A friend’s “short story” post inspired me to unearth something I tried to cobble together a year ago, back when I was jobless and *ahem* horrendously desperate. Ambitious little me thought that, with the chick lit *gag* bandwagon ongoing, I could cash in and get me some moolah. I decided I could go the “Tsinoy” route and write about something I actually knew.
Halfway through the third chapter, though, I realized I wasn’t so sure I could pull it off. Truth be told, I didn’t know how best to handle the “race” issue, since in real life, it’s still a pretty big deal among Tsinoys. So yeah, I got scared, chickened out and left the third chapter hanging.
By the way, it’s not a semi-autobiographical piece. Some people, like Auntie Hellen, for example, are inspired by (unfortunately) real human beings. Don’t go suing me, though. Not yet, anyway. You could wait till I get a publisher for this thing, if that ever happens. Enough with the explanations, though. Here goes:
CHAPTER I – HERE COMES THE BRIDE
“You really should be married by now.”
It didn’t take a genius to know who was hissing at me from across the cramp room. The smell of yards upon yards of fabric wafted up my nostrils. I did my best not to gag. Instead, I kept my eyes down, valiantly struggling to remove a non-existent stain from my immaculate white shirt. But of course those piercing dagger eyes were still on me, trying to drill a hole through my icy, nonchalant façade. Unfortunately, the dagger eyes were winning.
Really, it should be illegal to carry eyes like that without a license.
With short, gasping breaths, I willed myself never to look up, knowing full well the consequences of doing so. The heat of her stare was suffocating. It would be the beginning of another of her numerous monologues – all burning down to the exact same point. A one-sided discussion – one I would never win. Ever. It would be best to avoid the unavoidable, even just for a few minutes. Maybe, if God really loves me, the floor would open up and swallow me now before the inevitable happened.
Apparently, God doesn’t.
The eyes must have gotten tired of staring. A flying pincushion hit me squarely on the head and fell on my lap – taunting. The metal pins stuck out defiantly, burning brightly against the orange monstrosity that almost ruined my already messy hair. With morbid interest, I realized that some of the pins were sticking out the wrong way – a dangerously wrong way. The thought that I could have died on the spot was pathetically enticing. Anyhow, it would have been a much kinder fate.
Are you trying to kill me? Mental telepathy never works. Reluctantly I raised my head and found myself staring into those eyes. I willed myself not to flinch from the waves of contempt and disappointment that radiated from her eyes. It would not be long now. I could almost hear her teeth, grinding in anticipation. She licked her lips and I braced myself for the oncoming blow. Yup, this is going to be one of those goddamn days.
“Come see Gigi’s wedding gown!”
The voice could have rung out from the deepest pit of hell and I wouldn’t have cared. Maybe God does love me after all. I smiled at the figure sitting across me, fighting hard to keep the smugness and relief out of my lopsided smile. I seemed almost … apologetic. Slowly, ever so slowly, she bared her fangs in a sneer, her eyes sparkling with anticipation. Later was written all over her face. Not that it mattered, though. I had successfully evaded another episode of catatonia. Tomorrow? Well, tomorrow is another day, as Scarlett often says. Not that my mother would know Scarlett anyway.
“Sinong Scarlett?”
I stared at her in disbelief. Does she really have telepathic powers? Merciful God! Suddenly, death sincerely seemed like a very viable prospect. It was in this moment of sheer distress, panic and despair that I realized my mother had been saying something else – something that had nothing to do with anyone named Scarlett. My mother, ladies and gentlemen – armed with a withering stare and the power to drive me ballistic with one smirk. No wonder I’ve been diagnosed with paranoia.
Then a bundle of pure joy bounced up and into the room, taking up half of the cramp office’s remaining space. I soon recognized the bouncing bundle as my Auntie Hellen, mother of the blushing bride-to-be. She was flushed, barely able to speak after squeezing out of the cramp hell hole known otherwise as the fitting room. A grin broke her full moon face in half as she battled to regain her breath, vigorously fanning her sweaty mass of flesh with swollen hands. Would it send me straight to hell to wish that Auntie would choke on her own excitement and die?
