Stale Custard Cakes

The night was starting to bother me. I couldn’t sleep it away. I was shaking violently now. My nerves were tense and I kept on pressing my cheek against the edge of my bed. I tried to apply pressure using a dirty chopstick I had found among the pile of junk scattered across my bedroom floor. Where is my goddamn Mefenamic Acid?!

I wanted to rid myself of the throbbing pain that was eating the sanity out of me. How many times did my father remind me to brush my teeth after every meal? The stool my father had repaired overnight when I was twelve was very tempting. Throw me! Bang me! Destroy me! I reached my arms out but my hands were back to my cheek pounding it with as much pressure as it can give.

I tried to reach anything so I can grab and bite it. My hands reached a friend’s letter. I still had enough restraint to stop myself from crumpling it and biting it away. I unfolded the letter and read the small note on it. The thank you letter from my friend James calmed me down a bit. He told me the pieces of advice I had given him on our long walks helped him in his life.

It was quite funny that my father had the same name, James. My father had a reasonable answer to almost every problem I gave. Maybe it’s one thing I got from him that I am really proud of. In turn, I became a perceptive friend when it comes to giving practical advice.

“If you want to help someone, listen first then think of the solution that could possibly do good to every one concerned,” said my father.

He would always bring me to long walks to do small errands like shopping for ukay-ukay at Bankerohan or buy pasalubong for my younger siblings. There would always be small treats of pastries and Coke. The food is a bonus compared to the little wisdoms he’d impart to me. My first encounter with the Greek philosopher Socrates immediately reminded me of my father. Unless we’re in a hurry, my father would always have us walk. I like walking, I’ve gotten used to it now. It’s not quite tiring and it helps me to think. I find it harder to ponder to something whenever I’m relaxed. From being my father’s glaucon, I became a mentor to my other friends who’d let me in to their lives and secrets.

“Don’t go telling them what to do,” my father would remind me. “People already know the answers to their problems, and most of the times they won’t agree with themselves. What they need is someone to listen to them and to understand them.”

Earlier this evening, my mother told my father to take our defective television and get it replaced. My mother insisted that if the replaced set were also defective, it’d have to be replaced again. The warranty didn’t cover my mother’s views. Despite that, my father nodded knowingly. As usual, I accompanied him on this errand.

“Take your replacement,” said the salesman. “But it would be the only time it would be replaced.”

“How will we know if what we’d take as replacement is not defective?” inquired my father. “We need to have the same warranty for the replacement.”

“I’m not to decide on that,” replied the salesman. “Take it or leave it.”

There was a rather worried look across my father’s face. He shrugged and told me to carry the replacement along. We then went to a bakery near the TV shop in San Pedro called Araceli’s. I felt a surge of warmth towards my father.

I remembered how comforting my father’s arms were when I was still small. His soothing eyes were always there to tell me that everything is okay after I told him I had peed on my pants back at elementary or after I told him about my break-up with my girlfriend. There was something in his voice that was assuring and promising. His little chats with me had helped me cope with the idea of death after a high school classmate passed away.

It was my dad who bought me the secondhand shirts and pants that I thought to be acceptable. My mother had terrible taste. When my father bought clothes for himself he usually ends up giving them up to me.

It was my father’s convincing tone that persuaded me to use an old bag throughout my elementary years. It was an old shabby sling bag that even a beggar would discard. It was quite durable though very ugly.

“We’re not poor,” my father would assure me with a smile. “We’re just broke—on a regular basis.”

Behind his smiles, I know he’s not that invulnerable. I remember when my sister was diagnosed with dengue and was admitted to the hospital. It was a terrible time. My mother wasn’t cooperative and went on nagging away. I was quite helpless that time.

My father began to seek out every resource he had to cover the expenses. I remember one night when he asked me to hand him his pants because he was going to borrow money from my grandparents in Ecoland. He didn’t have any money left in his pockets. I felt in his pants. Ecoland was very far from our house.

“Will I be coming?” I asked.

“No,” said my father gravely. “Not this time.” The he smiled, “Pagbalik ko, payatot na ako.”

It’s very hard to smile when you feel like crying. How did my father do it? I would always say to my friends that if you feel like crying, you cry. If you feel like being happy, smile. I guess I couldn’t follow my own advice.

I could be quite grim and cold to other people. I could look at a person with contempt and wouldn’t be bothered about it. A lot of people hate me for my being arrogant and terrible. That’s my mother in me. I hated it. But I also hate my father’s part in me. I learned how to be stupid and stubborn when it comes to girls, especially my girl. I couldn’t bear to see a little girl crying. I could laugh at a boy crying but I would always sympathize with every girl crying—be it stranger or not.

Why am I the unfortunate offspring to possess the intolerable traits these two have?

“Take that away!” barked one of the waitresses in Araceli’s as I placed the television in one of their tables. “The table will break!”

My eyebrows met as I stared at the waitress with an insulted look. My father would never tolerate this kind of impoliteness in our house. But he held a hand to restrain me and motion me to take the television away.

My father ordered one serving of bihon to go. We decided to eat something while waiting for the bihon as it needed some time to cook it. My dad ordered a liter of Coke and two custard cakes. I started to tell him things about school. I told him of my plans of threatening someone to death using an e-mail account and asked him what possible penalty I could get if I got caught.

All this time, he had been looking at the counter. The waitress was just sitting, waiting for new customers. My father was quite calm. He nodded on the right times whenever I talked. I didn’t expect the sudden outburst.

“WHAT’S TAKING OUR ORDER SO LONG?” bellowed my father. “MAGBABAYAD NAMAN KAMI AH! ANONG TINGIN N’YO SA AMIN? WALANG PERA”

It was my turn to hold out a restraining hand to him. Another waitress took our order and delivered it pronto. Araceli’s in San Pedro Street was never quieter that night.

I munched on my custard cake. It tasted horrible. That entire scene for this stale cake! I guess I didn’t know my father that well. The sticky caramel of the cake started to pound the roots of my right molar.

I didn’t show the pain. I learned that much restraint from the best example. I could never show to the people around me that I was hurt. That was crying inside. Little did I know that I’d later be tossing in my bed unable to bear the pain.

There is always this silent sad look across my father’s face. That same look I can see whenever I face the mirror. I could never understand the pain behind that look. But that day at Araceli’s gave me a glimpse of the face behind.

 

-Javin Jet Tevar-