TEETH: Prologue

There is a story that I cannot tell you simply because I’m not here to tell it and you’re not there to hear it. We’ve already moved on and left nothing, not even corpses. But that’s not right. We left our teeth scattered like pearls upon the everlasting tomb of what once was the world. A world that now lies empty as a mummy’s husk.

There is a story that I cannot tell you but if I was to tell it and you were to listen I would begin the telling this way…

On the day the world passed away there were four people in a jeepney. I suppose you could say there were five people in that jeepney if you deign to count the driver. The driver doesn’t figure into this story though so let’s ignore him. The driver is considered a part of the entire machine and so does not qualify as a person for our purposes. Thus: On the day the world passed away there were four passengers in a jeepney.

The jeepney wasn’t anything you’d particularly remember. When you look at real live jeepneys you’ll understand that our collective idea of this Filipino phenomenon is somewhat screwy. We think we know jeepneys. We think we understand them. If you ask an artist to make a painting of a jeepney, chances are he’ll create something with garish fiesta colors. There will be a team of chrome horses on the hood, almost-witty captions above the windshield (in 10 gazillion size Copperplate Gothic Bold font), Jesus tearing out his own heart airbrushed on one side, and Mary tearing out her heart on the other. Now this is a jeepney. This, by God, is fucking Pinoy! Or is it? How many jeepneys do you think actually look anything like that? There are a few, of course, but those monstrosities remind me of pets wearing silly costumes. Their owners should be dragged out into the street, pushed against a wall, and shot. No, man, a real jeepney isn’t a banquet of colors. It’s a drab affair with the non-color of rain clouds or the battered GI sheets on shanty-house roofs underneath which filthy children starve. A real jeepney isn’t a symbol of Filipino resourcefulness. It’s a death-box driven by a surly coachman who barely grasps traffic laws. A real jeepney isn’t a love-crammed hippie bus leaving good vibes in its wake. It’s a meat train bound for Auschwitz.

On the day the world passed away there were four passengers in a jeepney tearing through Quezon Avenue. That they were all there at the same time may have something to do with providence. Or perhaps God’s sense of humor. Four is an unlucky number. Four is one plus three, one and three being thirteen. Thirteen is an instrument of misfortune. Four is the number of points on the Man-Tree. The Man-Tree is an instrument of pain. Four is the number of Samigina, Great Marquis of Hell who rules over thirty legions. Samigina is an instrument of darkness. Four is the number of rigid movements a soldier employs to bring his rifle from his side to his right shoulder. A soldier is an instrument of death. Do you see the way the Arcana falls? Providence.

The first passenger was the Aging Virgin.

The second passenger was the Sated Whore.

The third passenger was the Empty Cup.

The fourth passenger was the Sleeping Fool.

And so our story begins.