10:11 PM
June 5, 2019
Bajada Town Square
J.P. Laurel Ave. corner Lacson St., Bajada, Davao City, Davao del Sur, Philippines.
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The pavements were wet and the entire world was in mute. Victoria Plaza had no lights, the buildings had no lights, and post lights were on but they gave off an unfriendly orange. Not a single soul in sight.
Every human being in Davao City was inside Bajada Town Square, full of life and lights. It seemed everyone had forgotten about everything else except for this merriment; I made my way inside, thankfully people weren't staring at me or giving me the side eye, I didn't feel out of place. The scent of burnt smoke violated my nose; the endless chatter, laughter, and singing corroded my ears. The live band finished with Eraserheads and now was proceeding with "Ang Bandang Shirley's Tama Na ang Drama" There were food stalls around cooking barbecue skewers, hotdogs, and Potato Corners. The makeshift stage had a lot of disco balls that illuminated the place and gave it a lively glow, the whole place was filled with bright light bullet holes. I wanted to grab a snack, a hotdog, or something but I didn't want to waste my time. I scoped around for a Hair and Nail Salon on the ground floor but I couldn't find any, so I climbed to the second floor, this area was less occupied compared to the ground floor. You had a T-shirt printing store, and some hip and cool milk tea stores, and then after a few glances, I spotted it.
"OEDIPA HAIR AND NAIL SALON" in bright neon purple fonts with a pink background with glitters. It had a glass sliding door with pink curtains blocking any view from the inside. It was located in the middle, between a sex toy store and a Davao Rage Room
For some reason out of all the stores on the second floor, out of the beige, gray, white, and black colors of logos and interiors and exteriors. These stores only stand out as having any distinct personality and candor. Davao Rage's room was fiery red, and the Sex toy store was a velvet red. Funnily enough of all the available area spaces. I don't know why Oedipa's Hair and Nail Salon chose to be in the middle of a sex store and aggression vent service.
Regardless I went inside, the area was decently big, there were around few people inside, one was catering to someone's manicure, and another was handling someone's hair bleaching. One was on a couch near the entrance aggressively yelling at its child to add and divide. The child was only wearing a sando at its top and brown school pants at the bottom. The interiors were painted bright pink, the only ventilation in the room was this tall centralized aircon that was smoking cold. A few plants surround it. A small flatscreen was mounted at the wall, at TV-5 broadcasting a Tagalized dub of Arnold Schwarzenegger's Eraser (1996) I scoped around for Paul's description. She's in her 40's, with red dyed hair, circular shades, floral long sleeves, and black leggings.
It didn't take me long enough to spot her at the counter at the end, she was vaping and reading a dog-eared copy of a King James version Bible. She was looking at someone down, perhaps a kid was doing homework. I gathered my spiral and remembered what Paul told me. I had to say it in a pathetically male way. I walked to Oedipa
As I approached her, my perception of her originally changed, the details crashing onto me. Oedipa struck me as a person out of time, she had the notable features of any forty-year-old but had the vibrant features, personality, and expression of a twenty-year-old; red hair, glowing skin, and long tattoo sleeves on her arms. For some reason, I was expecting someone in their 50s with a floral look and lipstick. But no, Oedipa is devoid of a concept of age, aged 40+ but looking like she was still in her 220s
The midlife crisis did not come for Oedipa, Oedipa took the midlife crisis by its collar and French kissed it.
"Yes?" Said Oedipa without batting an eye from her bible.
"I-uh"
"Uh Wait, excuse me. Caitlyn, it's 45. Twenty-three plus twenty-two equals 45" She said looking down, a little girl wearing a school uniform was answering homework using its pink trolley bag as a table, I couldn't help but notice as she was solving, the little girl was reading a copy of Hegel's "The Phenomenology of Spirit"
"Can I help you?" She said flipping two pages away.
Pathetically male way. How do I channel my patheticism as a man? Is it innate? Is it automatic? Or am I it? A plethora of sensations, images, feelings, and thoughts flood the contents of my mind.
When I think of men being pathetic, I think of insecurity. I am insecure about what people have that I cannot have. I wish I was strong, I wish I had good hair, I wish I was extroverted and talkative. I wish I was tall—but deep down that's not enough, I have to go further. Deeper. Questions and wishes begin to form.
I wish I was loved, I wish I was capable of love without being told I am difficult to love.
I wish my emotions weren't so considered toxic or I wish they didn't feel toxic to me.
