[SPEED BUMPS, LOOPED] I’m an accident waiting to happen. Nothing. Didn’t say anything. Not a single word. You’re swerving, yo! Kl, kl, kl. Beyond the demarcation line. [CUE HIP-HOP/TRIP-HOP BEAT ON “STEADY”, LOOPED] Steady. Steady. Don’t worry. The cops are perpetually off-duty. Too busy calling each other cocksuckers. They don’t want to pull you over, make their quota, or ruin their tight uniforms. They’ve got pensions to shoot for. Can I have one? Half lang. [MATCH SAMPLE, LOOPED] "Roll down the window?" Smoke rises. This time I won’t run for my life, leave you behind on the curbside and watch smoke rise in a coke line ready to explode. Promise. As long as you don’t give me a nosebleed or frostbite again. That was a wicked winterfacial storm. Crows stationed themselves at fast-food chains like left-wing arsonists, huddling. But you were determined to beat the blizzard. You slammed on the breaks and my pimply face walloped the leather interior. Can’t you go any faster? Makes me car sick to see us being passed repeatedly by ruff ryders bent on winning. Succeeding. Then crashing.... that's right, [CAR SCREECHING SAMPLE] ASSHOLE! [SLIGHT PAUSE] Serves you right. Hey, you’re not even a Lolo yet. As far as I know. Getting sleepy? Want some kape? Pull over. No? Then, please lock. C’mon, I was fibe, remember? We were on our way to your Ate’s on the west side. That’s where I first saw Lucky Star by Esther formerly known as Madonna on M.T.V. in our infancy and forced myself into a coma, while you all watched The Shining, bemused. No, not so much Jaaaack. You look more like the Filipino version of Nick Nolte’s mugshot. You were driving. Prolly listening to Country radio [JOHNNY CASH SAMPLE]. Subliminal Che sus. I was compelled to jump, so I opened the passenger door. This is too easy. You saw me rolling in a fetal position, over and over. Maybe you thought you’d run me over. Maybe you thought you’d get a ticket you couldn’t afford to pay. Maybe, just maybe you thought I’d quit. You should’ve had a camera to take a picture of me rolling in a fetal position for keepsake. I would’ve signed it, too. Proof that I’m a Survivor. I’m not gon give up. I’m not gon stop. I’m gon work harder. Down, down, down 51st street where years later I’d be running from my Bibi's complex scared shitless. Sori ho. Ehsuse my language. For all the times I ran from dubious loiterers how much more time could I have had dancing the Salsa [SALSA SAMPLE] badly with my Bebédo? Or chillin' with you. Claudia.... From Columbia: peering below her balcony window like a jilted Juliet. Can’t believe she’s hitched now. She brought up Marriage once, over a Big Mac, half-eaten. Shouldn’t be this way. She still owes me for ripping my trench mouth sleeve when I tried running away at Lincoln Center plaza where she worked the outdoor caf for pinyatas. I was in no mood to Tango that Bronze Star-crossed summer. Next thing I know, Tita Olive has a wet compress on my forehead asking me if I wanted to go to "dee osspeetal." I still don’t know where Heaven is. Do you? Are we there yet? How much further? Please, please don’t appease me by putting your seatbelt on when we’re miles away from home all ready. You had your chance. To break The Law of The Jungle. Ignore the Speed limit. Wink at meter maidens. It’s my turn. We’ve made it. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here. We’re here because we’re here because we’re here because we’re here. Finally. Cross-country. From New York to Kali-Gente like Bataan Death March survivors, but on wheels of misfortune. Painfully slowwww.... Forget clothes. Save yourself. Skinny-dip to the Philippines, why don’t cha, but watch out for sharks with real teeth. [PILIPINAS KONG MAHAL {"MY BELOVED PHILIPPINES"} SAMPLE, LOOPED] Take the scenic route. Hitch a ride to Boracay on a yacht if one comes your way. Keep your eyes on the prize. No need for goodbyes. We'll meet again on the other side. You don’t have to give me paper money for gas. Yes, I'll be sure not to drink and drive, make the same mistakes you did. This time, if I get lost I’ll ask for direction. Yeah Yeah Yeahs, I will, I will. Make time to write me, key? I'll stuff your Babayin letters in San Miguel bottles for my collection. My sobriety. My sanity. They’ll wash up on this beach and I’ll stroll by and collect cut glass, then reread your words. Memorize your words. Slur your words. Bury your words under sand castles. I don’t mind. Can I have another? For the Silk Road? Salamath Po. For everything. Don’t forget, Mercy. And 'Ma: she’ll get over it. Eventually. In the meantime, I'll just wait here patiently on the hood and count the tides in case you have a change of puso. You waited for me for hours while I bombed job interviews and visited spoiled friends’ studios you were too shamed to step foot in for some reason — driving me in exchange for my love because I didn’t have a peso to give. Welp, [WAVES SAMPLE COMES IN, LOOPED] I’ll wait for you now. No matter how long it takes. Forever. [DECRESCENDO OF WAVES]
Besides, Itay, you never taught me how to drive stick-shift!
[TSUNAME BUILDS TO A CRESCENDO]
[CULMINATING WITH SOUNDS OF WAVES CRASHING]
