LALAKI

Relative Deprivation - III

June 2nd, 2019
11:00 AM
McDonald's Davao Buhangin
Kilometer 5, Buhangin-Lapanday Rd, Buhangin
Davao City.
(The one nearby Ladislawa, the one where most students of Ford Academy of The Arts eat)

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It took me around fifty minutes to get here from the commute; apparently, a MAERSK truck got flipped around in Bajada. An act of nature. A freak accident. A catastrophe, like what happened at work almost an hour ago.

I am outside the parking lot of a McDonald's Buhangin, beside Ladislawa. I am pacing around. I am here and I am thinking.

As much as I want to move on and forget what happened; a part of me wants to remember and rationalize. I feel a paradox inside me, being pushed and pulled at the same time like a stampede of paranoia and common sense. I want to forget everything that had happened, I want to throw it all away like decluttering rubbish on your desk or cleaning your room. But every distracting thought fits perfectly in its right place. Every thought was in its right place. I try to think of them one by one; work, Heather, Lunch, and Sir JD. Eventually, I faced the thought that sparked and aligned them all like steps on a stair, For me to reach the next floor I had to set foot on each step, I stepped on the thought of eating lunch with Heather, what to eat on 7-eleven, and meeting Sir JD. And then, ah.

There it is.

His hands.
Her waist.
Heather.

He held her waist with a grip of a statue; inhuman and marble-like. He held her with his textbook suave and bourgeoisie grin, Heather looked slightly staggered and uncomfortable, she looked at me for a split-second for some reason maybe as a cry for help; I don't know but before she could look at him. I found my knuckles greeting his cheeks, and then me on top of him pummelling and scratching his face, what I found strange that was, I couldn't remember this completely. The transition of a punch to me pushed him to the ground; it felt like that scene or clip was cut out. Every strike I gave on his face didn't feel fluid either, it felt like a stop-motion frame. Each punch and blow a separate frame. Several Polaroid shots aligned, a flipbook of violence. I remember feeling nothing but contempt, at his pretty face and his perfect teeth. I hated how he made me do this. I hated how it led to this. I didn't feel good. I felt like I was destroying something beautiful; I felt like I was vandalizing a piece of art by drawing penises, it felt un-adultlike, I felt unprofessional and childlike no mind, no control, and no power but my hands. More power to my hands and my sadistic chaotic urge to destroy and hurt like what all children too in a fit of amazement and disappointment. But looking back I realized I hated myself. I realized it wasn't what sir JD did that pressed me, but rather why I did it in the first place.

A violent ringing breaks my monologue, I check. It's my phone. It was her. Heather. What the hell? When did she have my number?

"Hello?"

"Matt? Are you there? Jesus where the hell are you?"

"Uhh. I'm home. I'm at home, W-why are you calling?"

"Why am I calling, DUDE? YOU JUST PUNCHED THE CHIEF."

"Yeahyaypoormeguessimfired- I meant uhh, why bother calling me I just don't get it, and uhm, how did you get this number?"

"Employee phone book. I called because what the hell? That was suicide. I'm just worried and well....."

"What?"

"Look, I appreciate your gesture and what you did for me-"

"...."

"Sure, like I was getting uncomfortable with how he was holding my waist. Stop that. That's fucking gross. Sexual harassment etcetera, but you shouldn't have punched him. Like I was about to tell him to stop but before I could you decided to spar him."