I hate needing. I don't like needing. I wish I wasn't capable of feeling attracted so I don't objectify. I wish I didn't feel jealous. I wish I had everything that I needed.
I wish all the things I feel, I could just tell somebody without them making me feel bad about it.
I wish I could feel my feelings without feeling fucking horrendous after. I wish my sadness, my disorder, my shame, and my hatred were something that I could feel normally; something that a human being has a right to feel. Not alien nor eldritch.
A piano note plays itself in my head, a burrowing, and a gentle humming. Loud gongs ringing; I am no longer in this hair salon. I am somewhere else.
I can't pinpoint where. But it is a place, I don't know why but I struggle to perceive this place. I struggle to remember anything but sunlight beaming through.
Then there it is, the lid on my hands, the pieces on the floor. I look down and it is bigger than me.
The pieces, look bigger than me. There was some blood on my thumb, but I didn't bother washing it off. Nobody was there. Not even my parents. It was just me and this broken jar, then the burrowing. The large thumping. Each step with greater brevity than the last. I remember in Crocodile Park, there used to be this place; an aquatic zoo museum. That had these giant large statues of a giant squid devouring a whale.
I remember being frightened of it. For some reason, I knew the squid and the whale. I knew them, as if I lived with them, just by looking at them as a kid, imagining them under the deep blue ocean. The sounds and the struggle. The painful humming, it all comes back to the jar.
The Squid and the Whale, The Humming, and The Kitchen.
I don't know why I added "The's" It sounded fitting I guess. These images were synchronous, they felt dependent on each other. Thinking about them all at once gives me this unexplainable dread. Like something is wrong, but there is no reason to be wrong. Something not being tightened inside, a rising endless crescendo. A scratching, a knocking, a tapping on some door. Somewhere inside. I can't just open it.
"Can I help you sir?"
"I want to cum"
"PUTANGINA ANO?"
She said whacking the bible onto me hysterically, while the little girl below the counter loudly recited a quote from Hegel:
"The human spirit in its inmost nature is not something so divided up that two contradictory elements might subsist together in it. If discord has arisen between intellectual insight and religion, and is not overcome in knowledge, it leads to despair"
She wacks me with the bible screaming while one of the hairdressers asks for Oedipa to pass them the hair dye and hair clips; to describe my situation as humiliating is insufficient. Cosmic shame is more like it, it felt revelatory and at the same time a sick joke, as if God had telepathically communicated with everyone on the planet to broadcasting your thoughts. I shield myself with my arms and I say words, random words, or explanations even to put out the fire.
"H-Hey! S-Top STOP PLEASE IT WAS A CODE WORD!"
"WHAT FOR?" She asked still holding the bible like a baseball bat, now that I think about it exorcism rites should just stick to this, forget prayer and holy water, and just beat the shit out of the devil with a leather brick.
"I-I don't know?! I'm here for this service thing you do! Paul Pimentel told me to go here!"
"Oh fuck. Ugh. Fucking Paul. He got you too huh?'
"Got me? W-what do you mean?"
"You could've just said, you want to see the doctor. But I guess Paul told you to say that to me, right?"
"Huh? I-I don't understand." Now standing up I tried to feel the pulse on my neck and rubbed my head.
"Last time, another guy went here and straight up told me to "How Big is Uranus, Can I See It?" and now he's at the Intensive Care Unit, fucker told me late that Paul referred to him here."
"W-why would he do that?"
"Beats me." She shrugged. "Just go to the back door behind me, the doctor will see you now."
Doctor? So that settles it, I'm not getting some mystical extraordinary magical change. Maybe it's just therapy; well what if he's "not' that type of doctor? Not the kind with the degrees, licenses, and ethics; why else would he set up shop inside a nail salon? So much for first impressions.
She opened the mini door to her counter and beckoned me to come forward.
"I'm sorry I hit you, I thought you were one of those men who listen to Radiohead, well, you kinda dress like one," Oedipa said nonchalantly as she resumed reading her bible again as if nothing happened, as if she wasn't intending to send me to the intensive care unit or Buhangin Memorial Park.
"Uh, don't worry about it" I opened the door, and I was greeted by a small hallway that led to two doors; an employee break room and a Janitor's Closet with a piece of yellow paper taped onto it, labeled
"Dr. JACK EULATION"
RBcp, PhD
oh & RPsy
Psalm 82:3-4
Sounds legit. I gave the door two knocks and waited. I couldn't help but notice the break room was open, one person was inside eating cup noodles; basing on the strong aroma of beef. The phone speaker was loud and was watching a clip from Magandang Gabi Vice with guest stars "Mccoy De Leon, Wilbert Ross, and Rayt Carreon."
