back to UP Namnama. My team mates this year are Valerie (who was also my team mate last year together with ate Melche) and Dennica.
There are so many things I'm working on right now: APEC website, UP Namnama review, Mapua Entrance Exam review (yes, I still review for MET. It will be such a shame if I don't pass. it's my second choice school pa. ) Insights thingy, other academic concerns (like missed lessons, quizzes) and the fucking thesis. I really don't know which one gives me the headache.
well, bwye.
P.S. I found the winning story for the Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. i haven't finished reading the story yet but I'm kind of impressed with the writer.
TREASURE ISLANDS
Copyright (C) 2005, Karen Katrina G. Manalastas
All rights reserved. Permission has been granted to the Carlos Palanca Foundation to distribute this work of fiction. Permission has also been granted to Pablo Manalastas to post this work in http://curry.ateneo.net/
First Prize, 55th Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature Contest, Futuristic Fiction-English Category, 2005
Karen Manalastas graduated from Philippine Science High School in 2002. She is a fourth year student in the B.S. Molecular Biology and Biotechnology (BS-MBB) program at the University of the Philippines. Her B.S. thesis under supervision of Dr. Torres-Villanueva is on testing DNA vaccines for malaria in mice. She will probably graduate in April 2006. On the side, she is trying out to be an alternate member of "Team of Artistic Engineers", one of the teams that will represent UP at the ACM International Collegiate Programming Contest at the Asia-Manila regional contest in October 2005. (o diba ang galing!!! BS-MBB - ang astig!)
Treasure Islands
by Safranin
One
I have a theory. It goes like this: women are never satisfied with the way they look. They will go out of their way to look like they belong to another ethnic group. Anglos want to have the skin of "the natives", and the little brown women want to look like Michael Jackson in his surgically enhanced prime. Still, even with all these plastic surgeons crawling out of the woodwork (if you don't walk carefully, you'll kick one), most women seem to want to do things "the natural way", Which leads to my other theory: women tend to make things harder for themselves, which then makes things harder for everybody.
I'm not one to complain about natural methods though. Take nude sunbathing over tanning pills. You won't see me complaining. Some of these Anglo women have fabulous tits. Every afternoon, the Anglos arrive in droves to lie naked on artificial sand. Nobody is supposed to know that it's fake, that it arrives by the truckload from Pampanga, except us "go get boys" who spread it in a thin layer on the beach twice a year. Everybody wants white sand on the beach, and white sand they get.
Today is typical. Rows of naked Anglo women are sunning themselves, turning occasionally, like frying fish. Some of them are dogs - you can never get rid of those, plastic surgery or no - but today, most are gorgeous blond chicks, my favorite variety. Even their asses are sensational, although Gerry said once that those were probably implants. Gerry. Sometimes I wonder about that creep. Absence makes the heart grow fonder they say.
Having a perfect view of this field of breasts and bare legs, and fake ass - this is my vacation. I scrunch the sand beneath my toes, and it feels real enough. I could do much worse.
Nursing 101
"When are we going to do rectals to the cute chicks?" Gerry was attracting the attention of several female nurses; all shot him dirty looks. Nick grumbled. He had been trying to get rid of this creep since the first day of training.
"Or breast tumor examinations." Gerry said. "That'd be good."
"Listen, man." Nick said. "I don't think that's what this job is about."
"Man oh man. I'm so fucking tired of taking blood pressure."
Nick walked faster, but Gerry kept apace. After several weeks of constant exposure, Nick realized two things about Gerry. One, he was entertaining, in a perverse way, but only in small doses. And two, being seen with Gerry was seriously affecting his chances of getting laid. Most women thought that he was a perv by association. The worst thing was, the guy had the hide as thick as that of the near extinct tamaraw; he didn't know when he wasn't wanted.
By the way he talked, he was the god of sex. If every story of his were to be believed, he would have had to deflower a virgin a month ever since he turned twelve, and Nick knew that wasn't true.
Nick had learned to tune him out. He picked up his work assignment at the main desk console. Third floor today. The head nurse handed him his black box for this shift. The box had several compartments, each corresponding to a patient in the third floor. The top of the box was an LCD screen, which was used to play back specific doctors' instructions. Not many doctors were to be found in the health center; most preferred to work at home, sending diagnoses and prescriptions via videophone. A significant percentage was working overseas, like most other Filipinos.
