i became a zombie on my way to german class

It is that time of day when the sun, or what’s left of it, yawns in exhaustion. I am on my way to German class, in a passenger jeep that speeds through the surprisingly clear stretch of Mabini. Sugary drizzle tingles the asphalted road. The entr’acte of a full-blown summer storm, perhaps. The barely-there sun and the nimbus clouds render the whole scene in muted sepia tone. The perfect time and perfect weather for the blues. Turn up the sentimental music and bring on the pain. Get ready with sacks of anti-depressant pills. Or valium. Or pot. Or tofu. Or Chinese plastic cats that eternally swing their hands to and fro like a retard.

On a normal state of mind, I will have sunk into a fit of slight depression. But that day, I am not normal, and so I feel something worse. I feel detached. Floating. A zombie without a soul, but nonetheless riding the jeep to get to his zombie German class and endure the annoying “Fragen Sie Ihren Partner” of his zombie teacher.

No, I cannot force myself to feel sad even if I see an old woman sitting by the gutter, wearing oversized red boots, sporting a wrinkled expression of blankness and pain. Not far from her, in front of a seedy bar tended by scantily clad girls, an obese Caucasian guy is being pushed on his wheelchair by two locals like he were some white, flabby idol on a pagan procession. Everywhere I turn there are barbecue stands clouded with smoke. And beside them are street children flashing their toothless grin as they go high on rugby. All these while a bar girl belts out a Barry Manilow anthem in some dingy joint.

I cannot wallow in depression with a sight like that, on a delicious street like this where, at the rumor of rain, the bars shrink and the smug old houses sneer. So I wallow in my zombie detachedness instead. Silently observing. Wickedly flirting with the allure of the banal.

I get off and walk along Williams Street, still a zombie, the rain delicate on my zombie head. To my right is a Chinese school called The Pear Tree from whose grounds grows a gigantic mango tree. As I turn around the corner, a young gay guy goes “Pssst! Boy, pssst!” I walk past him, thinking that he is calling out to an acquaintance. Then he goes “Pssst, hey you, the guy with the Vans bag!” I turn, surprised. And he waves his hand frantically and goes “Hello!”

Now, maybe I should get depressed.