Bet On The World

A Day My day begins –like everyone else’s– with bad breath. But not in the morning, you see. I’m a musician. I play at nights in a small bar with only myself and my guitar. I usually wake up around 5 pm and snatch the boogers off my eyes, eat breakfast or dinner, whatever you want to call it. I'll take a bath and while I am there I’ll have a little talk with myself, something like, “you’re going to do great today, just practice your set more seriously.” After one hell of a bath I’ll put on something simple, read a book, practice some guitar picking and scales, after that I'll practice the songs I’ll perform in the bar. I know it’s of no importance to people there what I’ll be singing, they just care about their little conversations while my guitar gently plays in the background. Since I have no money to buy expensive guitars, I have my one and only old acoustic guitar that my father gave to me when I was 15 years old. The guitar is old and has a lot of dents and every fret is hollowed because of frequent usage. But it has its charms, it’s like an old man who is wise and has gone through a lot of disasters but pushed through and is now better than ever. My father taught me a lot of songs with easy chords, but the song that I truly love and still sing till this day is the song blowin’ in the wind by Bob Dylan. When I play this song, the memory of the past gone by slips through my mind like it just happened yesterday and the feeling of nostalgia and past happiness and loneliness took hold of me, and I looked at the guitar with amazement and camaraderie. At 9 pm I’ll put on my clothes and put the guitar in the case and I'll go out of my apartment and call a tricycle to take me to the bar. The bar is called ‘Tony’s’. It’s a little place that the owner, Tony Santos, owned and he called it his little paradise, because, he said, “the people who go there are good, artistic and understanding people.” Tony Santos is a man with a wealthy family, so he doesn’t have to think about feeding his family or working the 9 to 5 job. He is what you might call a hippie, a rich hippie. He likes folk music, that’s why he hired me to play at his bar. I met him at another bar where I worked as a waiter. He asked the owner of that bar if he had any musicians who just play and sing with a guitar. So the owner asked the staff if any of us could play and sing, and I said I could. “Great, get out of here and go there!”, the owner said to me. So I played and I sang. I sang blowin’ in the wind and then you are my sunshine. After I played those songs, he requested a song called hang me, oh hang me. “Do you know that song?” “Yes, sir.” “What’s your name?” “I’m Nico, sir” “Nico, please play the song.” “Yes, sir”, I said. Then I played the song. After I played the song, he told me to sit with him, so I went down and sat with him. He asked me, ‘’How do you know that song?” “My father loved folk music, sir.” “Call me Tony”, he said, looking at me intently. “Where is he now?” “He’s dead.” I said, looking away, as I didn't want to know how his face looked when I said that. “Sorry to hear that,” Tony said, patting my back. “Do you want to drink?” “Yes, but not now. I still have 2 hours left of my shift,” I said, giving him a bitter smile. He just smiled and nodded back and forth. After my shift, I looked around the bar and he wasn't there. I got out and I saw him standing beside the door. “Where do you want to go?” he said. “Inside,” I said. “All right.” We sat in the corner. And we drank and drank until he said, “You want to sing at a bar?” I said, “All right. Where?” “I’m going to build a bar and I want you to sing!” He said demandingly. “From scratch? You're going to build a bar from scratch?” “Yes, Nico! I have a spot! An abandoned little place that my family owned. I’m going to turn it into a little bar. I’m going to make you a singer there! It’s going to be like a hangout place for me…. And also to whoever wants to go there. So, are you down?” “All right, I'm down.” “Hey, Tony!” I said to him while I was taking my guitar out of the case. He nodded with a smile. “Mic check, mic check, mic check.” I tuned the guitar and then began to sing the night away. Where Did You Sleep Last Night? Tony and I were sitting in a little corner in his bar drinking beer and then he asked me with curious eyes, “where did you sleep last night?” “Why?” I said. “Because you're still wearing the same thing as last night.” “Can’t I wear the same thing?” I said indignantly. “Yes you can, but not two days in a row!” He said, almost laughing. “What really happened?” What really happened was I met a woman last night. We were changing glances at each other while I was performing last night in the bar. After my set, I got a beer and got out of the bar to smoke my cigarette and there she was standing alone drinking her little martini and smoking her cigarette. I walked towards her and she said, “nice set.” I smiled, thanked her and asked what her name was. “Julia”, she said. “Nice to meet you, Julia. I’m Nico,” and attempted to shake her hand but she motioned her head that she was holding her martini in her right hand and holding her cigarette in her left. “Ow, sorry”, I said. We just stood there for a minute. “Why are you here and not inside?” I asked, then puffed a smoke and gulped the beer down my throat. “It’s too small, I can’t breathe. I feel like I'm inside a four-walled hell with a folk singer and the owner and the other guy and the waiter. It’s a little too much.” “How did you know about the place?” I asked. “I know Tony.” “Oh, that’s why. Who are you to him?” I said, sounding surprised. “Who am I to him? Are you his boyfriend or somethin’?” she said, holding her laugh. “No, we’re friends," I said. “You know I was just joking, right?” “How do you know him?” I asked. “We’re friends, too.” “Is that what you really think about the place? Like it's hell?” I asked, looking at her black bob cut hair, her not-so pointy nose and her brown skin. “Yeah, it’s the same thing every Friday or Saturday or Sunday. The folk singer, the owner, the waiter, the friend of the owner and a customer who just wants to drink his night away with you all ‘cause he’s got no one in his life.” Then suddenly I got the urge to ask her, “You want to get away from here?” Looking at her big black eyes. We just walked out of there without telling Tony or whoever’s there. We took her car, bought food at a