Highfiber 0.0

CHAPTER 1: Nine: My Dear Friend in Soul and Jabba the Hut

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To my dear friend in soul,

Last time I wrote you I had my useless appendix removed. I could still remember the stale stink of the hospital. I couldn’t eat for a week for fear that it might rupture another organ inside my body. I almost forgot to thank you for the “get-well” fruits you sent me through the kindness of my cousin. So, let me first say “thank you” before I go on with my nonsense ranting. And by the way, the doctor said it wasn’t that I ate cucumber that made my appendix inflamed, but something else that I already forgot. You bastard, I really thought the cucumber was the culprit.

I met this guy Jonah a couple of months ago. He is a big fella. You’d probably tease him to be a stout good for nothing call-center agent as I know how you can instantly be a jerk when it comes to my suitors. And I have to admit to myself that he’s not that good-looking, but we shared the same passion for art films. For that reason, we started going out to watch movies. Sometime ago, he grabbed my hand inside the theater and I easily had mistaken it of him wanting popcorn. Being that oblivious girl, I didn’t notice that he was making his moves. Besides, with your constant teasing that my boobs were too small for my built and my legs were pretty darn short to sustain my weight, I pretty much believed I was not meant for Romeo-Juliet escapades. Instead, thanks to you, I read pretty interesting books and write on my free time. Which he very much likes. I would talk about stories you sent me and stole some lines on your letters and I could command him like a puppy. Not a cute adorable shitzu or poodle though, more like an America bulldog.

But so much about the introduction. To cut things short, I kissed him and he kissed me back. Three days later, we finally did it. Remember how I used to ask you so many questions about sex? How it feels like to do it the first time? I remember you telling me that first time sex for boys are always whimsical. I also thought it was. To tell you frankly, I was nervous as hell first time I laid eyes on Jonah’s penis. It’s not that it’s big. Matter of factly, it looked like an aged turtle’s head with a mane. I was nervous because it will be my first time. When I told you I was a virgin, I meant it. You told me it’s impossible because in your dreams, we had sex… that you didn’t enjoy, you sick-o. Well anyway, that night, I was determined to once and for all, redeem myself from innocence. And just like you said, it hurt. Contrary to you what your babbling about the pleasure of sex, I only felt pain and tension. The foreign object coming in and out of my vagina felt wrong. And it was pretty much darn quick. Jonah also knew I was a virgin for 24years and I don’t have any appendix anymore. So, besides my ruptured appendix, I had a ruptured hymen as well. The thing was, the piece of flesh didn’t bleed. Perhaps you are right, I was no longer a virgin when Jonah touched me. I just thought of it two mornings after. The same time that Jonah told me that I was no longer a virgin when he touched me. I can sense that he has lost interest in me. He probably would accuse me lying about being a virgin because of the lack of bloodstain. Then I thought what you said about your dream of us having sex. It’s been bothering me ever since. Why didn’t I bleed? I hate to be asking you for answers, but in any case, I would appreciate if you could give me a piece of your mind on what happened.

I would also like to thank you for supporting me to quit my law school and pursue my life long dream to be a filmmaker. I guess all lawyers sucks. They just get paid to make an acceptable lie. Just like my father. Why don’t you be a lawyer yourself? You seemed kind of good at it, you filthy liar.

I also lost weight since we last saw each other. I tried running as you prescribed and it works with me well. You were right about how it feels good to run with earphones and mp3 players. I did manage to slash 20 lbs off the weighing scale. The only problem with me getting thin is that my boobs seemed depleting too. I hope you’re still training. We could do a fun 5k run together when there’s a chance.

Oh, did I ever greet you a “Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year”? If I didn’t, well, never mind.

Your friend in soul,

Nine

PS. Write to me soon.

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I found the letter lifelessly blended among other documents with imprinted names of the dead. If not for my effort to swab a month-old coffee stain on my table, I wouldn’t have noticed the piece of paper and it might have ended up in the trash bin at the end of the day. My desk looks like war. I have more papers than the national library that it made me wonder about trees. Remnants of last year’s back jobs accrued like a virus. And like an epidemic, it spread through other desks that people around the office are always cranky. Good thing I prefer working alone. It’s not that I dislike talking with people, but I just don’t like noisy senseless talks with them. As a result, I have been branded as a snob loner. No wonder even the jolly perky girl at the reception would avoid my eyes whenever I pass the lobby desk in the morning. I wouldn’t have noticed if that someone next to my desk resigned and be occupied by an entirely new guy. I only get to say a word with my colleagues whenever I would wait for my turn to shred papers.

