I vaguely remember the time when it had no odor for me. I knew it
was everywhere, of course, everywhere and always from my mother's
mouth. Smoke. And so much of it, for example, when Ma and I buried
Hagibis, my puppy. Much more of it the day my father left. He never
returned, and the smoking never stopped.
Before elementary was over, mom kissed me and said, son, you should
never lose your way. Her eyes grew yellow, her cheeks pale, her gums
black, and soon smoke smelled of kalachuchi. Even before the cancer
got enough of her, she held a knife in one hand and a cigarette in
the other, and with her eyes trailing to where the smoke flew, she
said no you won't see me suffer wherever you are! But I was right
in front of her.
She died without saying goodbye. The Marlboro Man of horses and greens
and ice-capped mountains died too. Who went out first, I don't recall
at all. In the dark, anyway, all you know is you have no candles left.
Only threads of smoke snaking all around you. No, you don't see, but
you know.
Much later, when I grew definite smoke smelled like rotten teeth
and mustard. Also, I got a word for it: disgusting! I knew I'd have
no other word for it. The Health Secretary gave me a mascot with yellowed
teeth, pimply nose, evil eyes, and smoky hair. Disgusting!
Whenever I introduced myself, I say, I'm me. What else do you need
to know? What do I do? A nothing job. It pays the bills, so? God,
there must be some better thing to talk about! Whenever they offered
me a stick, I wave it off. And though they ought to be friends, they
sometimes give you this look that was as if you gave them the finger.
So I learned to lie through my teeth, hey, no, I only smoke in private.
When they laughed as if I kidded them, they pushed the stick, so I
had to say, no, no, really, I'm more of a second-hand smoker! Second-hand
smoker. I put it on my e-mail signature, used it as my nick in the
chat groups, and placed it all caps on my friendster account. OCCUPATION:
SECOND-HAND SMOKER.
I went to a no smoking school with a no smoking course. I'm okay
with study, oh my studies, and I finished. Thanks to him. No fucking
thanks to him. Luckily, I passed the boards and got myself a definitely
no smoking job. I'm okay with the labor, oh my fruitless labor, checking
temperatures and blood pressures. Feeding soup and dextrose to dilapidated
people. Taking them to x-rays. Disgusting! Interminably, the image
of smoky ribs trapped in the ash of film. So I had to get out of this,
maybe hang out with friends, maybe eyeball with people I only virtually
know.
Then, her! Oh the lady, oh red-hipped, red-lipped lady. I dared not
protest that we met there where alcohol flowed and her sort of music
blared and smoke came in billows. Hi, I'm Second-hand Smoker, I said.
Oh no, she said, you'll go first-hand today, and handed me a stick.
How red, how white, ah how smoking became her. Not at all like the
others, trying their darnedest to slither, to curl up and fly but
always end up tied to their imitation shoes. She was indeed smoke,
the substance itself, an air elemental, the world's very ether. She
must have come before all fires. All my fires! And so I submitted
to her.
I did it. I puffed. I coughed. She laughed. Mother of God, lady!
Where'd she come off teasing me like this? Where'd she come off drawing
me out? And I asked her, please, please stay, please? But she had
laughed enough. She failed to appreciate how our ceiling-bound smokes
twined like the spectral laces that they are. Rather, she said, oh
man, this is a drag. Without even an eye to me! Her dear pupils already
shifted about, trying out corners, people, seeking another direction
to dilate. Sorry, she said, this is just a drag! She crushed her cigarette
down to just another dead filter in the ashtray. The force of her
fingers lifted her, propelled her up and at 'em. Then she was gone.
She left me with the ash tray. I took her filter, straightened it,
and kissed it. With tongue. I swallowed it. I've stomached so many
others in the past! Disgusting! I vowed to find her. Just to say proper
goodbyes. When I did find her, she couldn't say goodbye back. None
of them had the chance.
Without saying goodbye! Just then, a cigarette and a knife. Then
the smoke smelled like kalachuchi. And Tito said, with his own smoking
lips, you're much too young for this much tragedy, son. Tita nodded.
And Tito said, in the dark, with flaming lips, you're much too pretty.
Smoke in the dark. I couldn't see it, but I felt it like snakes. It
crept into as the odor of rotten teeth and mustard. I smelled it everywhere,
on the drapes, the tablecloth, the books, the packed lunch, the uniforms
- so white! - the toothpaste, the teeth, the stubble.
---------------
For Kabesang Tales and Vlady Mary of Bacolod
lore