The door opens discreetly, fingers appearing on the side; no eyes and no face.
"How may I help you?" He said, almost artificially.
"Uhm, I was referred here by—"
"For further inquiries and concerns please contact the number provided at this very moment"
"What number–"
"AWOOOO FIVE SIX SEVEN OH NINE 🎵🎶"
Jack shuts the door immediately, okay that's normal I guess. What now? Do I try to knock again and explain myself again? What if this was an elaborate prank? Am I being punked again? But then again there was some guy before me that Paul tricked, I wonder if the same thing worked for him. Fuck. I don't know man, I want to knock again but I feel like I'm wasting his time or I'm bothering him. I don't want to feel inconvenient or difficult. I don't want to be hard. I don't want to feel so annoying. I don't want to give off the impression that I'm demanding something. Fuck what do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?
And then there it goes. My chest is a song with increasing tempo, I feel my skin melting or maybe I was never conceptually a human being; maybe all I am is an ocean, covered in human flesh raised to believe that there are good people and bad people and that good things happen to those who work hard. My legs are planted and a part of the tiles, but my head isn't. It's a loose screw. It's missing a screw, I am not fully closed. I am not fully locked. I am not concealed. I am leaking everything outside. The contents of my mind aren't mine, I don't own them. They just appear on their own like tidal waves. They speak on their own, they operate on their own. I am just a body of water and they are the wave. They speak in various tongues.
"God I fucked it up, im done I'm a fucking loser I can't even talk to a single human being where the fuck is your self-respect why are you like this? Why are you just standing there something something do something you submissive spineless cuckold piece of shit fucking insecure self loathing self pitiful piece of shit. You lack a sense of self-concept and you don't do anything about it you are aware of your problems but you dont do anything to improve it you have no concept of self discipline or care you think you know yourself but you dont you are a piece of shit keep ruminating keep ruminating keep trying to rationalize this thought and process it later again and again try to teach yourself that it is okay to be kind and you deserve kindness try to think for one second that you're worth something but you are not try to intellectualize this of course you are trying to be self aware go on acknolwedge this text acknowledge it you may even italicize it as a way to separate itself from the first person narrative text as some pretentious creative way to separate yourself from your own narrative and thoughts. You think you are so clever but you're not fuck you you are panicking and sweating stop trying to be clever and self aware you are fucking dying fuck fuck fuck why are you the way you are go on keep rationalizing im not some entity or another narrative device or character you are literallly typing this you are allowing this to happen i dont even care anymore you are making the words that will hurt you. Because you like being hurt you are too addicted of it get some therapy please oh my god stop masturbating and like dont make some fictional story about your trauma porn and expect notoriety and fame you bitchless no charisma fucking zero game and wack ass sense of humor like please have mercy on yourself im begging you oh my fucking god bro get help get help get help stop loving this shit it is not deep or creative it is humiliating did i spell i or not better check it"
S a Y T r e A t m e n T fO r M e l aN Ch O l i a "
"Treatment for Melancholia? What?" It was that voice again. When I was in the car with Heather.
The door that suddenly sealed itself from the world, opened again. It was Jack, it was no longer a hand that greeted me but a face. He looked normal, albeit it feels like he's stuck during the 1990s wearing a bandanna and unkempt long hair. Though his face gave this unlively white glow, perhaps make-up or what's left of it, he greeted me with an inquisitive look.
"Treatment for Melancholia?" He repeated.
"Y-yes?" It still baffles me where the hell did that voice come from. I may be developing some form of psychosis or something.
"Well why didn't you say so! Come in!" Jack welcomed me with a showman's delight. When he finally extended the door's opening, there I finally saw that he was wearing a clown costume; reminiscent of "Pogo the Clown" albeit his costume was comprised of blue and purple colors instead of red white and blue. That explains the specks of white powder on his face I guess, he's probably some birthday party special entertainment.
"Sorry if I interrupted you in the middle of something"
"Oh no it's fine! Sorry for keeping you waiting! I was just getting ready!"
"Getting ready for what? My treatment?" What the fuck am I getting into?
