Meltdown (Manila)

“I am going to die tonight,” I told Sophia.

“What? Are you fucked up?” she said.

And my stomach ached deep. It’s like I could feel the bottom of my stomach tearing apart. I ate what little of the salad I could take and ignorantly downed the cheap white wine.

My stomach pain had been nagging me nearly a month. It started in Indonesia where it was so bad I spent an entire day in my hotel room trying to eat crackers and boring myself in and out of sleep by watching game shows and soap operas in Indonesian

We sat at the table at Sticky Fingers in Greenbelt just as the band kicked in on the inside. There were couples all around us. All mixed. American men and Filipinas. One older man across the outside terrace had two women. They were searching for words with their male counterpart but spoke frequently in Tagalong much to his chagrin.

Then an opposite walked to a standing table across from us. A white blonde woman with Russian characteristics started typing feverishly on a mobile phone and she seemed to be hiding from something or someone. She would look up frequently to see if anybody passing by the restaurant spotted her. Suddenly, a Filipino man with long, greasy hair showed up and grabbed her by the arm. She smiled and they joked in broken English – something I couldn’t make out. And they walked away together – him pushing her first.

And the American men would glance in my direction and their eyes gave approval. They would look over Sophia. They would watch us as we talked and as I made Sophia mad or made her laugh. Then they would look at their own dates and sit silently. Yes, maybe the women were beautiful, but there was no connection.

“You think these are couples?” I asked.

“Why are you changing the subject? I thought you were going to tell me how you were going to die?”

I pushed my hands on my stomach hoping it would soothe it. “But now I am asking if you think all these are legitimate couples?”

“You know the answer to that. No. They are bar girls.”

“Do you think people look at us and say we are the same?”

“I don’t care if they do.”

“Nor do I.”

“You must. You brought it up.”

“I am just sick of the stereotype.”

“You know,” Sophia said putting her wine glass to her lips, “ever since you voted Obama you have become racist.”

“What? That’s crazy!”

“No I think voting for Obama has freed your guilt to be openly racist.”

“Just because I asked if you think these women are bar girls?”

“Whatever.” She said finishing off her own wine.

Then my stomach tightened again. I burped and could something more coming. “Babe, I don’t feel good. Can we get the bill?”

“What? I called Karen. She is going to meet us at Ice Bar.”

“I am sorry. I don’t feed good. I want to go back.”

“Okay.” Sophia agreed and asked for the bill.

We took the escalator down to the taxi stand.

I felt like I was in a daze. My stomach was throbbing internally. And my vision was turning red. And all I could see around me was bar girls. Maybe Sophia was right. Maybe I had suddenly become like the people I hated - judging everyone based on racist, stereotypes.

I put my hand over my stomach as Sophia grabbed a taxi. She slid in first. And I gently sat down beside her. When I pulled the door to, the thud it made against the frame of the car – rocked the insides of my stomach.

“Where to mum?” the driver asked.

Sophia spoke to him and I could make out the name of the place we were staying and the road but nothing else. The taxi driver drove. Then suddenly, as he made a curve going past the Renaissance and the Greenbelt 3 entrance, he slowed down the cab and asked Sophia, “Where is that?”

“What do you mean – where is that?” I asked. My stomach constricted and I balled my fists. “You live here. And you know its close!”

“Hey man, watch your voice in my cab!” He yelled back at me. His eyes were glaring in the rearview mirror.

“Fuck you man!” I yelled.

Sophia put her hand on my shoulder. “Don’t.”

“Fuck me? Fuck me?!” the driver screamed.

That’s when I opened the door to his rolling taxi and with a gallop jumped out. I yanked Sophia out with me. The door to the taxi was still open and the driver was incensed. He yelled so loud that I saw spit hit the passenger side of the window.

My stomach convulsed.

“Babe, what are you doing?” Sophia asked.

The driver yanked the cab to the curb and threw himself in the street. “You can’t jump out like that!”

“Fuck you! Fuck you man!” I said.

The taxi driver pulled out a tire iron and shook it at me. “You want this? Huh? You want this?”

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