I found the letter while sorting my trash. Sorting papers is like sorting my life. I am only left to decide what to forget and what to keep. In the end, more than a half of it goes to the trash bin. At five o’clock in the afternoon, the same guy with baggy uniform comes to collect my trash. He just comes silently like death. Without a sound, he would appear beside me without uttering a word and would transfer my junks (shredded papers and cigarette butts and spits) inside a big black plastic bag. Watching him drag the pile of rubbish made me feel bored and aged. He collects traces of each day’s excess only to leave me of another plastic bucket to fill in with the same residual inkling of the day’s mediocrity. Life is indeed a bottomless pail of monotony that we are only left to endure.

I work as clerk for a newspaper company and I was assigned to handle the obituary section. The work itself is not that hard but purely mechanical. Everyday, I have to collect names of several dead people and put some really fancy but phony remarks like “ You will not be forgotten… Our brethren in Christ” and outline them in various sizes. In other words, I am spreading and printing hypocrisy in attempt to immortalize the deceased in prints. But not so many people who have died gets to be published. Some would rather die silently and their memories would fade together with the weathered sands of the dessert. Or simply because it never crossed their minds that such section in the newspaper exists. Most of them have appendices before their names. “Doctors, lawyers, Architects, Majors…” shouting to the readers how to maintain status quo even after you die. Even after life, the deceased yearns for publicity.

The obituary work itself is an easy task and I would often find myself having coffee and smoking cigarettes in between my works. The first few days of office were effortless as cutting your nails or brushing your teeth. I would sit on my chair imbedding a print of myself on its soft cushion, stir instant coffee that tastes bad, and stare helplessly at random names. Sometimes I would stare too long at the names that they become inculcated in my skull. The names lose their meaning like undecipherable ball of numbers whirling inside a spherical cage. Afterwards, these names become part of history prints waiting to be forgotten. Names that link beings to their existence passed before my eyes between a fine thread of sweet remembrance and nothingness. All I have to do is press the “delete” button and their names would be forever buried in their graves. So I am always extra careful with this procedure. It’s really a simple task. Same things occurred everyday. It’s a perennial cycle like a planet orbiting the sun.

Elfren supervised me from day one. They say he’s cunning as a fox trapped in an elephant’s body. Come to think of it, it must be true. He has very thick forearms almost as big as his thighs. With his sleeves always folded slightly above his elbows, his entire arm appeared to have been made of stuffed cotton that I could hardly see any joints. He never wears anything but the same white collared long sleeves that he would tuck inside his corduroy pants. This habit or fashion exposed his soggy protruding belly trying to escape the buckle of his choking belt. He also has a thick short neck contained with in his collars. His head is somewhat flat to the nape and every sense organ with in it was out of proportion. His eyes always look tired because of his drooping eyebrows. The nose has very big holes that an adult beetle could easily fit in. And his skin seems to have patches and excess. Because of his features, everybody in the office called him “Jabba the Hut”. He doesn’t know of course. Nevertheless, he’s the main reason why I joined the company.

Sometime ago, I met “Jabba the Hut” in a restaurant along the forgotten highway of artificial blinking lights by sheer chance. I was having coffee staring vacantly at passing cars while hissing a good amount of smoke. I was waiting for a friend who could help me find a job. As I tapped my cigarette to get rid of some ash, the big man inched his way through small steps that made brittles sounds on the floor. I almost thought he has hooves.

“Can I have a light?” He asked with his big unsightly face.

What a very interesting face this fella have, I said to my self. I reached for my pocket to get my Cricket lighter. According to its ads, it should last me a thousand lights. I have not struck my lighter more than a hundred times so I was pretty sure it could address the ugly looking man’s problem. Besides, I didn’t mean to be impolite. Coins, mint candy, wrapper, and …coins again. I searched for my other pockets but my new yellow Cricket lighter was nowhere to be found. I just lighted a cigarette a while ago and I couldn’t have misplaced the thing. With a look at dismay, I finally resigned to tell the big fella I haven’t got any.

