Classical Strain
by Bernice Roldan

I have no idea at which narrow Manila street I was in when The Loudest Shirt on Earth got on the jeep. We could’ve been rumbling down España or turned the corner after the Morayta overpass with its morning crowd of beggars, vendors, and college students. One moment The Loudest Shirt on Earth never existed, then the next he was there, squeezing his humongous shirt into the space between me and the girl in the green checkered skirt and school tie.

I pretended to check my watch to count the minutes I was late for work. One sidelong glance was all it took for the shirt to burn into my brain. It was a collage of sumo wrestlers roasting in the pits of hell, the fiery color billowing up until it reached the collar of The Loudest Shirt on Earth, whose back was turned as he took out his wallet. I thought those three sumo wrestlers on his back were all there was. But as The Loudest Shirt on Earth sat back and crossed the ankles of his elephant pants, I saw bouncing topknots and steamy loincloths all around.

There was no doubt about it. As I sat stewing while the roaring furnace of a shirt beside me competed with the heat waves flowing out of the jeep’s hood, I knew that such a morning warranted a day like I’ve never seen before. The heat waves went on warping the motionless traffic outside. I wasn’t mistaken.

We were in the middle of our usual mid-morning deadline rush when I learned about the free tickets. Jazz Central, Jupiter Street in Makati, 9 PM. A violinist I’ve never heard of backed by the equally anonymous COF Band.

“Cough?” I asked Gina, our manager-in-waiting, as I ignored a ringing phone.

“C-O-F,” she spelled out emphatically. “Club of Francia.”

“You’ve never seen Jun Francia play?” Sheryl asked, scooting over in her swivel seat.

I shook my head. “The only violinist I know is John Lesaca.” The bookish John Lesaca on TV that I recall from childhood. He could be playing the tabla skindrums now for all I know, but the John Lesaca I remember always played classical violin with muted energy. Back then, when his bow danced crazily across the strings, his Beatles moptop always shook with fervor and his glasses never lost that sparkle from the stage lights.

“Oh, but Jun Francia is handsome, Justine. He always wears a ponytail. When he plays the violin, he really feels the music.” Sheryl stood up and mimed the violinist for my benefit. Closing her eyes and adopting a blissed out smile, she held out her left arm (the violin) and bended her right (the bow), and started working on the outstretched arm energetically. She looked like a disgruntled office employee tying off, finally discovering the benefits of smack.

It’s like the world just decided that people walk on ceilings, cows write novels, and pigs fly. My officemates, all avid listeners of Radio Romance, actually knew more jazz than I did.

“So how about it? You getting Ma’am Lorna’s ticket? She’s leaving right after the meeting and can’t catch the show.” Gina took out a blue ticket and held it out to me.

I took it from her. “Just the one? I can’t bring Aaron along?”

“Just the one. We’ll go together. You live in Q.C., right? So does my friend Lalaine. She could drop you off tonight.” As always, it looked like Gina had it all planned out. And if the ticket said 9 PM, that would mean working overtime and being sociable with strangers. (continue)

“OT, dinner, meet your friends, we all drive there?” I confirmed.

Gina beamed. “Something like that.”

Sheryl wheeled herself back to her cubicle. “I’ll have to defer, girls. I’m having dinner with Yasser while I can. We’ll catch up at Jazz Central tonight.” She shook the mouse to clear her monitor of a Pokemon screensaver. Second Mate Yasser, as Sheryl sometimes called him, would be on board in less than a month, and by then she’d only hear from him during port calls, at remittance center pit stops, and the occasional scratchy dialogue from the radio room at sea. (continue)