President Santos called it the Great Labor Export. Behind the main desk, the television was turned on. NBC was broadcasting a rerun of an interview with the President. "We have simply harnessed," Santos was saying, "the Philippines' greatest natural resource. Her people. Most Filipinos are extremely talented in certain fields, and we have made those talents a viable product for export." The man looked old. It was his third term. Most expatriates didn't know whom else to vote, and most Filipinos were expatriates. Some didn't bother voting at all.
"Maybe I should've gone into Performing Arts. I bet the chicks there would be real demonstrative," Gerry said as they got in the lift, a glass tube at the center of the complex. "Not like these prudish nurse types. Why oh why did I ever get into Nursing?" He groaned.
Nick looked over the expanding view of landscape as the lift ascended. The main desk diminished slowly from sight, becoming another small square in a grid. Design was spare, functional. Everything was supposed to have a purpose, everyone. The potted plants became lonely green dots. The view was obscured as the lift pierced through the ceiling to the second floor.
"Or maybe the military would've been good," Gerry said. "I hear they go on monthly whoring expeditions at Clark to relieve the pressure." The same sequence: square floor tiles slowly diminishing to reveal the grid, and people moving through the grid, some with purpose, others with whatever replaces purpose. Up, up, until all the people were ants, going nowhere but away from some distant conflagration.
"But Engineering and Physical Training aren't any good. No chicks there. And I'd never go into Domestic Help. Yuck." Gerry shuddered theatrically.
"Gerry?"
"Hmm?"
"Shut up." The lift opened into the third floor.
Two
"Same order, Nick?" Gasoline Boy punches some numbers into his console.
"Yeah, but add about 50 gallons." Shit, gasoline costs 150 a liter now. Those cheating Arab fucks. Good thing this isn't my money. I hand him Sir Reyes' Business Card.
"You run out last week?" Gasoline Boy asks, taking it.
"Nope, but almost. It always pays to be prepared."
Gasoline Boy mutters "plus 50 gallons" under his breath, while punching some more numbers. "Those Anglos sure like to go exploring, don't they?"
I grunt noncommittally. Gasoline has a myriad of uses.
The heat is a killer. I could feel the back of my neck being grilled by the sun. I walk to the shade of the convenience store, and already, I could hear the buzz of the air conditioner. In extreme conditions, you appreciate the simple things: air conditioning, water. Pushing open the door to be greeted by a blast of cold air, I am met by a familiar ass.
She's standing with her back to the door, so she doesn't see me. She's wearing jeans, not a G-string, as she does on the Park, but the pants are snug. Even just by looking, I can remember how those cheeks felt in my hands. I have a good memory.
"Nick," she says, turning around to see me.
"Hey," I say. She still looked the same. Same hair, same face, same ass. "Still working at the Park?" I ask. The Park is an Agta preserve, open for Anglo tourists to 'mingle with the natives'.
"Yeah. Still 'Freak Show Extraordinaire'." She slides her Personal Card into the vending machine slot to pay for what appeared to be a bag of potato chips. Like many other things, it's made in China. The card and the potato chips.
The first time I saw her do this, buy stuff, and speak in English, and wear jeans, I was amazed. We went to one of these Agta parks when I was in primary school. Not one of the Agtas talked to us, or to each other. Back then, I thought that they didn't know how to talk. They could make you think they're dumb monkeys, they're that good.
"Still," she says, "it's a decent enough job."
"I never said that it wasn't." I have a sudden image of an Anglo bastard with bad breath, laughing. Playing a game of Touch the Dumb Native. He touches a part of her body, points at her as if in mime, laughs. His eyeballs bulge, and I see the red veins snaking through them. Everyone else looks away, or laughs, not with him, not at him, but at her. She is a dark princess, bound in the silence of the Illiterate, human sacrifice to a foreign god. I can feel my fists clench, fingernails digging into flesh.
She approaches me, with potato chips and concern. "How have you been, Nick?"
I shrug. "Fine." Fine.
She looks out the clear, fiberglass walls, at the gas truck. Gasoline Boy had driven it against one of the filling stations. "I see. You're still working at the resort." It wasn't a question.
"Yeah. It's a decent enough job."
She takes this in coolly. "Well, it's your life." She opens her mouth, and I know what she's going to say. Go ahead, say it. Your butt is red with Anglo pinches, you don't have the right to talk.
But she closes it and says, "Take care of yourself. Don't get into too much trouble." She touches my arm one last time before pushing the door open, letting in a blast of hot air from outside. I watch her as she walks away, shoulders glinting in the sun. Women.