“I am sorry but I have no lighter” I said while offering my cigarette hoping he could light his stick through its burning end.

“It’s okay” he said. He did not get my stick but let out a yellow Cricket lighter from his pocket and struck it several times until it caught a flame. I looked at the lighter closely. It resembled mine. It maybe mine for all I know. I began to feel anxious. He must be a magician and I am on candid TV, I thought to myself. If not to show off his skills, then why would he ask for a light if he had a lighter himself? I processed the events in my head while looking at “Jabba the Hut” exhaled a good amount of smoke.

The oddity of trick lingered inside my head for a few minutes. I seemed to be lost for words. The thought was there but it crumbled like a wobbly skyscraper with a tapered foundation after dropping an enormous amount of weight to its pinnacle. I just resigned to the dawdling of litters and dust.

“I run a printing company and I have a vacant position for a clerk” Jabba the Hut said. It struck me strange to hear that. I felt that I had a plastered ad on my forehead screaming for a job. The truth was, I’ve been considering hopping to another company since I was receiving a pay that was barely enough to sustain my need for cigarettes.

He reached for his pocket while he was biting the stick. Its smoke was getting to his eyes but he seemed not to mind. Without a word, he showed me a Polaroid like it’s the most natural thing to do between two smoking strangers.

My eyes did not deceive me. It’s her all right. Except that she gained a little weight. Her face was somewhat rounder than usual. Her breasts were a lot bigger than I remember. Although I wasn’t really sure. She’s wearing a one-piece dress. There was make-up all over her face that made her looked more chic. Her hair was pulled all the way back on a sophisticated ponytail. I used to see her quite often with her checkered school uniform that looked big on her. She was always frisky. She would jokingly slap my arms when I mock her favorite boy band. I don’t remember her fond of putting make-ups. She was just adorable with her simple lively smile. The same smile she has in the picture. My mind couldn’t miss. The first time I laid my eyes on the picture, it struck me with absolute certainty that it was her. She was Elaine, a childhood sweetheart I never came to have.

The picture was taken from a parking lot of what appeared to be a bar. She was with some guy, almost gay-looking, with a hair do of a dilapidated carpet. A typical punk who’s probably borrowing his dad’s car to impress a chick. And of course the icing on the cake, behind was a yellow EVO VIII that I very much doubt belonged to him. I wonder how this guy got a picture of Elaine.

“By the way, this is your lighter. Come to office if you are interested.” He handed me a calling card with his office address. He then returned the Polaroid inside his pocket. He left me mulling over the strangeness that happened. My feet were rooted to the ground. I couldn’t move. The air seemed to turn to mercury all of a sudden for a felt a heavy thing swirling inside my chest. I wanted to follow Jabba and asked him questions but my consciousness betrayed me. I just watched him disappeared around a corner with his name card on my hand and a cigarette on the other. A few minutes later, my friend arrived but I didn’t tell him what happened.

Three days went by. I went to Elfren’s office and I got a job as a clerk for a ridiculously high pay. I started to write list of names of the dead for the living to read. My first obituary assignment was Elaine. She died in a car accident. I learned about the accident because I went to her wake. I didn’t stay long however, I felt estranged and I barely knew anyone around. The curious eyes of relatives and friends pierced the very wellspring of my being. The conspicuous turning heads made obvious my unwelcome presence. I was like a crawling worn amidst a cluster of weary chickens. For some reason, I understood the hostility of space. I wrote her name next to the words “In Loving Memory”. How true.

The short-lived memory of my first encounter with Jabba was never brought up. It remained locked inside the chest of passing time like a hideous secret you very much like to forget. Honestly, for some unfathomable reason, even to this date, it scares me to ask Jabba the Hut about Elaine and my Cricket lighter. But anyway, that’s how I got the job. Until now, I really couldn’t understand my reason for working. How could I? I couldn’t even explain the simple reason why roosters caw in the morning.

Now, about Elaine, she is Nine's cousin. She was sexually sick.

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