soft grumbles

A Beautiful Day

I wake up to the muted patterof the first July showerson my roof.  It has been raining since last night. I can smell the breakfast my wife prepares in the nearby kitchen.  I hear the faint sizzle of the frying pan blending with the steady rhythm of the rain as well.   My guess is that she is preparing garlic rice as I also smell the strong aroma of crushed garlic.  It is a special day as I am to receive an award for exemplary service in the office later in a little celebration that the awards committee prepared for the occasion.This will be followed by a simple lunch. 

                What made last night   particularly different was that it was raining hard -   a welcome respite from the hot summer nights we’ve had the past couple of months.   The summers keep getting warmer each year and it has become very intolerable.  I hate it when I wake up drenched in my own sweat. But last night was different.  I even hugged my favorite pillow and had my blanket wrapped around me.  It’s something I have never done for a long time.  That made me sleep heavily that even a bomb exploding at the gate would not have woken me up.  It was a different night just as different as it is waking up this morning with that strange, unexplainable foreboding I carry in my heart

                I look around to check my bearings and notice that my wife’s half of the bed had been neatly arranged.  For the first time, she woke up before I did.  I wonder what time it is.  I cannot afford to be late.  I have never been late for work.I search for my cellphone tucked underneath my head pillow and realize it is already 5 am.  I really have dozed off well.  I was not awakened by the alarm which is always set at 4.  This is very unusual for I usually wake up even before the alarm sets off and I have to stop it lest it continues to do so every 15 minutes.

                I grab my pillows and fold my blanket to pile them up neatly the same way my wife had done.  I head on to the cabinet to select my clothes.  Again, I remember that today’s going to be different.  Not only is it a Friday, a no uniform day, but I have to come to the office in my Sunday best for the ceremony.   I choose my white long –sleeved shirt, get a matching tie which I put in the pocket, brown slacks then proceed to where my underwear and socks are kept.  I put these neatly on my bed and go to the bathroom for my morning routine. 

                While dressing up, I hear my wife talking to someone while she lays out the table.  I can hear her voice and a man’s.  I wonder who that could be.  I go out of the room and see Peter, a co-worker who rides with me to and from work,seated on the sofa.  Peter is wearing his favorite chequered tie on his neatly tucked in orange shirt.  His shoes sparkle as the light bounces on them.  I am surprised to see him there as I usually pick him up at the drugstore, a few miles on the way to work.  

                “Hey, what’s up?  Why are you here?”

                “I was a bit too early and I figured I might as well come here instead of having you pick me up.” It was then that I remembered that I told him we will go to work earlier than the usual time to avoid any unusual traffic delays.

                “Have you had breakfast, yet?” I asked as my wife prepares the table.  “Come, let’s eat!”

                He obliges as he takes the chair next to mine. 

                You better hurry up! I told you to clean the car yesterday but you didn’t.  Now you have to leave with a dirty car.  That’s several points away from your handsome get-up,” my wife teases.  I realize I planned to clean my red Mitsubishi Lancer before I even start with my morning routine.  

 Soon enough, we are in the driveway.  I kiss my wife goodbye who sort of dusted the car to make it a little presentable. Off we go.  I turn on the radio to check for a traffic update.   I miss it by a few minutes. 

                “I hope we don’t get caught in traffic today,” I said, thinking that Peter might be a little pissed as it was me who asked him to be early than usual  only to find out that it is me who will be the cause of our delay.

                “Yeah,”  Peter responds.  “It’s still early, though,” he assures me as if he can read my mind. 

                I have to be extra careful as we traverse EDSA as the buses plying the road run so carelessly fast.  We are still early as the traffic is light.  As we reach the approach of the Magallanes Bridge that will take us to the SLEX, a bus blocks our path.  I honk my horn and the bus moved a bit only to stop once again while the conductor continues to call on prospective passengers.  I maneuver to the left to avoid the bus and almost get hit by an incoming car.  “Shit!” I muttered.  The car blasts its horn as if shouting: “Stupid!” 

                I wave my hand in apology and continue to drive on.  As I come close to the toll gate, I notice a slight build up.  “Hmmm, that’s strange. I hope that this is only at the toll.”  However, there is a long queue even after.  I look at Peter and say, “Brace yourself.  This is going to be one long trip.”

                “No, it’s still early.  Maybe there’s a stalled car just ahead,” Peter says.  He’s wrong! The traffic situation seems to be at its worst.  We have been moving inch by inch and it has been thirty minutes and we have not even reached the Bicutan interchange.  And there is no sign of loosening up ahead.  I can only see tangled vehicles each jogging for position.  Now I begin to hate myself for sleeping too long.  It has turned into a bumper to bumper and getting worse.  We are stopped more than we can move an inch.   As we approach Sucat after another 45 minutes, I notice that the vehicles are veering towards the right.  There must be something on the left and so to anticipate it, I try moving towards my left, too. 

Just a few meters more and we will be scot-free.  There seems to be a commotion up ahead.  I see a bus  headed north at a south bound lane.  That’s odd!  Then it dawns on me.  There must be a head-on collision.  The bus must have gone wayward and hit another vehicle.   As we near the place, I realize I’m right.  Neither I nor Peter speaks as we anticipate what we will see. 

I have goose bumps as I see a totalled red car in front of the bus.  It is the same red Mitsubishi Lancer I am driving.  I turned to Peter but he is in a state of shock.  Nobody could survive that crash!  I inch forward as cars before me roll slowly to check what happened.  Glasses and several pieces stray the pavement and I can see traces of rubber on the street.  There is blood everywhere.  Several people have gathered and they seem to be pulling out someone from the car.  There is a guy lying on the pavement.  The way he is covered with newspaper, I know he is dead.  As we get closer, a whiff of wind brushes a portion of the newspaper to reveal that the man was in an orange shirt.   A stronger gust comes and the newspaper is blown away and I see that the guy has a chequered tie just like Peter’s.  

A rush of blood runs through me as I get a whiff of the body being taken out of the car.  The guy’s white, long sleeved shirt was torn and just like the guy lying on the pavement, is unrecognizable.   He, too, had a red tie just like mine.  I hear my heart pounding restlessly.  I look at the car’s plate number.  PLJ 386!  That’s my car!  My head starts to spin and soon enough, the world spins uncontrollably.

I open my eyes and hear my cell phone’s alarm telling me to get out of bed.  I realize I am still in my room,.  I look at the clock and it says 5 am.  I hurry to get my things and head for the bathroom.  It is quiet.  I wear my clothes and get out of the room.  Peter is there, quietly reading the paper.  He has his orange shirt and chequered tie!