t h e b e e b o x

Brokeback Melons

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Even in the streets of Cebu, it seems as though the much-examined Ang Lee film, Brokeback Mountain has a few runaway parodies.

While stewing in the hot confines of a taxi under suspect air-conditioning, I was jolted out of my misery by a sharp tap on the window. It was one of those enterprising ladies who hawk their wares in the streets, mid-traffic. She had on a black cowboy hat. No, make that eight black cowboy hats, piled neatly one on top of the other. She made it apparent, by way of smiles, pointing gestures, and manic eyebrow movements, that she wanted me to buy a cowboy hat. The hat looked to be of thin material and the brim was a bit narrow, but it had shades of Brokeback, alright. I’m not very surprised. Cebu is known for such timely rip-offs. Hey the newer the trend, the more likely one can get a quick buck off it.

When I shook my head and mouthed “No,” the lady just grinned and immediately switched tactics. With a flourish, she brandished before me a couple of plump melons, snuggled moistly in a plastic bag. Brokeback Mountain and melons. That’s a strangely erotic twist, I thought, and this time, I couldn’t help but let out a laugh.

To her credit, the hats-and-melons lady—although she did not make a sale nor guess my thoughts on the amusing combination of her wares—she did the same thing.

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As can be expected, the web is awash with Brokeback parodies. Here’s one for (by) Mac geeks.

Taxi Love Is Good Love

Yesterday I was all out of sorts, I had a 10AM meeting I was running late for, and my mind was as always, predictably, somewhere else.

My taxi driver was a grizzled little old man who had to move his seat a wee bit forward so that he could step firmly into the brakes, or so I assume. I asked him to pass by the nearest gas station since I needed to break a five hundred-peso bill for fare—see, I’m a model passenger.

So we pulled into the station, and I think sometime during my harried juggling of a full bag, wallet, hairbrush, and lipgloss, my cellphone fell out. I didn’t even feel it, I was so deep into rearranging work stuff around in my head that when we reached the office, I stepped out the taxi minus my phone, rushed into my meeting, and was soon immersed into my work day.

I only noticed I was missing a phone around 5PM, and I just thought I left it at home, which I so often do. When I got home around dinnertime, I confirmed that I had indeed lost a cellphone. I sighed and that night, lying in bed, I tried to find which expense entry to sacrifice in my solo parent finances for a replacement phone.

Today at work, hoping against hope, I dial my cellphone number and lo and behold! a guy answers and he says, “Sure we have your phone, and you can drop by the office to pick it up anytime.”

(a few moments of reverential silence as a sea of jaws drop)

Yes, I am actually getting my phone back! It turns out my grizzled little old taxi driver found the phone and surrendered it to his office in the hopes that I would call to ask for it. And get this, he asked the guy at the desk to charge the phone and keep it turned on in the event that I might call. This dearest, is taxi love of the truest kind. I left a little something by way of a reward for my honest driver.

So now I’m happily reunited with my phone. And my belief in the inherent goodness of human beings is reinforced.

Let the taxi dancing go on and on and on.

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Once Upon A Time In Traffic

We were mere windows away, so close we could kiss if not for the glass.

Cocooned in the air-conditioned backseat of the taxi, I watched his profile in the afternoon light. He could be Chinese, with eyes like that, but his jaw and the arrogant slant of nose hinted at lineage from the other side of the ocean.

Like the rest of us, his driving was put to pause by the gridlock, so he sat there impatiently tapping the steering wheel, squinting at the dashboard sun. From my vantage point I can see the smooth skin on one arm, spattered with freckles. I can see the soft curl of hair on his nape.

Suddenly he turns to look at me, and just as quickly I will my eyes to glaze over, as though I am seeing through him. He looks briefly at me, then at his fingers tapping the wheel. Then he half-turns his body on the seat and stares for what seems like a long, long time, his gaze straight and unwavering. I focus my eyes and just as simply, look.

This impasse goes on and on, neither of us moving or doing anything except holding a stranger’s gaze, the heat warping time and trapping us under the spell of the red light overhead.

Then, unforgivably, he smiles at me.

And, as though this was a kiss, the light blinked green, the spell was broken; the mass of vehicles swept us on. The road forked to our separate destinations, and we drift away from each other’s view fast, so fast the cars blur and I go back to looking at my hands, or at nothing in particular.

Ah, but what a smile that was!

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Boy, Are You Driving?

Another taxi surprise today. Usually, when I get in the back seat, out of habit, I look at the driver. I see what's expected, the back of his head. Then just today, as I was glancing at the back of the driver's head, a pair of eyes pops out—there was a little head peering over at me from the driver’s seat, window side.

It was a little boy, barely 5 years old, though of course I can’t really be exact, I just saw his eyes and part of a snub nose. He was, how shall I describe this—wedged between the car door and the driver’s thighs. From the windshield you can’t see him, the top of his head is barely visible.

I ask the driver, “Is he your son?” He grins broadly and says, “Yes ma’am, this is my son.”

Then he goes on to explain, sheepishly or so I think, “He likes to ride along with me.”

The boy gives me a curious once-over, his expression quite grave. Then he turns towards the window and squints in the afternoon sunlight.

We get stuck in a little traffic jam near the mall. I put on my sunglasses. The boy smiles shyly at me, then turns back to watching the road, humming happily along to some silly commercial on the radio. Maybe it’s because his son was onboard, but I noticed the driver was cruising along smoothly, careful around corners and not trying to overtake other taxis.

