Leaving Neverland

I was in AdNU these past two days. The University Choir had its post-Valentine's concert on a solitary February 24 evening and the English major students had the pilot staging last night of their play entitled "Kapa." (The last "a" of the word has a stress -- whatever it's called -- when pronounced but since I'm a techie dummy and haven't got an idea how to display such letter in the monitor, a simple "a" has to suffice.) Both events had their share of highlights, loops and what-have-you. Generally, however, my reviews had raves written all over them and the reasons weren't limited to the circumstance that I was invited to these events by friends. Anyhow, my thumbs up or 5 stars (whatever could be their worth) didn't matter that much.

What really got me into writing this stuff was the sudden re-appearance of the ghosts I thought had long transformed themselves into permanent bygones. More on them later.

After the play, we threw our drunkard asses once again to the pub of our intoxicated dreams, MudBugs, to resurrect our bubbling livers. Haha. Since the time Buboy, one of my best friends, decided to bid adieu to his "lengthy" life of loitering in the academe and to finally wreak havoc in a far less tolerating environment -- the work place (good grief) -- the chances of my friends' get-togethers had likewise bade goodbye to high counts of daily sessions, with or without San Miguel. In other words, a once-a-week-table-talk-with-a-bucket-whipping-our-organs would be a great relief to our now withering social calendars. Buboy currently had been given Tuesdays and Wednesdays as off days. Consequently, Fridays and Saturdays were morphed into boring weekdays, er, weekends. It was a cool change (I'm quoting Little River Band here) since I and Che, my other best friend, have got BIG exams coming up.

So there we were: Buboy and me, without Che, who had had enough of putting her reviewing on a standstill. However, we had Paul and Grace. The former was the actor-cum-playwright and the latter was his "biatch." Usually, on an ordinary Wednesday night, the table would find me, Buboy and Che (other friends are already in places we also dream of reaching one sweet and financially privileged day! :D) Last night obviously was different. After a week or 2 of hiatus, we had Paul and Grace as co-beer guzzlers. Paul used to be a habitue of our drunken table but since Buboy's unfortunate shift and our academic preoccupations, we had seen no Saturdays in MudBugs (or BeanBag -- and/or Molino) and Paul, the weekened-er, would instead litter his disco ball in Jaq.

We spent almost 2 hours talking about almost anything under the sun (or under the smoky ceiling), from the play to the little hairs surrounding one's a-hole. Haha. Then Paul, Grace and one friend of Grace's who arrived later, left to visit a friend confined at St. John's, leaving Buboy and yours truly to guzzle on the lonesome beer bottle (1/4 of it, that is). After 10 minutes of melodramatic talk (it was the beer talking!) and a chat with Joyce -- the cashier and fresh member of "It's a World Made for Singles, Too!" -- we left our favorite semi-sanctuary and prepped for the trip back to reality.

On my way home, while seated, er, slumped on a busted tricycle chair, with 20 bucks readied for presentment (parang negotiable instrument), I couldn't help but get flashbacks from the day that was (it was already past midnight). Either it was the splurging on bottles of Red Horse or my plain inclination to the dramatics, but the condensed moments came like thunders on a supposedly clear day: first, the lunch I had with Jane, who was contemplating her future, from the academic to the familial; second, the coffee talk with Zhulai with I whom I shared high hopes for the coming big event that would dictate our places in the professional sphere; third, the merienda I had with my college friends, who already had their share of ups and downs in their own worlds, from family to work; fourth, the Ash Wednesday mass I attended with one of my girl friends, who had already set sight on a plan to take her away from this sinking country; fifth, the play I'd mentioned wherein I got as a seatmate a former SRA supervisor and as co-viewers a swarm of very, very young people -- tweenies -- with raging, centipede-like hormones that painfully got me into recalling the person I was trying to hold on to but whom fate wouldn't forever allow; and finally, the drinking spree wherein the beauty of love, life and youth -- or whatever was left of such -- served as intangible sisig and mixed nuts.

Then, the tricycle stopped its shrieking. I was home. Or was I really?

After giving the fare, I opened the gate, walked disconcertedly, paused and then stared at the cemented walk that led to the garage.

Where was I going?

I pulled out a cigarette from its crushed mini-box and sat on a nearby stair. For almost 10 minutes, I sat there -- silent, silenced and mute. Three tricycles, 2 motorcycles and a pedicab passed by. With the sound of distant screeches, I felt a year or so of my life also did the same. I buried my face while the crickets sang their lullaby.

When I entered the house, my sister was doing her YM/Facebook/Friendster exploitation, uhm, exploration -- as usual. Seemingly sober, she told me Daddy was again mad at me for coming home this late. (I left before noon -- a once in a blue moon personal move --- and told him I'd be home before 5 in the afternoon.) Thankfully, he was already loudly snoring upstairs.

Attempting to act indifferently, I snatched my cellphone charger and turned my phone on. (It died while I was watching the play and while I was painstakingly trying to make out understandable phrases from a friend who was calling.)

"Wru? Pumuli ka na!" was the first message that came in. It was Daddy's. He was really pissed off. A Bicol word in a text message coming from him meant only that. Oh, well. I had to sleep; tomorrow -- or later -- would be a new day for cooler heads and a more empathic child.

That (very early) morning, I couldn't sleep though I was sure I had a ton of rocks plastered on my head... Dammit... Finally, after an hour of aping an "Aurora," I was able to put myself to sleep.

Then I was in another tricycle.

I was again on my way home. Or was I -- yet again? As the roads became more smoggy, so did the face of the driver. I started to gaze, then to look at this almost headless motorman, who a few seconds ago was just a dormant voice with an overshadowed silhouette for a face. Now, he was a real monster. The houses were also turning into unfamiliar, hollow structures like manors built on forgotten cliffs by the sea. It was worse than Sleepy Hollow.

More than terrified, I asked -- demanded -- from the driver to tell me where he was taking me. He neither answered nor looked at me. He only smiled and released what seemed like a growing laughter. I was already f*cking scared and I felt I was slowly being annihilated, stabbed in multiple by every crack of his unbelievably white teeth.

Then the vehicle stopped.

I wasn't home. This wasn't home in any way. In front of my trembling eyes was a high and illuminated silver Gothic gate. Behind it was nothing but the haunting and too complex sight of darkness -- still. The last thing I could recollect was that I was breathing -- heavily.

Then I woke up.

I looked at my cellphone. It was 9:30 a.m. I sat on my bed and looked at my slippers.

What was that?!

Then I remembered the day I had yesterday. Were -- or are -- the developments of my adulthood finally taking over -- immediately and mercilessly? Are the days of naivete or innocence in near scarcity (at least in my so-called life)? Am I leaving a place I have always treasured and made as a parcel of my presence, which ironically, has molded itself unconventionally that it has become my complete identity? Am I leaving Neverland, the place of my personal permanent childhood, or the thought of it? Were all the people I shared my atypical Wednesday with telling me, through their mirrors, to let go and to get a grip of something other than what I have been persistently and stubbornly anchored in? Am I "destined" for something worse than Hook's devoured arm?

Am I one of the Lost Boys or am I just lost? Or am I just a boy?

Hungry, insatiable and wanting.

The dream was really strange and scary. In fact, my shivering has not waned up to this very moment.

And why was there only darkness behind that silver gate?