Scrambled eggs, Scrambled lives

In the sweetness of friendship, let there be laughter and sharing of pleasures. For in the due of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed. — Khalil Gibran

Do you like your eggs scrambled or poached?” my girlfriend called out from the kitchen as I pretended to still be asleep in my room and deaf to her. It wasn’t a futile attempt, for Beth was too numb and dumb to think I was ignoring her. I buried my face in the pillow and let out a sigh. Just this once, I wished she’d leave me alone.

“Scrambled or poached??” she yelled again, louder this time. “I can’t do fried because the yolk always breaks! Hey, ‘The yolk always breaks’… That’s a good title for a book! Ha, ha!”

She had already coined that line a few weeks ago and I wasn’t surprised she hadn’t remembered. What a dumb bunny.

“Poached!” I yelled. I’d been having them scrambled ever since the season finale of How I Met Your Mother and I was getting sick of it.

I met Beth met five years ago at a club in Libis. We have sort of an on-again, off-again thing going, but it’s mostly off because we barely have anything in common.

She can hold her liquor, loves the Twilight movies and is always cheerful and bubbly. She also has this tendency to ramble when she talks and has trouble telling left from her right. I, on the other hand, am often very touchy and lack sentiment. I get woozy after a few shots of whiskey and would rather watch a dozen Chinese documentaries about plants with no subtitles than sit through an hour of Twilight.

I flipped through my wallet and prayed I still had enough cash for a pack of cigarettes. I did, but barely, as I fished out two rather faded 20-peso bills. I scanned the room for any more loose change and saw my reflection in the mirror. My face looked dreadful; like someone who used to be bright and full of promise. And it was a sight I just had to look away from.

It was then that I realized something that I should have realized every day for the last six months: I was a tragedy.

After graduating from film school last year, I’d had delusions of grandeur, visions of network executives fawning over me, begging me to produce and direct their TV shows. I dreamed of heading a profitable company that would make cool, artsy videos and blockbuster comedies. I thought Hollywood would come a-calling for my screenplays and I’d be jetting off to Los Angeles for good, where, after purchasing a house in Bel-Air, I’d get linked to several high-profile models and actresses before I finally settled down with Anne Hathaway.

Okay, okay. That last thought was probably a bit much and has less of a chance of happening than if I started crapping money. As fate would have it, none of my dreams ever came to fruition. I was able to start a production company with some of my film school friends, but the business had gone under before it could even begin to stay afloat.

I submitted scripts to a couple of TV stations (which I never heard from), and went as far as to work as a project coordinator for a low-budget American cable show that exploited us “Filipino locals.” Eventually, I was reduced to making propaganda videos for politicians during the elections. And as wonderful as that sounds, believe me when I tell you: it wasn’t.

Before long, my savings dried up and was already contemplating making a porn video to sell in Quiapo until someone convinced me that no one would ever buy anything like that with me in it. Thanks, Dad.

I don’t mind paying my dues. I never have, really. But sometimes, misfortunes can break even the most high-spirited guy when he gets enough of it. And I’m not a high-spirited guy to start with.

So for the second time in my adult life, I felt like a failure. Only this time, it was much more difficult to live with. For not only did I not have a fallback to cushion me anymore, I no longer possessed the luxury of youth — a vital and fundamental factor when learning from mistakes.

It’s during these troubling times when you thank God you have someone to share your miseries with. And you hold on to any shrapnel of hope that remains in your hollow, sad, little world.

“Scrambled eggs à la Beth!” she announced and served me a plate of yellow goo while chewing on a piece of burnt toast. “I thought I heard you say ‘poached’ but then I noticed you’ve been eating scrambled eggs for, like, forever, and I easily forget stuff so I didn’t think I heard you right. Besides, I never trust my ears ‘cause my stupid cousin once pulled them to get me out of a swimming pool when I was nine and ever since that I… I… Wait, what was I talking about again?”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said and kissed her softly on the cheek. “You heard right.”

She smiled and took a seat opposite mine. “Hey, Matt! Let’s watch a movie tonight, yes? I’ll check the listings for the latest comedy…”

“Actually, why don’t we see that new Twilight thing?”

“But you hate that…” she said while scanning the movie schedules on a cell phone. “Why on earth would you want to see it now?”

I gently took the phone away from her hand and looked her straight in the eyes in a manner that conveyed genuine interest. She looked straight into mine.

“Because you want to,” I said.

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E-mail: estabillo.matthew@gmail.com.