convenience store and went into her condo. We drank, ate, discussed books, music, life and had s*x. I woke up at 12 in the afternoon. She’s still sleeping. I made myself a coffee and dunked some stale bread in it. After I drank the coffee, I got back in bed and looked at her sleeping body. Her face, full of innocence but only when she sleeps. It’s the afternoon, so it’s the most boring time of the day; the heat outside, the sun shining, the boring noon shows on TV. I can’t take it anymore being there, she sleeping, me lying there by her side doing nothing. I thought it was going to be something beautiful, watching her and doing nothing, but it was just plain boring after some minutes of looking at her. But she is pleasant to look at, I'll say that. I got out of there immediately, without warning or leaving any note. I just got out. Nothing on my mind except that I'm tired and just want to be alone right at that moment. Cold Wind Blows I’m inside the house that I lived in for 25 years. I missed it so much. The house, the books, the records that my father left me, the smell, the smell of an old couch or an old book. I don’t know. Maybe that’s why it’s appealing to me, because it reminds me of my old books. I was gone not even 24 hours long and I still longed for it like it’s my long lost love. While I was on the bus, I wasn’t thinking about anything but to be there inside and just breathe in the solitude and hear the sound of the humming of the birds and the swaying of the trees. After breathing in the loneliness and the memories of the house, I got tired of it and wished there was somebody there with me breathing it with me too. I wished my father were there with me. I wished the whole world could see how lonely I am at this house of mine. I wish I was like Jim Carrey in the Truman Show, that the whole world could see me. But that’s not the case. It’s just me and my memories. It’s just me and my shame and regret. It’s just me and the cold, cold night. Shame I don’t know why I’m feeling ashamed. Maybe because I haven’t achieved anything that is worthwhile or that I can be proud of. Maybe I am ashamed that I hate myself. It could be either of those, but sometimes it could depend on the day. If I'm feeling lost and oblivious, it's because I’m ashamed that I hate myself. I have always been a daydreamer. I dream while I am taking a shower, eating lunch and dinner and especially when I’m performing in front of people, sometimes 10 people are watching me and sometimes it’s 2, and one of those is Tony. While I was performing, I saw that my father was watching. He has a big smile and teary eyes. Bob Dylan is there too, even though he’s still not dead. But the Bob Dylan that was there was the ‘60s era Bob Dylan. The era where he produced some of his most beloved albums. I was singing Mr. Tambourine Man at that moment. And when I got to the last chorus they disappeared and the only people that were watching me was Tony and his other friend. His other friend’s name was Jack. Jack is a poet. He is what you might call a Tisoy or Mestizo. He’s tall and he’s balding. He said he’s balding like his friend Allen Ginsberg. He asked me after my set, “Do you know Allen Ginsberg?” “No, I do not. Can you tell me something about him?” I asked with curiosity. “He’s a poet too.” “Ah, Tagalog or English?” “Of course English!” He said, irritated. “What are you so mad about? I was just asking if he writes in Tagalog or English?” I asked. “Well…He writes in English,” he said haughtily. “All right, then! Can you recite a poem from him?” “No, I can’t! Because he doesn’t want people to know about his poems.” “Is he real?” “Of course he’s real,” he said, smiling. “Is he alive?” He didn’t answer for a minute. “No, he’s dead. I was just testing you,” he said, staring right into my soul. “What do you mean testing me?” “If you know him or not. Clearly you don’t.” “Well, is it bad if I don’t know him?” “No. it’s not bad, it’s very bad! You like Bob Dylan but you don’t know Allen Ginsberg!” “I do know him, Jack!” I said. I put the Miles Davis record called Kind of Blue on the record player and recited Allen Ginsberg’s poem called Howl. Just the first part ‘cause I got tired of it. I didn’t memorize it, Tony has a little bookshelf in the bar, beside it a little plastic basket full of jazz and folk records. “Okay,” Jack said, smiling and nodding while I was getting off the stage. I just let the whole of the album play out inside the bar. I wonder why Tony chose me to sing there. He’s got his records and books there. He can just let it play. I guess he was craving the real thing, the real connection. Because, me too, I was craving for connection in my own way. I guess he’s just ashamed to admit it. That he wants connection, real connection. But he has a lot of artistic friends that he can have stimulating and intelligent conversations with? Why choose me? Why build a bar and let me sing in it? I guess he just pitied me. I guess that’s how he can get rid of his shame. Regret Julia woke up without me beside her. She got dressed, walked out of her apartment and lived her life. She didn’t call me or anything. I guess she regretted having s*x with me. Or did she think that I ghosted her, left her condo without a note, or that I didn’t say goodbye, so she just let me be. I’ll try not to think about this too much, because I’ll just regret that I didn’t do anything about it. I didn’t call her after that day and now I'm starting to feel ashamed of what I did. It’s not like I killed anybody, I just ghosted someone, because I wanted to get home and not disturb her peaceful sleep. What a silly reason! What a fool! I walked. It’s early in the morning and the sky is blue. I walked. And then it turned into a bruised sky. I walked. Felt my shame. Felt my regrets. Felt the cold early morning wind blowing on my face. It’s whispering something. Something I can’t make out of. I walked. And got back before the people outside my house noticed that I had walked in the morning aimlessly. I don’t want them to know that I like anything. I don’t want to talk to them. I don’t care about them. I sat down and then went back to bed to take my morning nap. I woke up feeling like there was a hand on my head pulling me down. I can’t seem to get up. So I just lie there taking in the afternoon heat. The thoughts are back again, the feelings of shame and of regret, the hand is burying me down under my bed.