THE RED TRUCK

This essay was actually first written nearly 10 years ago, and had been printed on a local magazine supplement. The red bike was stolen by a thief from Toril years later.

It happened many months ago. I could have written it earlier but for some reasons, only recently had I got the mood. I’m quiet amused by it, particularly with the interplay of the dominant color, Red. It seemed that the events came straight out of a fictitious script, but skepticism is the last thing I need, so I assure again that these events did happen.

After some savings, and maybe luck (if I care to believe in such a word), I was able to scout the store for my particular dream, a mountain bike. They had on display some greens, black, purple, red, and whoa- blue. But the blue bike costs a few more, and my pocket itched that it’s not on the budget. Beside it was a red bike. No way, reds could do well for extroverts and, as my friends claim, I’m not.

But I noticed upon closer observation that it was not the bright flashy red I had in mind. It’s not red, it’s maroon, I said. Luckily, some unknown guy who seemed to know a lot about bikes raved about its clutch, brakes, and quiet convincing at that (thanks, pal). So off I went with my red, er, maroon bike.

My childhood buddy, on seeing my bike, drilled “Why did you choose red?” It’s not red, it’s maroon, I retorted.

One day, I decided to take my bike, and myself, on a rough and tumble test to a place thousands of feet high above the small, noisy town of Toril, in a place called Eden. I once had a friend who went there with his bike, and it gave a challenge. It will be a personal record of sorts, I nudged. Taking some provisions of snack and a book, I’m on my way. I was too excited to check on my bike.

The bike was doing well, I assured as I climbed up a steep hill more than half an hour later. Suddenly, something sounded like a screech! And the pedal started to hit hard. I tinkered on my bike and found out that a nut had loosened up. The wheel reacted in a precarious angle and wedged itself tightly into the frame. Nuts, exclaimed me.

Determined not to let anything, even my bike, ruin my day, I waited a while and flag any incoming vehicle for a wrench. A guy on motorcycle apologized, he had his tool on some other place. I couldn’t flag down those tinted 4x4’s, I can’t afford to get a snub.
I decided to spend my time reading. Luckily, I brought my book. The story was set by a house near the Irish sea, with a landscape of bogs, mossy rocks and dull, gray skies. I traveled to a distant land as I read on.

We would lay nightlines, in our rare moment of tranquility, on a beach below the terrace where our house was…I first saw from the top window, she clutched her coat around her, held her music up to protect her face from the spray and laughed as she struggled with the wind. A wave hit her, nearly knocked her sideways and she stopped for a moment to regain her breath. I saw…

…A red Volkswagen trudging down the dusty road. Immediately I waved a hand. The passengers were a quaint, old couple. I delivered my side and asked for a favor if I could have a few moments with their wrench. They looked at each other. I noticed some uncomfortable movement from the wife. I asked if they’re in a hurry. The wife nodded, “moadto pa mi sa bukid,” (we still have to go up to the mountain) she smiled, coldly. “Ninaog man lagi mo palayo sa bukid?” (how come you’re going away from the mountain?), I was tempted to ask. No matter, I decided not to waste an uncomfortable time and thanked them anyway. The volks continued puff-puffing down the road. Besides, I did not like red anyway.

I returned and picked up my book and ate my snack. The scorching sun was relentless. A little girl over there was nagging at the top of her lungs at the boys on a tree behind me. They were stealing her guavas.

Then the red truck came. I thumbed up and it stopped before me. I could see on its window posters of half naked women looking foxily at me. Ah, a driver-na-sweet lover kind of guy (this phrase were often posted as stickers on some Philippine jeepneys). Any self-righteous nut could easily judge less of him.

I told him about my dilemma and asked for his aid. Not only did the man readily hand me his adjustable wrench, but he also sent his assistant to help me. A few minutes later, the problem was fixed. Profusely I thanked him and his assistant as they drove on.

I gazed at the man and the boy, on a red truck with naked posters. He was an image of a modern-day Samaritan. Man, you are in for a record.

Hours later I finally reached the crossroads of Eden. The place was so high that the city of Davao looked like clusters of tiny pebbles. The mountain air was cool as I savored the achievement. My bike, the red volks and the red truck played on my mind. Then it started to trickle.

The downhill road drove my bike fast, but nevertheless the resounding rain had me drenched. I arrived home really dripping wet. But what the heck, an amusing experience that was.