The New Dentists

Jon Carlos Rodriguez

You didn’t want to go, but I forced you anyway.  “That place smells like Ting’s spirit,” you complained.  Ting was the name of my Labrador.  He died last year.  “The clothes there stink to high heavens,” you added.  I never told you then, but it probably stank because the owners were indeed in high heavens.  As in they’re dead.  The clothes were probably donated but due to the bloodcurdling temptation of making profit, they now serve the purpose of sold merchandise by opportunistic entrepreneurs in makeshift shopping centers.  Money is just like love after all, and people will do anything to make them these days.  I aimlessly walked down Session Road, vaguely remembering a wagwagan somewhere in this area.  I remembered that it was a three-storey high building and, yes, I admit, three times the stench.  You dragged your feet but managed to paste a smile on your face, struggling to mask the strife.  But I was privy to your shopping preferences.  “Why go to a thrift shop when SM is right there?” you asked.  Still, you went with me inside the humid, asthma-inducing shithole of secondhand goods.  That’s what you call love, I thought.

I, or we, didn’t last long, though.  Your patience quickly ran out and my patience—marred by your constant whining and fake sneezing—followed suit.  I almost saw your skin jump out of your bones and head over to SM as soon as I said “Let’s get out of here.”  I have already bought two shirts and a bag for Mom, anyway.  But the excitement was instantly sucked out of your face when I decided to scrap going to SM altogether.  The sun was about to set and I knew that you had to be home before midnight, or else.  You didn’t want to go, but I forced you anyway.  “Put that in the trunk, will you?” you said, not wanting to smell the used goods on the long drive home.  I obliged, not wanting to be any more hassled by the bickering.  So instead of filling the car with the aroma of a worn-out Louis Vuitton bag that was probably owned by a mahjongera with Imeldiffic hair, the car reeked of worn-out love.  Instead of rehashed shirts, we used rehashed lines.

“I’m so happy,” you said, as we rolled down Marcos Highway.  You held my hand as we exchanged sweaty palms and I love you’s under the orange-tinged sky.  Save for the occasional laughter and the cheesy out of tune duets, we rode in silence.  Two lovers creeping up towards Tarlac, then the NLEX, until eventually EDSA.  You gave me a gentle kiss on the cheek as we passed Megamall, in hopes of keeping me awake for the next 30 minutes or so.  Your long, jet-black hair brushed my shoulder as you leaned in.  The cold weather and the smell of pine trees were light-years away and we became two lovers crashing back down to the chaos of Buendia.  Back down to the chaos of our lives.

As we neared your house, you asked, “Will I see you tomorrow?”  I gave you a somber look, closed my eyes and kissed you on the lips.  I wanted to say “Yes” but I was not certain if it would be true.  And I didn’t want to lie any longer.  There had been enough lying going on that weekend.  I grabbed your things from the trunk and handed them to you.  You didn’t want to go, but I forced you anyway.  We exchanged goodbyes and looks of infatuation, then lust, then eventually guilt.  I grabbed the plastic bag of smelly hand-me-downs as well and placed it on the passenger seat then sped off like a criminal escaping the scene of the crime.  I looked at the rear view mirror, hoping to catch a glimpse of you.  But you were no longer there.  You were no longer mine for the night.  I rolled down the window to let the smell of ukay-ukay out.  I was such a fool for secondhand goods.

Jon is a graduate of De La Salle-College of Saint Benilde and is currently taking up screenwriting in The One School. He also has a day job. He works as a Writer/Editor for an outsourcing company. Jon previously worked as an editor for UNO Magazine. When he’s not in front of my laptop writing or watching movies, he’s probably outside taking photographs of beautiful Manila.