Family Letters
They wrote from all over. Nick sat in front of his console, reading letters from his father in Saudi, his mother in Canada, and his older sister Mimi in Brunei. All emails had attached video clips of them standing in front of national monuments, tourists themselves of faraway lands. Saudi looked hot and dry, Canada looked cold and dry, and Brunei...he didn't see much of Brunei from the clip. It was, Mimi said, the interior of the royal palace, all marble and gilded wall hangings.
None of them probably went to the beach anymore.
"There's not much to see here but oil rigs and desert," his father's voice said. Nick thought he could hear a faint rasp of desert wind in the background. "But the work keeps me satisfied. I hope you're doing well...that you're satisfied." Nick's mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly, at this barb. His father continued speaking. "Give my love to your mother and your sister." And that was the end of the message. Nick briefly wondered why he didn't just contact them himself. Lazy geezer.
"Things are going great," Mimi's breathless voice said. "Everything went smoothly in the performance last night. We even got a standing ovation." I bet you did. Nick was convinced that his sister was a concubine of the Sultan of Brunei, Performance Arts track or no. Anyway, sex was a sort of performing art, Nick thought numbly. Still, whatever makes her happy.
"Our sponsor was so happy with our performance, that he gave all the actors bonuses." Mimi sounded happy, at least. And she traveled a lot, judging from all the knickknacks she kept sending him, small confections of wood, glass or steel, cluttering up his bedside table. He and Rhona probably knocked off quite a few of them, last night.
"Anyway, take care of yourself and visit us when you can." Mimi paused. "I love you Nick. Stay safe." She sounded sad suddenly, deflated. Nick sat still for a while, thinking of nothing in particular. Turning his head, he saw through the gap between the doorjamb and the bedroom door that Rhona was still fast asleep. He watched her for a while, her bare chest rising and falling with deep breaths.
Nick opened his mother's email last. His mother was a nurse abroad, as a fourth of the total Filipino population was. "How are you, Nick?" his mother began. "I hope you're doing okay. Do you have a girlfriend yet?" She coughed. "Things are going relatively well here. It's cold, but bearable. There are a lot of free positions here, you can choose what you like." In the video clip, his mother was walking on thick snow, cheeks windburned and wrinkled. "It's not just 'wiping old women's asses' as you always said. But you know that." She laughed but it sounded as if the laughter was coming from the bottom of a well. "Well, I won't force you. Anyway. Say hello to your father for me." There it was again. Nick felt like he was playing messenger.
"If you ever decide to come here, just let me know. I'll find something for you." His mother reached towards the camera, for an unseen off switch. "Goodbye, son. Take care of yourself." The screen went black. End of message.
"I didn't know you were a nurse," Rhona said, trying to peer at the screen from behind him.
Nick swiveled his chair to face her. He had never known a woman as totally unconscious about nakedness as Rhona was. She stood before him, her bare skin the color of black coffee. She had the confidence of a princess, her curls tight and vibrant, her nose wide and proud. Maybe she would have been a princess among her people, had things gone differently.
"I'm not a nurse," he said finally.
"But you could've been."
He shrugged.
"Why not?" she prodded. "You're wasting your training. All you do is fetch things for the Anglos, like a dog. If I were you, I'd-" She broke off, knowing she'd made him angry.
You should talk. Nick stood up, walked over to where she stood. She could feel his breath on her forehead. "I think I prefer you in the Park," he said through gritted teeth. "You talk less."
Rhona folded her arms over her small breasts. "You're being very offensive, Nick." Her thick lips were arranged in a pout meant to appease him.
A long moment passed before he talked.
"I know." He nuzzled her neck. "That's what you like about me."
"I guess," Rhona said, caressing his pale back with her small, dark hand.
Three
I've often wondered what people felt when they were on the verge of something big. Now I can sense it. Calmness is the basic component. I've never been a safer driver.
I drive back to the resort, 'go get boy' with a truck full of gasoline. I slow down at intersections, and even wave at pedestrians, which are inevitably Anglo tourists. Today is obviously special. Or maybe having the risk of massive conflagration is turning me good. Some tourists are Korean or Japanese. The tourists I like best are the Latinos. Some of them remind me of Mimi, of old friends from school. But when they open their mouths, the magic is gone.
Fuck, Rhona. I know what you were thinking.
I ease up on the gas pedal as I drive down President Santos Road. Some women, genuine Filipinas, are out early, but they don't go for guys like me. I think of them as the Girls of Summer, blooming in the late afternoon heat, in tube tops and shorts. I blow my horn at a particularly luscious one. She wrinkles her nose. What the heck. She probably has AIDS anyway. I drive on. It's a generally good day.