"That comes later! I actually want to apologize, because one, yes you did interrupt me with something. Two, I only said yes because I didn't want to feel bad for letting you down because it's going to make me
"Really-Feel-Bad-About-Myself-To-The-Point-I-Might-Feel-Inadequate-As-A-Licensed-Professional-And-I-Hate-Letting-People-Down-Because-I-Have-this-Neurotic- Need-Of-Feeling-That-I-Am-Obligated-To -Save-Everyone-Because-I-Am-Wise-Unlike-Other-People-And-I'm-The-Only-One-Who-Can-Do-It-But-It-Doesn't-Matter-Because-I-Am-Self-Aware."
"But enough of that HAHA, What are you my therapist?! Eyyyyy that's my job!" He playfully punched me in the shoulder.
Jack is a ticking time bomb, about to explode any moment now; from the way he talks, he paces around, and his vocal intonations. Maybe in essence he is truly an energetic person, but with that essence you can't help but sense an incongruence inside him. As if his body can't handle his erratic demeanor, his expressions, and body language. He's less of a human being and more like a facsimile of a bunch of quirky human traits.
"So yeah, Hi I'm Dr. Jack Eulation and congratulations!"
"Uhh for what?"
"For you just met a cool person and Congrats to me too! Because I met a cool person! Man oh man"—Jack places his hands around my shoulder's like some coach during a boxing rest time "You and me my friend, we are going to explore great things like out of your fucking mind. We're going to make you yourself. You are going to be yourself! No more frustrations, no more self doubt and vitriol. You are going to be unfiltered."
"Excuse me I uh" I back off from his oddly violating and welcoming grip on his shoulders.
"Like what exactly are you going to do? What's with the clown costume? What do you mean later? I-I went here for the treatment that I got from a mutual friend, who at this point, might not be a friend after that bullshit of a code word he gave me, but that's besides the point yeah"
"Oh, well we're going to assess and evaluate your self-concept and its fragility and treat it with psychotherapy."
"Oh so that's it?"
"Nah I just said that because I think it sounds funny. But really! I'll tell you man if you help me with this birthday party I'm scheduled for–"
"What"
"I got a bunch of kids with broken marriages who want to see me jump and do a backflip outside their school building that used to be a Dog Vasectomy clinic but is now an actual neo-liberal art school that teaches Marxist theory to pre-schoolers"
"Oh you mean Pickman School for The Arts?"
Yeah! How do you know?"
"I studied there yeah, I remember during my grade 4 days we wrote our thesis. I remember mine was about the "Persevering Strength of Meta-modernity/Post-Postmodernism In Filipino Comedy Sitcoms In The Face of Individualist Western Entertainment."
"I like that! Can I get a copy?"
"Yeah sure—Uh wait that's besides the point. Look, this is all too weird and unprofessiomal because like, I entered here and you welcomed me in. If you had an appointment to jump outside of a school building in front of children, then why even open your clinic in the first place?"
"Oh I'm a proactive worker. I like working under pressure. I like handling a bunch of things all at once, it strengthens the attention span you know? It gives you all that energy and girth."
"Alright Uh, I don't understand a thing you're saying so I'll just go and leave—"
"WAIT DON'T PLEASE!" he blocks the doorway and knelt. He did it with such intensity that I heard his knees land onto the linoleum floor with intensity. I felt the secondhand pain, but Jack doesn't seem to flinch.
"Dude, you're creeping me out. Move away."
"If you help me with this party, I will not charge you any fee."
"Is that even legal—"
"Yeah I don't know ask the code of ethics! But it doesn't matter! Consider this the initial interview plus instant treatment! Trust me I won't charge you a single centavo man."
"Uh, can't you just tell me what this "miracle treatment is" for my melancholia?"
"I will, on the ride way to the school, but I might need to do some stuff first before I tell you, some Psych bullshit stuff mental status exam blah blah blah"
"Uh, Sure what is it do you need help with anyways?"
"I just need somebody to watch the Van while I perform, you know so nobody loots it and it doesn't get ransacked."
"Hmmm."
"Come on man I'm on my knees here, plus it's free. Can't say no to free stuff!"
"Fine, whatever fuck it. But if you do something weird, say something weird or if this treatment is nonsense. I'm out doc."
"EXCELLENT! Jack does a cartwheel and a backflip and claps his hands like a seal. "Alright let me finish my make up and organize my magazine collection of dogs and their Filipino Celebrity lookalikes and we'll be on our way to Pickman."