Sitting Down

He was sitting down as he reached for the phone and dialed my number, breathing in the air thick with office-chatter and the click-clack of work getting done, a nearby xerox spews documents with no end. The meeting was scheduled this Friday, his birthday, a meeting he was meant to supervise, a meeting in Manila, while he was supposed to be in Cebu. He heard the phone ring on the other end, and he caught me in the middle of work that Wednesday afternoon. With no hint of insincerity or wavering, he tells me he won't make it tomorrow night, and if I would, reschedule his flight to the night after. I put the phone down and stared at the work staring back at me from the monitor, planning a short stopover at the ticket office tomorrow afternoon.

He was sitting down as the hidden speakers announced the preparations for take-off, a well-dressed stewardess walks down the aisle inspecting the coloured, though somewhat pale, passengers of tonight's red-eye while a dainty scarf strangled her neck. It was 4:30 in the morning, and the flight taking him to Cebu was also taking him away from the remains of last night's birthday bash. This rescheduled flight didn't make it before last night's festivities, an unavoidable circumstance of the deluge of weekenders making the most of the long weekend and booking every flight in sight. It was either this or risk his job and go at it with the boss for a few rounds. This will do, he thought. I had promised him a weekend getaway at the idyllic island of Bantayan, and an hour's flight away, I was thick into another stare-down with the unblinking monitor.

He was sitting down as youngin's and not-so-youngin's ran around a vacant well-maintained lot of grass in Cebu's greeneried IT park. His eyes drooped a bit but settled back open taking in the sight of tall, yet separated, buildings nestled among easy shrubberies and palm trees tilting along with the gracious wind. He ended up on an empty coffee table in front of the deserted Figaro. The fact that Starbucks was also closed, unsettled him, when he recognizes the economic virtue of keeping a coffee shop open at 6am in the morning. Bothering him more is the rough start to this relaxing weekend. The eat-all-you-can breakfast promised previously was closed for a private affair, and it seems that there wasn't anywhere else to go, even for the simple necessity of a warm cup of joe. I received distressed messages as I gave-up the staring contest at the office and walked out, wondering how much a sleep-deprived man could go for the promise of caffeine.

He was sitting down as a movie of leaves, landmarks and locals played on a mistakably unending loop outside the bus windows of our prolonged and bumpy ride to Hagnaya. This magical bus will benevolently take our persons and our accompanying baggage across the northern wilderness of Cebu and drop us off just before the land ends and the sea begins. But it punished us also, mostly our asses, by finding each sharp crevice and jarring hole on the beaten road and communicating through savage movements its delight in travel and tenderizing our rumps in the process. I was fast asleep beside him and didn't notice a large oaf-of-a-man steal an undeserved share of our bus seat, squeezing the life out of my companion as well. A white lady, a cement-made tube and blinks of buses appeared outside, witnessed the transgression, and stood/whooshed-away unaffected. They've seen worse, perhaps.

He was sitting down next to me, on a rickety bench on our rickety ferry ride across the blue sea towards Bantayan. A certain restlessness has started to spring from him and neither the whimpers of the shimmering sea below or the stolen-kisses of the lofty winds above could quell this quaking within. He was anxious and tired, travelling for too long for a weekend that's too short. He put on some shades and slunk into dejected silence wondering how far we've gone astray from the normal and humane implications of a "restful weekend". I noticed his unusual stillness and knew from his declamatory statements previously that he was quite unhappy. I looked at the shadow of distant Bantayan and hoped.

He was sitting down, beer in hand and, having most of tonight's Nilaga safely consumed, was eerily thoughtful. Even with sobriety aside, there was still a pallor settling between us that neither the quaint surroundings of bamboo or the warm laughs of locals could color. He was quite disappointed. The room I booked was exactly what the advert said: the cheapest air-conditioned beach-front room on the isle. I had assumed you can't go wrong with that but obviously the place glossed over the slight details about the room's "bodega" motif and an alarming proximity to the tinkering of plates and diners at the neighboring/conjoined restaurant. Miffed though he was, he put off his frustration jovially but with deadly precision and each joke felt like gaily colored sea urchins jumping merrily in my soul, prickling all in its wake.

I was devastated. This was meant to be a reprieve and though things were far from stellar, they were still bearable. I thought, "Hey! We're roughin' it!" But he glibly asked me if a "restful weekend" entailed "roughin' it". It was due to poor planning. True that, since I only had the week to plan and only managed to steal a phone-call or two while placating the alarms of our delayed project schedule. But, I didn't settle on making an excuse I knew hardly justified this bad a weekend. Instead, I wondered how a person can be so set to not liking something. How can a person hold on to such prejudice and dislike so fervently. I thought these pernicious thoughts and interpreted his quiet demeanor as manifestations of my predictions: quietly heading in and out of the room, or sitting up in bed on the laptop minding his own business. "He's shunning me," I thought and just as quietly licked the bruises and welts that thought left inside me as I curled up on the bed beside him.

I confronted him a little after, telling him what else could I do to salvage "the weekend that will forever live in the annals of worst weekends ever, exclamation point." He said, "Let go." "Whut?" my head thought. Is this you washing your hands of the whole thing? Escaping from the chance to save all this? Giving up, are we?

I napped a bit and some of the self-loathing must've been swallowed by the sea or one of the diners outside because when I woke up, I knew differently. I told him how I felt and he looked at me strangely and explained himself.

He had gone out to check the beach and took a short swim, noticing that the water, though refreshing, was too shallow and not really meant for swimming. He instead read a book and read the passages of "Wicked" to the tune of kids playing along the shoreline. Where have I been this whole morning? Wasn't it I who was letting go of the consolations this placed offered?, locked up in this cold, shadowy "bodega"?

Shocked, I stammered to say something but instead just became very still. I finally listened to him; finally let go. Everyone is entitled to their innocent irreverences and glacial potencies. The key to understanding them is not to judge their emotions but to believe in their intentions. I was trying so hard to please him, that I've forgotten that he was here not just for a weekend, but also for me. And as he said, "That's enough for me." Behind all the sarcasm and half-meant chides, there was still in him the hope to spend a weekend with me, and he's been making the most of it. I lost sight of that, but I know now.

I slept on the way back, somehow the bus wasn't as sadistic and I managed to doze off quickly, settling my head and sinking into the shallow dreams and warmth
of his lap. He later said this was his favorite part of the weekend, my mess-of-a-hair around his arms, dreaming.

He was sitting down for that final time and I was sitting with him, together on another nameless road across the savagely beautiful landscapes of Cebu.