Homo couple up ahead. The Anglo looks straight, he even has big muscles, for chrissakes. The other guy is Filipino, and is obviously a paid fuck, by the way he's dressed. Any Filipino in this part of town is either a go get boy or a prostitute.
The Anglo pinches the man-whore's butt, and I feel the urge to vomit. Tangina, get a room. The whore laughs nervously, and I see the side of his face. He looks a bit like Gerry.
Wait. He is Gerry.
I honk my horn. "Gerry, you sonofabitch!"
He sees me and turns away quickly. "Gerry! Gerry! You sonofabitch!" I laugh and laugh, and blow my horn, and drive the truck beside them until they steer themselves into a narrow alley. The son of a bitch. Gerry, bading ka pala, putang ina.
I pull over. I can't stop laughing. I laugh and pound the steering wheel with my fists. Putang ina! Pag ikaw nagka-AIDS, kasalanan mo yan, pare. Kasalanan mo yan, kasalanan mo... I pound until it hurts, and I can't breathe, and fuck, don't let me die now before I do one more thing. One more thing. Gago ka pare, mamamatay ka sa ginagawa mo.
I am able to breathe after a while. I wipe away sweat from my cheeks. The road still looks blurry, distortions of the heat. Fuck it.
Piles of Excrement
"We are in what was known as Old Manila. This used to be the habitation of the urban poor, almost fifty years ago." Nick adjusted the volume settings of his voice recorder to catch the tour guide's words. He wondered why they were there. He looked at the bare white walls, stretching out unbroken on either side for what looked like kilometers. The building looked to be a kilometer high, and Nick could see no windows or doors.
The tour guide was a man in his fifties, dressed in what he told them was traditional Filipino garb: a soft-looking roundneck shirt called camisa de chino, red pants, and a matching piece of red cloth knotted around his throat. Every so often, their sixth grade homeroom teacher, Ms. Nobatos, would nod at his statements.
"Why do you think we're here?" Gerry asked him. Nick shrugged. "In the year 2007," the tour guide continued, "a massive transfer of the urban poor was administered by a particularly action-oriented chairman of the MMDA. I myself was a baby at this time." He laughed. "I bet it's hard for you young folks to imagine such a time. The country was a lot dirtier then than it is now, and there weren't so many of these beaches, and these foreigners." Ms. Nobatos nods, her chin wiggling. "The country," Ms. Nobatos added, "was terribly polluted. But thanks to President Santos, everything's changed."
"Right." The tour guide frowned. "So you must be wondering where we are. As I was saying, this place used to be the living quarters of millions of poor Filipinos. And by poor, I don't mean poor in the sense it is used today. These people were really poor. They had trouble finding food, and lived in primitive cardboard houses." He showed them yellowed cardboard photographs, eliciting oohs and aahs from his girl classmates. Nick wasn't sure whether he believed what the man was saying. Surely he was exaggerating. Cardboard houses?
"In the first year of President Santos' term, he formulated the Great Labor Export plan, as you've studied. A lot of those who lived in this area chose to migrate to the United States and Canada, and other countries in need of domestic help. The others were relocated through housing projects."
A female classmate, Lana, passed the pictures to Nick, her hands lingering on them reverently. Nick shuffled the pictures quickly. They were in color, but poor storage had made them sepia in tone. Pictures of what looked like smoke coming out of a huge chimney, thin children about his age selling small white flowers strung into garlands (the white yellowed by time), the 'cardboard' houses. They looked sturdy enough. A woman sat on a low stool in front of one of the houses, hands immersed in a vat of soapsuds.
What was strange was that they didn't seem to be miserable, even if they did live in cardboard houses.
"Hey, can I have a look?" Gerry tapped Nick's shoulder.
"Sure." Nick handed the pictures to Gerry.
Lana had raised her hand to call Ms. Nobatos' attention, and was now saying, "So why can't we smell it?"
Nick nudged Gerry. "Smell what?"
"The garbage." Gerry wrinkled his nose. "The old guy says that this is Luzon's garbage dump."
"We're not on the open side," Ms. Nobatos replied. "The opening is several kilometers away. And there's no wind today."
Nick looked at the vast expanse of white wall. Inside was decades' worth of garbage, slowly putrefying, out of sight. One of the boys was saying, "I heard they weren't able to get out all the squatters in time." He stumbled on the unfamiliar word, squatters. "And," the boy said slowly, for drama, "some of them are buried under the garbage."
