I woke up with Lito's sudden pulling over. He sent gravel and dust in a kaleidoscope of excitement, something that gave him a weird sense of fulfillment, like an 18 year old orgasm."Motherfucking other mothers! What's going on?" I yelled at him as if he owed me sixty years worth of pasaload.
"Sorry senyora, I just had to do it 'cuz I've been wanting to do it since Km. 5," he tilted his head to the side, regally, like Mother-Lily after a box office hit. Gay gay gay. I have almost forgiven him.
"Punyeta kang hudas ka eh di sana tumigil ka sa Km. 5 hayop ka." One of my strengths, according to my mom, is that I am always calm and poised whenever I hit people.
"Sorry po. Pangarap ko na po kasi yun mula pa nong Grade 5 ako." He was smiling as if the blood oozing down his forehead was sweat, the same way other people working for my family would respond whenever any of us would hit them, with anything but the kitchen sink. Of course we all trained them to have class and style at all times.
Lito started working for my mom when he was still a baby. My mom, after receiving the wrong shipment of designer baby clothes instead of her monthly supply of cocaine, hired baby Lito right away, frail and premature.
"What am I gonna do with the fuckin' baby clothes, sniff them?" my mom said after a heated argument with my dad whether to take the newborn child away from his biological family or not. My dad wanted to kill Lito's father and adopt Lito's mom instead.
"I want to play with this cute, child. Look Mimi (that's me), look into his eyes, he's got the word poor embedded in his poor eyes! Hahahahahaa."
My mom abused him with all the nastiest words a bitch like her can come up with, and called him poor as if Lito's purpose in life is to realize until the day he dies, that he's poor.
In gradeschool I heard my mom refer to Lito as "horsefucking-fuck-face-brainshit-maggot" inserting "kooochie kooochie" in between words. Of course I did not tolerate things like that.
"Mom, leave the fuckin child alone, his penis wouldnt even fit into your nostrils yet, why would you wanna call him fuck face?"
"Ay mi Amor Mimi, our family is feeding this filthy shit face of a baby's whole clan of hungry people! Maari natin na tawagin ang sanggol na ito ng kahit anong naisin natin mi hija, subukan mo, wag ka na matakot, halika mi hija." My mom grabbed my shoulder and let me peek into Lito's crib, right beside our boa constrictor Alma's cage.
I felt bliss when I called him shitpie eater. And brainfucker. Blurting out those words I hear from my mom on a daily basis gave me the enlightened feeling no child my age would ever experience. I wanted to hit Lito, the baby, the poor helpless baby, and I did. I was hitting him soo hard I got too excited my mom had to shoot me with tranquilizers we usually use whenever our pet Bengali tiger threatens the lives of our servants.
The tranqulizers sent me to a psychedelic daze of contentment and all I can recall was my mom, holding me in her arms, saying, "Hush now, mi hija, alright now. You did a fuckin good job telling that horrible baby shit he needs to know. Hush now love..." And then everything went black.
And we all lived happily ever after, thanks to booze and cocaine.
(to be continued...)
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