Tremor

It’s crazy. I lived in LA for 5 years before moving up north, earthquakes I’m used to, but here, here in the city, it doesn’t feel the same, totally not the same.

It might be because I’m sleepless again. My hyper thyroid was acting up. I thought I had it beat. Two years of some experimental Japanese treatment worn off. Hoped it would be the cure. It wasn’t, it’s back. That equates to me up at night. Sometimes I could cheat and get to sleep quick. You know, responding to yourself when you’re actually sleepy. But most of the time, my body is awake, a touch of apprehension, a pinch of adrenaline, and my mind, it’s in no state to sleep. Basically, it’s that feeling you get when you wake up from a nap, a good nap, after spending all night studying. You feel okay. You could use more time sleeping, but your body won’t let you. The sun’s out, your mouth’s dry, and you got that imaginary hand squeezing your brain. Yeah. That feeling. But it’s like 2am and I’m lying in bed sensing everything around me. My covers tickling the hairs on my legs. The dusty scent lingering in the air. The feint voices from my neighbors. My senses were all awake but I wanted to sleep. I needed to sleep.

And of course, it hits then. It’s more than subtle. A vibration rocking everything around my bed. I can feel my arms bouncing. But it wasn’t strong enough to shake anything around me. Not quite dramatic like the ones in LA.

It lasted for about 30 seconds.

Yeah. Whatever.

Not quite the same.

But I had to do what I always do when I go through an earthquake. Look it up the next day. Many thanks to http://earthquake.usgs.gov for keeping everything updated. If you ever saw LA’s map, there’s always an earthquake somewhere. It’s quite colorful. For San Francisco, it’s not as exciting. Especially that morning. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing. A couple of futile refreshes later, I knew.

Fuck. Here I go again. Time for a new place. I better get into a newer place this time.

Pulling Back

I took my foot off the brakes and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The car engine roared, but it barely inched forward. I pressed even harder. My teeth gritting. I thought if somehow I could bend the pedal, even crush it through the floor boards, it would add enough juice to get this heap of junk car going.

Okay “heap of junk” might be too harsh. Our old Oldsmobile back in the day, now that was a “piece of junk”. That thing was one of those boxy chrome behemoths that looked like it wanted to be a Cadillac. Yeah, like a pimp-mobile, but no. It was this light green colored car any reputable ho managing fool would stay away from. There was no sense of novelty being in that car. It was pure embarrassment. The car could barely accelerate. From 0 to 60, it would take a good 30 seconds, and that would be on a good day, on a straight leveled street, with 93 octane gas. Downhill, even better, but uphill… that was a huge problem. And in the neighborhood I grew up in, creeping cars meant one thing, a drive by. Of course, that would be cool if everyone ran at the sight of our car. But no. Humans have that stupid instinct, like you what see in the movies, to make sure it really was a drive by even if it was too late. They would wait there, squinting. The impatient ones would get off their porches and meet us halfway on their yards. They had that much time. Seriously. I wished my mom would gun them down as the car meandered by. John Woo style and all. But no, adolescent kids never get their wish. It was always the opposite. So there was our car driven by mom, her head, with her big honey brown framed glasses, peering over the steering wheel. While my brothers and I sank in our seats, even to the lower feet sections, where I fit perfectly, doing what we could only do against the laughter, complain.

“I hate this car.”

I had to slam on the brakes. The car was drifting backwards. The clutch wasn’t catching or something. Plus I could smell too much exhaust. This car was new. Everything inside was electronic, the windows, the seats, the transmission, even the fuel injection. Still with all this technology, the car doesn’t even go or even acknowledge something’s wrong. It was a metal box with an engine that’s eating up gas.

I tried the same thing again. Foot off the brakes and accelerate. This time, it slipped back even more. Several feet. I went back to the brakes. They didn’t hold like before. I could still feel the car driftng back. I pressed on them harder and heard the pads grind. The car started to pick up speed backwards. This was ridiculous. This hill was steeper than before. Soon, it was off the road and into the woods. Trees we passing by as I continued pressing as hard as I could on the brakes. I was too scared to steer. I didn’t want to turn around. I braced my head against the car seat anticipating.

I watched the street shrink ahead of me. The green forest closed in.

Bang.

Crisp Cold Sheets

I couldn’t believe it. I was there, next to her. Just the both of us, lying there, on the bed. I was facing her, on my side, to my right. She was there.

We were both naked. Our sweat was now cold. Barely any warmth left to justify lying there without a blanket. But still we didn’t want to move or do anything. Her breathing was finally calm, my heart though was still racing. I cupped her left shoulder and ran my hand across her smooth skin. My finger tips glided along her collar and found their way to the middle of her chest until I held her breast. Her hand met mine and our fingers interlocked.