"Whoa." Another boy, named Bill. He was fingering the collar of his uniform nervously.
"Listen," Nick said, in a low voice. "Let's look for the opening."
The first boy-his name was Jet, Nick finally remembered-clapped Nick on the back. "Right. Let's go ghost hunting."
Gerry's eyes widened. "What? Are you crazy?"
"Aren't you curious?" Nick asked.
"No. It's garbage, it smells bad. That's all I need to know. Don't be stupid."
But Nick had already raised his hand. "Ms. Nobatos? Can we have lunch here?"
Several of his classmates shot him dirty looks, but Jet and Bill seemed pleased. Ms. Nobatos laughed. "Why would you want such a thing? It may not be sanitary." She peered sidelong at the building, and for a moment, Nick thought she looked afraid.
"I think it's symbolic, Ma'am," Nick said. "I think staying here would force us to think about the errors of the past, since this garbage does symbolize the past." Nick felt like he was gaining momentum, and it was making him want to laugh out loud, to cluck like a chicken. "If we think about the mistakes of our forefathers, we have a better chance of avoiding them." Perfect, he thought. I could be president.
"Pare, you're full of shit." Jet laughed. "But good shit."
"Well." Ms. Nobatos laughed, a shrill, choppy sound. "That's certainly correct. But I will be held responsible if any of you gets sick. So, I'm sorry, I can't allow it."
"Well," Jet frowned. "We'll do it some other time."
"Yeah," Bill said.
Gerry frowned at Nick. "I don't get you, man. Why'd you want to poke through garbage?"
Nick shrugged. "I just wanted to see. Maybe it'll be interesting." He thought of getting a souvenir for Mimi. She always appreciated unusual things.
Gerry looked at him as if he were crazy, but Nick knew that Gerry would have gone along anyway. He may be an old lady, but he's loyal. It was a comforting thought.
Four
"Come over here, boy." Sir Reyes, reading what must be Time or Newsweek. He doesn't even look up from the console, the rude bastard.
"Listen to this rubbish," he says. " 'The Philippines as a Summer Colony: Utopia or Dystopia?' Is there even such a word?"
I shrug.
He keeps reading from his console. "As of today, the archipelago is a panoply of beaches for tourists, and exotic sex services for the bored and strong of immune system. Yearly, the tourist trade, blah blah blah, gross national product to rival blah blah blah." He waves a hand. "Anyway, here's the interesting part. 'However, when one visits the country, one is tempted to ask: Where are all the Filipinos?' What stupid question is that? Stupid reporters." Reporters. There isn't much to report about, except for the fluff that goes on the tourist magazines. And that, I admit, is stupid. So I nod.
"Boy," a fat Anglo fuck with no hair is waving his empty glass around. The stupid fuck is wearing sunglasses indoors. "Boy!" Glass waves faster, the ice cubes clinking at the bottom. I walk over, as slow as I could. His other arm is draped around a gabb: Generic Anglo Beach Babe. I suddenly remember Gerry-fucking-traitor-to his-gender-Rosales. He was the one who thought up the term.
Fuck. This is making my head hurt.
I stare at the chick's boobs for some measure of peace. She's kind of chick you see on Playboy Vintage editions. Playboy features mostly Asians now, the big-busted peroxide blondes being as common as they are. Still, she's a looker. Either he has a golden cock, or he's filthy rich. He's certainly butt ugly.
"Boy, go get me a piña colada." The fat Anglo says this slowly, his mouth opening and closing over the syllables, like a fat fish. I stare at the dry palms leaves at the eaves, waving in the wind.
"Boy... go...get...me...a...pi-"
"Yes sir." I'm not stupid, motherfucker. I wonder what it feels like to bash his sunglasses against his upturned Anglo nose.
"Are there any problems sir?" Sir Reyes suddenly turns up beside me. For a geezer, he's pretty quick. All for nothing: there's no trouble to defuse. I'm not even really angry. This is nothing. I won't touch your precious Anglo.
"No, my man." The Anglo stretches back, strands of his girlfriend's hair clinging to his arm. "I was just telling my boy here that I wanted a piña colada."
"Very good sir." The geezer is rubbing his hands together and bowing like an idiot. "Because here, we believe that the customer is always right." He shoots me a look that means I should take this as a lesson learned. Right.
I go to the bar, to get the Anglo his piña colada.
