last night, i called in sick to help a friend pack. he is moving out. not back to manila; not even to another state. just two blocks away, in a cheaper apartment. and besides, i really thought i was sick.
to kind of reward me, he went out to order some decent take out from one of the italian bistros in our street, the one with the thickest bisteca fiorentina. "take a break," he hollered as he ratcheted down the newly tiled staircase. and i did.
i flip opened the yet unsealed, flapping covers of one of the boxes. on top of the heap inside was an old boom box. one of his very first big purchases, he told me once. ghetto blaster, announced a sticker, now peeling in its edges, still blazing with its neon green and yellow fading hues from one of the portable stereo's woofers. i closed the box back and from the yet unsealed crack, i could still see a glint of the radio's silver finish mute like an unplayed cd viewed from a transparent cover.
on the surface of the other unopened box were two logo sweatshirts which i never saw him wore in any of our outings. one of them, a hoodie, was still pasted with this vertical, elongated, transparent sticker that had m's printed liberally on it. the letters seemed to glow in the dark as if to call out to its owner "hey, over here, in the bottom rung. you haven't worn me yet."
somebody rang and, unquestioningly, i buzzed open the door thinking it was my friend. but unfamiliar knocks on the door later made me realize the movers have arrived. i told them that my friend was not around. they said, the gruff, portly one more forcefully, that they'd rather start hauling them boxes down now before they would be slapped with another ticket. and i'd just let them.
one of them peered inside another box filled with mostly magazines and grimaced. he motioned to a partner, the portly one. then both of them, with much audible grunting, successfully heaved the heavy box onto their bi-wheeled truck. as they made it to the landing at the bottom of the staircase, i heard them and they were incredulous at how people insist on moving out with their scraps. i took it they mean my friend's magazines.
some twenty minutes later, my friend had yet to come back. the movers had already slid his mattress, fraying at one of its corners, down the staircase. a rust hued line quickly marked the side of the mattress where it rubbed against the banister.
when two of the movers came up again, one of them, the whiny one, waved a piece of paper at me with familiar scrawl on it. "this must be your friend's," he said. the handwriting was my friend's alright. but my friend, one who could never sit still for a book, writing a poem?
there were only three boxes left and i suddenly felt uncomfortable standing inside the now empty apartment. so i went out into the hallway and took to just looking into my friend's now desolate place. and it felt like i locked myself out of my own place and all i could do, since the friendlier neighbors were not around to buzz me in, just peer into the window and see familiar things but not recognize who lived in here.