Jupiter Falls

Stuck in traffic, I stare outside the car window and into the lightning show illuminating the night sky. Oddly enough, the lightning bolts possess a certain golden hue, something I’ve never seen before. It has always been neon white and neon indigo, never neon green nor neon red, and certainly not neon gold. Even as I count the seconds for the complementary thunder to arrive, I see another golden bolt streak down to earth.

So, it’s real after all. My eyes aren’t deceiving me.

Gold lightning.

Actually, I can’t care less if it’s a freak of science, nature gone mad, or simply a portent of a coming storm. The only thing I care about right now – the thing eating up my thought and patience – is the 300-pound gorilla sitting right next to me inside the FX Megataxi. He arrogantly enforces the authority given – no, mandated – by his extreme obesity to take up every inch of seating space and crush a 130-pound runt against the car door. The runt, of course, is me. When I give him a side-glance, he drools saliva even while wide awake. He plumbs the depth of his nose with a big, fat finger with reckless bravery that puts Indiana Jones to shame. He clears his throat with such ruckus that you’ll think the taxi seat was his throne.

No bad blood between me and obese people, but this human being is as inconsiderate as one can get – his legs as huge as baobab trunks, he spreads them open at a ridiculous angle (yes, 180 degrees!), costing the FX driver two more seats worth of passengers, a flat tire (sooner than later), and a seething, disgruntled customer. The latter, of course, is me.

With every bump on the road, every bump of my head on the car roof, and every bump of my seatmate’s mammoth knee against mine, I can feel it building up inside me – that wonderful sensation which obscures my sight with a miasma of bloody red and causes my clenched fist to inexplicably quiver and shake and just plain look menacing.

The human beside me is sick; he makes me sick. He makes me mad. He makes me bad. And so did my scowling seatmate earlier on the jeepney ride. And so did the bus passengers looking down scornfully on the waiting commuters on the street, jeering at pretty boys and whistling at pretty girls. And so did him, and so did her, and so did everybody around me.

The crimson haze gets redder, and the clenched fist starts to drip imaginary blood.

The taxi screeches to a halt. Red light. A street vendor, a guy barely out of his teens, hastily approaches the FX driver’s window and peddles his rags. I can’t hear what he’s mouthing; the driver doesn’t roll down the window, looking straight ahead at the cars in front, fingers doing the counting of worn paper bills. The vendor continues to mouth something.

Suddenly, the driver rolls down the window with furious jerks of his arm. “What did you say?” he shouts to the face of the vendor. “You were going to wipe my face with your rags?!”

The boy vendor shakes his head in response, a little smirk imprinted on his face.

“You son of b*tch!” The driver motions to open the door even as he spews out some more cusswords. “Gago ka!” The vendor scurries away and disappears amongst the maze of cars, leaving the driver red-faced and short of breath.

I pause in my thoughts; my mind goes blank. I take a deep breath, so deep I end up gasping for air. Staring at the back of the irate driver's head, I try to think of something, to justify anything, to vilify everything. But there is nothing.

Car horns blare. Green light. The driver composes himself, and the taxi lurches forward.

My eyes wander to the swaying crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror. Its motion oscillates with the vehicle’s mood – one second, the crucifix threatens to subdue my senses with its gentle, hypnotizing motion; the next moment, the crucifix violently jerks from left to right, a frenzied dance for a frenzied night.

After a while, whether from strain or shame (or both), I shift my view from the crucifix to the dark, roiling skies outside the car window.

Watching the jagged, aurulent bolts strike down from the heavens, and hearing the Olympian rumblings which follow, it finally dawns upon me.

This world has too much thunder and lightning.