I didn’t recall anything before this. Sad, I know, but I didn’t care. What I cared about was here. Here before me. It was here.

I hadn’t seen her for years. Not that I would, after all we had broken up. She wanted to stay out of my life. Even away from any of my friends. And no, it wasn’t a bad break up, it was kinda mutual. Mutual at that time for me, even when she was the one leaving.

When you’re naive it’s fine. People around you are glad to help. Sure, some people take that opportunity to have a laugh. But if you’re naive with some sense in you, you’d surround yourself with nice people. People who wouldn’t do that and evidently, people who are kind enough to overlook your faults, which also means you never hear about them. And me, I had plenty of faults, the big one though, was being naive about yourself. I had a huge case of that. Something no one really wants to help out with. Most evolved to calling it clueless, inconsiderate, moronic, the list goes on. I still call it naive. Because it’s a state your in when you’re growing up. When you learn about what you did wrong, you grow, and most likely, you won’t be like that again.

It was too good. This couldn’t be happening, not to me, not deserving. I know her. This was a dream, a cruel dream, an opportune dream, I couldn’t decide. But once you know, you know what’s next, awakening.

I didn’t want to.

My old bed felt familiar, the nappy sheets crimped up under me, my rough comforter under my hands . I fought to stay asleep. I was happy there, a few more seconds, a few more minutes, I wanted to stay, even if it meant dying in my sleep, that was good enough. Maybe I could stay in this limbo, unlikely I know, being Catholic and all. But at least I didn’t have to wake up to my life without her.

My eyes were swollen.

I haven’t felt that happy in years.

The Tin Roof

We were up on the rooftops playing what I wanted to believe was baseball, but it was really more like stick ball. No one had a real bat or even a baseball. We had whatever we found in the neighborhood, which was evidently a stick, and of course, a ball. That was a luxury, an actual bouncing ball and not some, well, rock. It worked out great. It was beige and hollow so no matter how hard you hit it, it wouldn’t go that far. Ideal given where we were playing.

All of us were poor. We lived here the slums. And for fun, after supper, we’d sneak away from our parents, climbed our roofs and played baseball.

Our homes were close together, each roof separated by a foot or two. It was dangerous enough for us to fall through. But we we didn’t care. The height was nothing. We were more scared of getting hurt by the cheap aluminum ridged sheets or the splintering plywood that was our rooftops. But we played this many times before. Every step and every jump was memorized. That was why we started where we did, from our homes, every time. Whoever had the ball last was the pitcher and whoever had a stick was the batter. The rules were simple.

I had a stick. I climbed up from my window. It was easier that way. The frame acted as a ladder for me. I was small. Young. Nimble. Like a monkey. I reached out and grabbed the edge of the roof. I swung out and pulled myself up. I squatted on my tin roof. My flip flops pressed a bump making the metal pop. I was anxious.

The sun stung my eyes as they adjusted from the darkness below. I waited for all the silhouettes to rise. One person at a time rose up from the uneven, patch worked, baseball field. Most were close to me. They were all my friends. I didn’t know the ones off in the distant too well. We only knew each other through this game. And our only interaction was when I hit the ball to them. I couldn’t even make out their faces. The sun would warp their figures making them look like a dark blurry orange glob that only had limbs when it waved or caught the ball. And that would rarely happen since I couldn’t hit the ball that far.

When the field was full, I rose and got into my stance. I held my stick with my hands against my right shoulder, pivoting till I felt solid. I bobbed my bat and yelled.

“Let’s play!”

I saw the the windup.

I braced and anticipated.

I never knew why we never lost the ball.

room – 4 fin.

The swing door took a few bounces as it closed. The small suspension resisted four times before allowing the glass door to close behind me. It clanged as the aluminum frame hit the door frame. The last of the air in the overhanging suspension hissed out. The house was quiet. Like it was before.

The air was calm and smelled like a rain was eminent.

I proceed upstairs and down the hall. Toward my mom’s room. I didn’t hesitate or even walk any faster. My normal pace. The door was still open.

She wasn’t inside.

I checked the other rooms. My room. My grandma’s room. No one.

I went down the hall into the bathroom.

It was a kinda a small bathroom, for guests, but was also large enough to have a shower. You walk in and the toilet is right there in front of you. The sink and wall sized mirror was on your right. The shower was on your left. Some cheesy opaque shower curtain hung closed. The lights were dim. I flicked the power switch next to the mirror a few times. The light in the center of the ceiling remained a dim orange. Even when I had flicked it off.