Fight Club
The cinema was small and crammed with couples necking by the flickering light of the wide movie screen, flesh rising and falling like gray waves in the faint light. An old movie was playing, something called "Fight Club". It had to be old, Nick thought, because it wasn't in 3D, and Brad Pitt still had hair. He looked over at Rhona, and saw that she was staring at the screen, transfixed. She was a real Brad Pitt fan.
Nick was having a better time watching the couples near them. The story still hadn't picked up momentum, and he was getting horny watching the hooker beside him give her Anglo client a blowjob. Nick bent towards Rhona and licked her ear.
"Shhh, watch the movie." Rhona waved him away distractedly, and at that moment, he hated Brad Pitt.
Still, watching the movie, he found himself becoming interested in the story. Edward Norton (Nick had no idea who he was, but he was good) was having trouble falling asleep, which led to all sorts of strange events. He and Brad Pitt were seated next to each other on a commercial airplane, and were talking.
"You are by far," Edward Norton said to Brad Pitt, "the most interesting single-serving friend I've ever met." Brad Pitt just stared at him.
"You see," Norton added quickly, "I have this theory about everything on a plane being single-serving-"
"Oh, I get it," Pitt said. "It's very clever. How's it working out for you?"
"What?" Norton said.
"Being clever."
"It's...great," Norton said. Then he laughed.
"You have a sick kind of desperation in your laugh," Pitt said.
And then, the shocker. Brad Pitt had just told Edward Norton that his business was soap-making. Then, deadpan, Pitt said, "Did you know that if you mixed equal parts of gasoline and frozen orange juice, you'd get napalm?"
Norton choked on his saliva. And Nick was laughing so hard, the hooker stopped sucking and stared at him.
Pitt. Still deadpan. "One could make all sorts of explosives out of simple household items."
Norton. "Really?"
"If one were so inclined."
Nick was still laughing. "One could make..." he gasped. Rhona was staring at him, and dimly he thought that he was probably embarrassing her, and that made him laugh all the more. "Hey, there's no one here but us hookers," he shouted. He was laughing so hard, he felt that he was dying. He felt Rhona's shoulder tremble against his cheek, in tears or anger, he didn't know. He couldn't stop laughing.
Later, they sat silent through the film. Nick stared at the screen. He felt Rhona's eyes on him, felt the unasked question. And he knew that the rules had changed, and the moment had come that he would have to come clean, or say goodbye. It was a shame.
He squinted his eyes at the screen, blocking out all else, delaying the moment when her eyes would bore into him. She'd demand answers, most of which he didn't have. It was a good movie.
Five
The Greater Luzon Landfill, otherwise known as "that big pile of shit" is only about ten K from Sir Reyes' resort. It's too bad that this has to happen. I actually like the geezer. This only proves what he's always said about me. I'm bad for business.
I'm driving one of the tourist ATVs. Still calm, surprisingly vacant. My life is not flashing before my eyes. But typically enough, I'm thinking of Rhona. Particularly about that time we watched a movie, then split up. Funny how things can happen that way.
The plastic containers in the back bump against each other, which reminds me to drive a bit slower. There's enough time.
The day we split up, she was crying. I'd never seen her cry before. And she said that she just wanted to know me, she just wanted me to share something. I was so fucking mysterious.
Hey, I said. I thought you girls liked mystery.
Yes, she said. But it gets old.
Then she left.
Funny how things can happen that way.
I pull over beside the big white building. It's no different from the other side, except that this wall has a big hole in it, about half a kilometer wide. I open the car door.
Oh fuck, what is that smell???
Fuck, fuck, fuck. I should've brought a gas mask. Argh. The smell.
I open the passenger compartment, roll out five barrels full of gasoline. Inhale. The smell's not gonna kill you, idiot. Not breathing will. The barrels roll easily enough into the wide opening, gaping mouth of rot. You get used to the smell, believe it or not.
I look at the barrels, five standing clustered amid heaping piles of garbage. Here's to us Rhona. You want to know about me, so I'll tell you:
I miss you. That's the only thing I'm sure of.
I walk away from the building. I've never seen the future too clearly. But here's what I see. The sky will light up tonight, fueled by the wastes of past and present. Maybe the methane will make the explosion a big one. Ashes and rotting pieces of garbage will rain down for miles. I think of dead men of the past, buried by the excrement of the decades. Their ashes would coat the oily bodies of the beached Anglo whales. Tomorrow.
From a distance, I cock the gun and aim at the barrels. And while I could do much worse, I know I can do better. I shoot.
End of "Treasure Islands"
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