The Jeepney Driver

They Hate Each Other But are Husband and Wife

Morning broke. And so did Buda. He got up from his creaky blasted bed, which he shared with his creaky blasted wife. He cursed under his stinky breath, still potent from last night's carousing with the men of his neighborhood. He heaved a heavy sigh, cleared his throat loud enough to wake his wife, who, immune from this criminal routine from her solidly bad husband, merely shifted as if hearing this racket from a dream. Buda, seeing that the subtle intrusion wouldn't work, did not hesitate to shake his wife from her pretend slumber. She groaned refusing to get up. But Buda refused her refusal because this wasn't how he was going to start this day.

Oh no. Not this particular day.

Estelita grudgingly threw off the blanket from her tired used up body and got up without acknowledging her husband, which was fine for Buda. 

She was only his wife.

Buda trailed after his wife who didn't bother to wash her face but loudly and grudgingly went about working in the kitchen. The tin frying pan crashing onto the lone gas stove. The beat up refrigerator shaking from being opened and closed. The knife hacking brutally into a piece of tocino. The plastic bag of the white American bread squashed as long as it could. Estelita clearly, was pissed off. 

"Why don't you just shoot up the entire kitchen, huh?!" Buda yelled at her from the toilet as he washed his tired and beaten face. Estelita does not respond. But a picture scans over her mind where she is plunging the kitchen knife into her husband's ugly face. A kind of calm settles into her.

This was exactly how she pictured her life when she found out she was pregnant. It was as if she had stood in front of an oncoming train, planted her foot into the tracks and waited for her slaughter. She didn't even like Buda. But here she now stood, making breakfast for him at the crack of dawn, feeling like she could take his life with a few violent jabs of the knife she bought soon after they were married. Unbelievably, the routine of her daily life, the very thing that possessed her with incredible rage, prevented her from acting on her homicidal impulse. The preparation, the cleaning, the cooking (the goddamn cooking), the washing—all of it was saving her from ending up behind bars. She should've just had the baby aborted when she had the chance.

Buda stood in the mirror feeling the weight of the world already bearing down on him. And it was only half past 4.

Estelita laid everything on the small uneven table, and sat opposite her husband's chair, waiting for their daily ritual of breakfast, fortified with heavy contempt. She sipped her instant 3-in-1 coffee and considered very seriously about ending this routine with a very remarkable and very explicit notice: deep, lingering stabs to tBuda's face. She imagined how she would deliver said notice when Buda walked into the kitchen, and oddly, he was quiet. 

This morning was unlike past mornings when he'd grumble about something, or nothing in particular as he pulled away his chair and sat without giving his wife as much as a glance. This time, Buda seemed to actually have other thoughts troubling him. This then troubled Estelita

She wasn't going to let him be troubled by anything else other than their defective marriage.

"Why didn't I get the rest of your boundary?" she went.

Buda, who has mastered the art of ignoring Estelita's words, speeches or any of her grinding sound while still maintaining brain activity, carried on eating what appeared to be fried egg, except the color had resembled more like overly fried tortang talong. Estelita made sure it was thoroughly fried. Buda chewed through it as the snapping crispiness of the egg white thundered over their silent breakfast; its bitter, and bland taste crudely embodying their marriage. It went on, the chewing, for a full long minute before Estelita finally broke it with her own loud eating as she gnawed slowly, and very loudly at the rubbery tocino, masticating and tasting as gradually as she wished. Still, Buda was an impenetrable fortress, and he didn't seem to be budging from his solid state of invulnerability.

Her second attempt was more specific, "Marie needs to pay her tuition this week." That did it. Buda's state of invulnerability was dashed quickly with talk of money. It was as simple as that, and Estelita knew full well the weakness to her husband's cool demeanor.

Buda groaned heavily and banged his fist on the table like a caveman. Estelita barely reacted, happy at the thought of sending her Buda to a day of tormented contemplation—over money. She smiled, washing down the rubbery tocino with her lukewarm coffee. "Then I won't be home tonight!" Buda barked expectedly. Estelita went on eating. Buda followed suit. And silence once again was restored.

Money. I hate money, Buda thought to himself and wished simultaneously he would die in a fiery crash that very day. But maybe not before he got his fill.

Estelita was clearing up the table and was walking over to the sink when Buda walked in. His eyes glazed over her backside as it wobbled under her thin worn-out shorts. He ran his eyes down the short length of her thighs and thought about the time they impulsively went at it in the back of his jeep. He recalled how she moaned and groped desperately for his flesh, tugging and squeezing at it sadistically. But he didn't complain. He was too busy lapping his tongue on her stiff dark nipples, his hand engaged in probing her dark and moist part. 

It was pure sex. And he missed it. 

Missed it bad enough to think about sneaking up behind his wife and practicing a little romance before he went off. But it was too late. Estelita realized he'd been gawking her so now she was manipulating him into truly "romancing" her as she bent over the sink, pretending to yank something out of the drain. Buda was wise to her moves, knowing how she'd reel him in and then deny him access. So he quickly shook himself out of his hard on and thought about his mother. His poor dead mother.