A swarm of black liquid appeared in the mirror. I moved thick and slow in a clockwise rotation. Kinda like a whirlpool. It felt brighter than the light. Not sure how it was possible. Maybe it became more predominant than anything in there. Not needing light to tell me it was there. It’s presence was the swirling it made known to my mind. Not my eyes. I knew it was there, moving closer toward me. I darted out.

I ran to the front door. It was still open but the glass screen still shut.

The red Camero was outside. My brother was home.

My blood boiled.

Where the hell was he?

I ran downstairs. The fucking house was acting up again.

Our basement was finished with one big rec room and a couple small rooms. The laundry room was at the end of the stairs. I looked in the big rec room on the right. The room my brother deemed his. He wasn’t there. I went to the other side and checked the two smaller rooms. The windowless rooms had no one. Even the laundry room had no one. I couldn’t believe how angry I was getting. I could feel myself biting down on my tears. I ran upstairs into the living room and threw back the blinds. His car was there. Right in the drive way. That meant he was here. He had to be here. Or even my other brother. Maybe he borrowed the car. Someone drove that thing and parked it there. So someone had to be here. Here to help me out of this madness.

But no one was home. No one but me and this damned house.

room – 3

“Mom?”

She raised her hand, signaling me not to disturb her mid-prayer.

She sat on the edge of her bed, facing the wall where the door was. Her face was colorful and full, not like the time she was pale, skinny, and sick. There was that peachy color in her cheeks I haven’t seen for ages. Even her hair was normal. Curly and black, like my oldest brother’s, but of course, longer. No wig covering the fallout that months of chemotherapy would do to you. She was her normal self, bubbly brown glasses and all.

I listened as she went from one prayer to another.

The words was undecipherable under her droning voice. I recognized the melody, but the words. The words weren’t right.

I rushed down the hall and down through the stairs. My heart was racing as I left through the front door. The glass screen closed slowly behind me. I was in the front lawn. I looked down the street and to no surprise, it was my old neighborhood. We were at the start of the block that was filled with single family homes. All were similar to ours.

There was another Vietnamese family in the house to the right front of ours. I ran over and banged on the door. I wasn’t sure what to tell them. If it was a miracle or if it was something unnatural. I wasn’t sure. I just wanted someone.

No answer.

I ran frantically to our neighbor’s house. Their family had also dealt with cancer’s terminal effects on loved ones. And like us, everyone had moved away when everything was over. Leaving the unwanted memories behind in the home they no longer saw the same way again. I decided not to knock on their door and walked back to mine.

Outside I stood. Looking at the home I had left.

All the blinds were drawn closed . On every window.

The only look inside was at the middle. Where the glass screen door had automatically pulled itself shut even as I left the main door flung open on the inside.

I was scared I’d see my mom there.

But I saw stairs, one set down and one set leading up, beyond the glaring reflection.

I felt ashamed.

It was my mom. Her normal self. Not some apparition. Not some ghost trying to scare me or pull me into a world that I don’t belong. I took a deep brief. Calmed my nerves. And went back inside.

room – 2

Our house was one of those split foyer houses. So I wasn’t sure if you called it a two story home or one level with a basement. Only half of the basement was actually underground. The entrance basically has one set of stairs leading down on the left and one set leading up on the right. The right led you straight into our kitchen, but as climb up, the living room opens up to your right, along with the dining room. That was where I was. Looking out the large front windows not even thinking about sitting on our covered white couches. Those were only unveiled when we had guests. Technically, my visit would be the case. But these covers were now kept on to preserve rather than protect. We were a messy bunch back then.

Three brothers, under one roof, parented by one mom. We were a handful, hardly cleaning up after ourselves. It was no wonder why she got the covers.

I looked down on the foyer. My shoes were set neatly on the tile floors.

Our home was fully carpeted.

I wiggled my toes under my socks, wondering if I should take them off. But I wasn’t sure if I was going to stay that long.

I made my way to the kitchen. To the left of the entrance was the hallway. The hallway that led down to four rooms, the bathroom, my old room, my grandma’s room, and my mom’s room. The bathroom was midway down the hall on the right, while the bedrooms were at the end. The hallway was always stuffy, no windows, just doors, closed doors, and the plush carpet. Everything was this eggshell white. Colors my mom felt made us look clean. We did our best. Still, time has a way of wearing things away. Anything physical. I wish it were the same for memories.

My room door was open. It was the one at the very end. My grandma was to the left and my mom to the right. I decided to get nostalgic and head to my room. So many memories in there.

I happened to stop short. The doors were all open. My grandma wasn’t in her room. why would she be? She moved to my uncle’s place in Texas before we all left. In fact, I didn’t think anyone was home. But I was wrong, my mom was there, inside her room, praying like she usually does, reciting the Hail Mary with her Rosary Beads.