I sigh inwardly, as I ask him to drop me off by the church door. Driving with a kid that way. It’s none of my business, for sure. I just hope that car door is locked. I didn’t have the heart to look.
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Love On The Run

This is a Valentine’s story if there ever was one.

Everything surreal happens to me in taxis. My driver today was cast in the true Taxi Driver mold of De Niro—bald head, mad twinkle in the eye, and a scowl that won’t quit. Being a cautious gal, I took pains to enunciate my destination clearly and made sure I had the exact change in advance. I sure didn’t want to argue with this sort of guy.

And boy, was he a gruff one. A red light at the intersection caught us and the pickup truck in front, and we had to wait it out. He grumbled that the pickup driver wasn’t fast enough; we could have gotten through if he just floored it a little. Prudently, I kept my opinions to the contrary to myself.

Just as we turned into the next lane, taxi driver’s cell phone rings. He grunts and the scowl deepens a few more centimeters. Roughly transcribed, the one-sided conversation I eavesdropped on went like so:

“What, what do you want?”  Pause.

“Uhuh uhuh. I have a passenger.”  Pause.

“I tell you, I’m on the road.”  Exasperated pause.

“Yes, I will be home later.”  Aha.

(Stage whisper) “I can’t, I tell you I have a passenger.”  I smile now.

“Yes. I know. Me too. Later.”  Oh bigger smile.

“Later, later later. Later OK.”  By this time, I make no effort to hide my grin.

It amuses me no end to see a grown man, bald as a bowling ball and tough as a carburetor squirm with what looks to be embarrassment.

He lets the car roll to a gentle stop at the curb. I hand him the exact change I had prepared and say loudly, “Happy Valentine’s, manong!”

He had the grace to look sheepish, but he gave me a great big smile.
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Driver, Sweet Lover?

Alright, so I was working late, not at all expecting it to be raining by the time I got out of the building. That close to 11PM there’s hardly anyone out on the street, much less a taxi. The rain was falling in thin sheets and I was shivering, soaked to the skin.

The taxi appeared out of nowhere. It must have been that famed break in the space-time continuum that released a taxi just for me.

“Come on in miss.” Big grin. The best three words I’ve heard that day.

While I was trying to piece back together as much dignity as I could in a sopping-wet skirt, hair plastered wet-rat style to my head, the taxi driver went on to explain that he was actually on his way home from his last fare. He just decided at the last moment to pick me up since it was raining and he felt sorry for me, standing all alone in the curb.

We drive in companionable silence, the rain humming, softly muted all around us.

At the gate he makes an extra little inward swing to position the rear door closer to the sheltering eaves of our garage.

“Good night ma’am,” I hear him toss out as I open the door.

“Take care,” I say.

I give him the sweetest damp smile I can muster.

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New Category: Taxi Dancing

I’ve been commuting on board taxis for over ten years, and oh, the dish I can tell you about my taxi rides!

I figure, since I don’t see a car in my immediate future yet, I will be hopping into more and more taxis, I might as well blog about it.

Taxis are a suspension of reality. When you get into one and you’re on the move, you’re basically nowhere—no longer in your point of origin, but not yet at your destination. No wonder everything turns surreal as soon as you close that car door. For that length of time that you are mobile, anything can happen.

Taxis have been unwitting participants to some notable points in my so-called life. I’ve invented several alter egos in taxis to maintain anonymity in the face of overly chatty drivers. I got away with just ripped stockings and a few bruises when the taxi I was in swerved in night traffic on EDSA to avoid an oncoming motorcyclist, who was drunk and in the wrong lane. I rode a taxi in a 2 am trip to the hospital in the throes of labor, making a brief stop somewhere on the way to get cash from an ATM. I lived to tell that tale through the kindness of a sleepy driver. Years ago, my gal pal and I cut short a taxi ride when we noticed that the driver was most definitely gassed up on something other than coffee. I’ve had taxi drivers recommending stuff to me—good movies, grocery stores, laundromats, multi-level marketing schemes, real estate investments, the ‘right’ newspapers, diets, yayas, apartments, bars, bistros, boyfriends ("a nice girl like you!")—oh, the variety is enough to make your head spin.

I’ve been awe-inspired, angry, amused, alarmed, asleep, annoyed, anxious, amazed, asphyxiated, and adrift in taxis.

I’ve put on make up, hummed under my breath, scribbled shopping lists, read a book, escaped from a boring date, fought, made up, had to explain why I was dressed as a priest (yes, really), screamed at car drivers, been kissed, bought peanuts, looked up at the stars, smoked, made up my mind, plotted conspiracies, eaten siopao, cried angry tears, almost passed out, prayed for guidance, lugged a tank of LPG, defended feminist issues, twiddled my thumbs, pondered the meaning of life, in taxis.

See, the amount reflected on that meter randomly refracts the scenes that transpire. On taxis, you get more bang for your buck.

Searching for taxi metaphors, I came upon this:

taxi dancer
n.  A woman employed, as by a dance hall or nightclub, to dance with the patrons for a fee.

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[From the fact that the dancers are hired, like taxis, for a short period of time.]
Thanks, dictionary.com.

“To dance with the patrons for a fee.” Oooh, that is so apt. Shake it around a bit and you can let the dance happen between passenger and the ride. Later tonight, when I am speeding home on yet another wild taxi ride, I will be sure to save the details of my dance for this blog.

Wish me luck as I go off to flag another one down.

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