She didn’t, though, and I could see Mother waiting patiently with a faux smile fixed painfully on her face. It felt like a hundred years before sweaty Aunt Hellen was able to speak. By then my eyes had retreated to the back of my head, enjoying a moment of joyous solitude. My hands – without thinking – had busied themselves picking out old scabs off the crusty couch. A build-up of faux leather crumbs gathered beside me, waving goodbye to the couch they had desperately clung to for much too long.
“It’s gorgeous!” Auntie finally managed to blurt out.
Almost on cue, Gigi stepped out of the fitting room, coyly showing off the gown and her robust figure. The modista was hot on her trail, admiring every single swish her handiwork made. Mother gave a small nod of approval, the same mirthless smile nailed to her porcelain face. Auntie was beside herself with joy, clapping at every little sashay her darling daughter made around the cramp office. She was giddy – like a schoolgirl on cough syrup. Gigi herself was red with pride, blushing fiercely like a marshmallow left out in the sun too long.
I have to admit, though, that Gigi did look beautiful in her wedding gown. The off-shoulder cut magnificently revealed her round shoulders and creamy complexion. The beads, though, were a little too much for my taste. Rows upon rows of beads were sewn into the bodice – creating a massive, indestructible, Mazinger Z armor. More of those beads spilled down the gown, creating a landslide of sorts. The gown was unbelievably long – as most wedding gowns are wont to be – with a detachable train lengthy enough to hang fifteen men all at the same time. Ruffa would have withered in shame.
“So what do you think?”
It took several agonizing seconds for me to realize I’d been asked THE question. I could have run. I could have smiled and nodded. Unfortunately, I didn’t. Gripped by an unseen force and a lethal desire to ruin everybody’s day, I opened my mouth and said,
“It looks okay, but the beads …”
“Swarovski crystals.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Swarovski. They’re not beads.”
“Oh.”
Apparently, it was the cue everyone was waiting for to start ignoring me. Auntie launched into a lively monologue on the fine virtues of expensive, expensive Swarovski crystals. Beads, she spat out in contempt. They’re not beads, she said, haranguing no one in particular. Mother seemed to have lost interest in the proceedings, opting to play “snake” on her cellphone instead. Gigi, of course, was still hamming it up for the full-length mirror, with the modista fussing over her every move. Five grown women and a wedding gown, trapped in a cramp hole-in-the-wall dress shop that no one’s ever heard of before.
It’s a goddamn circus, and the wedding hasn’t even started.
“Where’s the bridesmaid?”
The chirpy modista’s voice rang out, shattering my moment of self-induced comatose. In the flurry of activities, I had almost forgotten what I was actually there for. The thought sent shockwaves through my entire being. The modista beckoned me into the fitting room, smiling. I was frozen, unable to leave my seat. My mouth went dry, and all I could manage were pathetic choking sounds.
“Get up.”
One withering look from Mother, and I knew I had no choice. With leaden feet, I trudged into the hell hole, trying hard not to whimper along the way. What came next was a scene straight out of a horror movie. To say the dress was a monstrosity would be a grievous understatement. In truth, it was a decent gown – a perfectly normal “made for the bridesmaid” one. Except that in the rush of getting things done, no one had taken the time to tell me what color the wedding motif was.
It was yellow. A bright, sunshiny yellow. A lemony, god-my-eyes-can’t-see yellow. Against my skin, the dress reflected a ghastly, emaciated glow that painted “SICK” all over my forehead. My cheekbones protruded in the most frightening way, exuding the image of a richly-dressed refugee. The sight on the mirror was unbearable.
“Married women can’t be bridesmaids right?” I asked.
“Yes. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing.”
Maybe I really should be married by now.
Violent reactions can be sent to my PR person, Raul Gonzales.
