Sunday, June 17, 2007

A visit from Peeping Jane

Sheila came over our place last Saturday night. The last time I saw her was five or six years ago. She used to work as a waitress cum GRO (not the GRO you’re thinking) when we still operated this videoke joint after father resigned from the company he’s working with. This forms part of the wrongful decisions that send us hurtling downhill until now, the resignation I mean not Sheila.

Anyway, going back to Sheila, I mentioned her because I couldn’t help but remember a very funny thing when I was in high school when we still had the videoke joint. She was actually visiting my stepmother and called us from inside the room to have a good look at me and my siblings. I guess she was surprised to see how much I’ve grown physically from the teenybopper she and the other girls used to poke fun with.

As part of the cost-cutting and as an easy means to earn 50 pesos a night, I operated the videoke machine which that time was merely a 3-disc player where I exchange a roster of CDs containing Tom Jones, Engelbert Humperdinck, Air Supply, Bee Gees, which is just about what people normally sing every night. Imagine my eardrums getting immune to such repetitions that sometimes I caught myself singing to Delilah. The horror of it all.

So I have this nook at the back and the girls would hand me these small pieces of paper containing the song numbers which I would tack in order. I’d be lucky if there are a few drunkards who would give me an earful because they want their song to be played right away. No can do, mister. So I usually hid my head.

Because I’m not used to staying awake late, my eyes would normally droop starting from 11 pm. We’re open till 2 so go figure the agony. So when I have a whole line-up of songs programmed for say 15-20 minutes, I take short naps on the couch. And these girls would always try to unzip my shorts or simply pull the garter of whatever I’m wearing to check if mine was cut or something like that. I’m sure they don’t really mean to do exactly that because what would they really want from a 15-year old weener. The whorish giggles sure gave me something to wank about but I made it a habit to drink cups of coffee to stay awake.

No comments:

Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a f—king big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of f—king fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the f—k you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing f—king junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, f—ked-up brats you have spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life . . . But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin’ else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you’ve got heroin?

Renton, Trainspotting