to 1999
I’M NOT ONE TO BE EASILY PERSUADED into believing just anything, especially things associated with the supernatural and the generally bizarre. But if one of my fourteen roommates in room 1853 told me that the pack of prunes that I found lying on the living room table, the chilly morning of August 24th 1998, got there out of some modern day miracle, chances are, I’d believe him.
The prunes were plump and edible looking. Morning dews formed droplets of water around the surface of their plastic pack, giving its contents the appearance of freshness.
I picked it up. I would have read the brand name had the prunes not obviously popped into existence at the top of the living room table I’m talking about. Anyway, I think I still wouldn’t have read it even if I had wanted to. The name was in Korean or something.
I shook the dew off (not Bernie, though, he was still asleep). It was already August, spring in a matter of hours, basically. What was I thinking?
Oh. I was thinking of fetching for a pair of scissors, but I felt just by handling the prune pack that I could easily tear it open only if my will was powerful enough. “Almost anything can be attained by a will powerful enough,” as I remember hearing from my old dingo trainer. But then, you got to be careful. That message was imparted in the passive voice, as I know that clause is.
Luckily, Higidea was just getting up from bed then. I’d just heard her yawn and stretch.
“Good morning, Hig!” I yelled from two decks up. “Would you be kind enough as to fetch for me the ‘edibles’ scissors on your way up?”
She moaned as if in complaint that barely a minute after being officially “awake”, she was immediately expected to perform a task for someone. And yet, as I heard her stomping her way up the spiral staircase, I knew she was going through her mind where she had last seen the “edibles” scissors.
I yelled again. “The ‘edibles’ scissors are on the kitchen counter, beside the rice drum. Tria trimmed rice again.”
Higidea emerged with the “edibles” scissors, and her growling face wrinkled up in a prune-like fashion.
“How’s Mousta?” I said.
“I brought you the scissors, OK?” she croaked sleepily, not actually answering my question.
“You know, you didn’t actually answer my question.”
“ ‘Will you stop whining, Macabebe?’ ” she quoted from a play. “Anyway, what’s that?” she pointed at my unopened pack of prunes with her upper lip.
“Prunes,” I said, showing her the thing. “Want some?”
She turned her back on me, pulled the sofa up to the terrace, slumped there, and in the cold of the morning said, “Don’t even go there, buddy.”
I reached for the “edibles” scissors, which she had left lying on the floor. “Hey,” I said. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
Higidea didn’t say anything. Ladies and gentlemen, Higidea L’yaggavbavy. Sometimes she just doesn’t say anything.
The prunes were plump and edible looking. Morning dews formed droplets of water around the surface of their plastic pack, giving its contents the appearance of freshness.
I picked it up. I would have read the brand name had the prunes not obviously popped into existence at the top of the living room table I’m talking about. Anyway, I think I still wouldn’t have read it even if I had wanted to. The name was in Korean or something.
I shook the dew off (not Bernie, though, he was still asleep). It was already August, spring in a matter of hours, basically. What was I thinking?
Oh. I was thinking of fetching for a pair of scissors, but I felt just by handling the prune pack that I could easily tear it open only if my will was powerful enough. “Almost anything can be attained by a will powerful enough,” as I remember hearing from my old dingo trainer. But then, you got to be careful. That message was imparted in the passive voice, as I know that clause is.
Luckily, Higidea was just getting up from bed then. I’d just heard her yawn and stretch.
“Good morning, Hig!” I yelled from two decks up. “Would you be kind enough as to fetch for me the ‘edibles’ scissors on your way up?”
She moaned as if in complaint that barely a minute after being officially “awake”, she was immediately expected to perform a task for someone. And yet, as I heard her stomping her way up the spiral staircase, I knew she was going through her mind where she had last seen the “edibles” scissors.
I yelled again. “The ‘edibles’ scissors are on the kitchen counter, beside the rice drum. Tria trimmed rice again.”
Higidea emerged with the “edibles” scissors, and her growling face wrinkled up in a prune-like fashion.
“How’s Mousta?” I said.
“I brought you the scissors, OK?” she croaked sleepily, not actually answering my question.
“You know, you didn’t actually answer my question.”
“ ‘Will you stop whining, Macabebe?’ ” she quoted from a play. “Anyway, what’s that?” she pointed at my unopened pack of prunes with her upper lip.
“Prunes,” I said, showing her the thing. “Want some?”
She turned her back on me, pulled the sofa up to the terrace, slumped there, and in the cold of the morning said, “Don’t even go there, buddy.”
I reached for the “edibles” scissors, which she had left lying on the floor. “Hey,” I said. “I was just trying to be friendly.”
Higidea didn’t say anything. Ladies and gentlemen, Higidea L’yaggavbavy. Sometimes she just doesn’t say anything.
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