / And if your heart will go / I’ll never be the same without you…[2]

               So how could I not remember that guy?

***

“His band will be playing at the Hyperzone Bar tomorrow night. You should go. I’m going,” Erika persuaded. I was just looking at our ashtray, its wide-open mouth full of butts and ashes. The song “I’m so Sick” was playing from the speakers. The vocalist of Flyleaf conveyed true sorrow and contempt.

               “What’s the name of their band again?” I asked.

               “The Pritos Ring Syndicate.”

               “Oh,” I said. “Maybe I’ll go.”

               Silence.

               An uncomfortable silence.

               “So you’re still seeing each other, huh?”

               “Yeah, he’s a great guy.”

               “Oh, he’s great all right.”

               “What’s that supposed to mean?”

               I didn’t reply. It was another uncomfortable silence.

               “You’re just jealous,” Edge remarked. “Because you can’t skate the way he does! Or growl the way he growls!”

               Is she singing? She was like singing: And I know I can never skate the way he does / Growls the way he growls / The way he dress so cool…[3]

               “Hell no, I’m not jealous,” I said. Yes, I am jealous, but not because of Francis’s skill in skateboarding or even in growling! “It’s just that you’re better off with much better guys.”

               Erika didn’t respond to that. She just drank from her beer and put four fries in her mouth.

               “I like this song,” she said. She increased the volume of the speakers. It was “Darling” by Eyes Set To Kill[4].

               I held my breath while listening to the intro lyrics of the song.

***

The French fries were all out, and we were just finishing off our beer when she talked about the upcoming Typecast gig along with other bands at the Mall of Asia this coming weekend. Tickets has been secured by her good friend in Manila. This good friend, whom she referred to as a guy, would be joining us.

               “He was my classmate before I transferred. He was the one who introduced me to Typecast.”

               “I wonder what songs they’ll play?” I asked. My sight was already a bit dizzy. Her brilliant face shone beneath the fluorescent light. Out at the window, the sun has already set yet there were still hints of its light. There were no more cigarettes to smoke, nor French fries to nibble, just a lukewarm beer to finish.

               “I hope they’ll play the entire Every Moss and Cobweb album.”

               I laughed. “That’s impossible. No band will ever do that. It’s like giving the whole album away.”

               “Oh, they should! That album’s released way back in 2006. They should start giving it away. After all, art should be free!” Erika said. I didn’t know where those words came from. Most probably, it was from her subconscious and the beer shook it awake.

               When our beer was all done, she helped me clean up. We washed the dishes, sprayed Lysol all over the living room to kill the cigarette smell, cleared the bottles away, and finally she said: “So, see you tomorrow.” Her eyes were on me. They were like two stars in a universe where all of my hopes and dreams, desires and wants, truly happen.

               When she left, the house was silent. Only the thumping of my heart remained, like a bass drum in the percussion set that was my body. It was still early in the evening, and I felt a mad hankering for more beer, probably fueled by Erika’s mention of that guy Francis. Just remembering his towering body looming over me was enough to crush my pride down to bits.

               And his hands—holding hers. His arms brushing against each other, their eyes locking in an instance—

               I decided to step out quickly and bought a bottle of beer at a nearby sari-sari store. Returning home, I opened it and drank by myself. The beer was frigid on my tongue, but gradually turned warm as it rushed down my throat.

               Again, the vision of Francis teaching Erika how to skate hovered in my head. It was probably the worst vision I’ve ever imagined. I could smash the bottle on the floor and pick up a sharp fragment to cut my skin, just at the very thought that the two of them were already going out, and that Edge was just sticking with me for friendship alone. I felt a lump on my throat. I couldn’t swallow the beer.

               Since I met Erika, I knew I loved her. I knew I wanted to spend my days with her. There was still forever to get to know her.

               But she didn’t know a thing. Never have I mentioned my feelings for her. Every time I do, during those past days when we were alone at the Town & Country bridge, I feel like upon uttering the words, I would disappear completely. Like other girls in my past. Friendships broken because of sincere feelings conveyed turned awkward.

               “Yeah, he’s a great guy,” was what Edge said about Francis.

               A great guy? How can he be a great guy? He’s just tall. He skates so well. He’s in a band. But where is “great” there?

               And The Pritos Ring Syndicate. What a stupid name for a band!

               I finished the beer and lay down on the sofa. The ceiling was closing in on me, as if giving me a kiss. I had hoped Erika’s face would be etched somewhere in its vast emptiness, but no. Just nonsense markings.

               The Pritos Ring Syndicate. What the f**k.

[1] “The Third Temptation of Paris” by Alesana from the album On Frail Wings of Vanity and Wax

[2] “I Belong to the Skies” by Hopes Die Last from the album Your Face Down Now

[3] “Dorothy” by Typecast from the album Last Time

[4] There are two versions of the song “Darling” by Eyes Set to Kill. Here, what Erika was talking about was the version of the song from the band’s EP entitled “When the Silence is Broken, the Night is Torn”