I can’t tell you how I felt. Maybe a bit anxious or apprehensive or maybe even excited. I mean I haven’t seen her in over a decade. But his feeling was one I couldn’t put words to.

All I wondered was whether or not I should tell her that she had passed away.

room – 1

I hated my older brother. We always got into pissing contests and I hated it when I won or lost. Cause it didn’t matter. Not that I had to deal with hearing all of the excuses. That I could deal with hanging out with the friends I had. No, it was the condescending tone I get from something as simple as a “hello.” It’s just aggravating. Makes it quite an ordeal to restrain myself from punching him in the mouth.

I could hear it now.

“What are you doing home?” he’d say.

It’s that subtle curl of the tone that makes you wonder what he’s getting at. Like a hint that I didn’t belong. That this wasn’t my home too. Or that I was the arrogant one. That somehow my schedule had freed up for them. That it was me that didn’t understand what family meant. That all these years I have been leaching. A burden to everyone under the roof. Spoiled and undeserving. But the thing is, I think I knew it the best, out of us three at least, my two older brothers and I. It was probably what kept my fist back all these years. All for the sake of family. My mother’s request.

I pulled a stack of blinds down and peered outside. The drive way down below was empty. His 80′s red Camero wasn’t hogging up the tiny asphalt space. Our little white Corrolla was there though. Parked on the right facing the house. I thought about taking the car, but I didn’t know where the keys were.

Where is he?

Who? My oldest brother? I thought I’d never think that.

And where’s Paul?

Now, my middle brother, that made more sense.

But somehow, I really needed it to be my older brother.

Especially now, to tell me why I was back here, in the living room, of the house we all had left over ten years ago.

Tornado – 3 fin.

The thing I did care about was the tornado. I turned around and looked back at the house. I didn’t see it. There was only the endless blue skies with the occasional pillars.

I came back into the house, to the front door. I heard nothing. The old curved tulip lamps weren’t flickering. I pressed my ear against the door. There was no sound. I went to open the door. I hesitated. My hands frozen, cupping the air below the brass knob. The image of the tornado made the hairs on my back rise. I decided the window. I stepped over into the living room. The cushy padding of the carpet molded to each of my steps. The sunlight radiating from the curtains was promising.

I whipped it open.

The sky was blue and the front yard was green. All the way to the edge. The damage was gone. Unfortunately, the tornado wasn’t.

It loomed over on the right. Not on the land, but out in the sky. Its bottom was below the cliff. And as big as the window was, I couldn’t see its top. It was much larger now. Almost half the size of this isle. It would easily demolish the house in one rotation. But it paced out there. Not moving toward my isle. Not at all. It just weaved back and forth. Like a snake dancing to some flute. I didn’t feel fear anymore. I felt, entertained. I slid over a wooden rocking chair. I sat in it and watched. I could hear it now. Its low below and occasional high wisps. It was wind. I hated wind. And somehow, this arrangement was acceptable. For me and, don’t ask me how I know, but for it too.

I rocked. Never taking my eye off of it.

Tornado – 2

The backyard, if you defined it as the land behind a house and not some square lot of city ordained property, was this vibrant green grass. Perfectly cut and evenly spread up until the edge of the cliff.

I took my time walking over, taking in the majestic views around me.

You see, it wasn’t just that the day was beautiful back here, it was because it was unreal.

Off in the distance I can spot these pillars of land jolting up into the sky. They were topped with green grass and a house. I could only assume it was what I was on as well. Each were sparsely set in the horizon with varying heights. The closest neighbor of these pillared isles was off to my left. About half a mile away. It’s top was tilted toward me. Giving me an NFL skycam view of the house and any occupants that may fall out. I couldn’t imagine any poor soul would be happy living there. Having to climb out of the house and back in every day or else roll and fall off the edge. I guess that’s what you had to pay for in having such a nice home. It was larger than the house I came out of. White, three stories with a gray tiled roof, it was much larger. It even had a wrap around porch with two stair entrances, one in the front and one on the side. I’d imagine it was over four thousand square feet. Enough to house four families of three or one big family of twelve, who all probably rolled off the island’s edge since it looked like no one was home. I made that assumption because no one turned off the fountain at the front of the house. Water was flowing out over the brim, along the yard, and off the edge, leaving a trail of mist as the wind blew. A long thin waterfall like the ones in Yosemite Valley.

I stopped at the edge a looked over. It was endless. I couldn’t even see the bottom. The edge continued down into the depths of white. Mist? Clouds? Who knows. Who cares.