by Jay E. Tria
“Mars just gave me next month’s schedule. It’s like a tour de Metro Manila. Like one of those chain-mail type challenges, only this one is a race against traffic and we almost always lose.” Jill stretched her legs out in front of her, gaze fixed on her palms as if her woes were written on the lines there.
“Then we’ve got Rock Isko Rock in Cebu, then Free Fall Festival to release the new single ‘To the Moon.’ And that’s a huge thing. We’ve been aching to play that stage since freshman year.” Jill’s gaze lifted, veering to their left where the university’s sunken garden burned under the afternoon haze. “Mars told me it’s my job to convince Miki to sing it, because stubborn boy still refuses to for reasons unknown.”
Shinta thought she was seeing a rusty Ferris wheel and a wide outdoor stage, the grass trodden by a horde of fans jumping under a blinking sign that read Trainman’s name. Flashes of things to come. He saw these with the same certainty he heard the distinct way Jill said Miki’s name. The sound was warm, yielding, and well-worn.
“He wrote that song and it belongs to him. He has to sing it,” she went on, words flowing out in a loving whisper. “But how can I convince him when I barely see him these days?”
“You see him at gigs,” Shinta offered.
“Yes, but Ana’s there.”
I’m there too, Shinta added in his head. I should always be there.
“Of course, I like Ana,” Jill burst out, as if Shinta’s silence had implied she didn’t. “I think she makes Miki happy. The kind of happy that makes apples out of his cheeks.” She chuckled. “My cheeky best friend.”
Miki, the cheeky. Miki, the brick wall, the good earth beneath her feet, the best friend. Shinta had always thought of him as a wonderful human. But he knew that the best thing Miki had going for him was that he was there. He was a resident of Jill’s sphere. The one Shinta only got to visit.
He’d apparently let out a grunt and a heavy sigh, because Jill had thrown him a look.
“Here.” He cleared his throat, pushing a small strip of paper into her palm. “Something to look forward to when you’re ready to celebrate.”
“What is this?”
She thumbed the precise edges of the small rectangle he’d handed her. Shinta had fashioned it out of yellow cardboard he’d found among his mother’s supplies last night. He had searched for her set of multicolored markers next, his hands moving to ease his heart’s anxiety, his desire to be there for Jill in all things, always.
“One hour of Shinta-lovin’,” Jill read out slowly.
“No expiration date,” he said with the tone of a man proud of his wares.
Jill crossed her arms, the sight a bit less disconcerting with the shades of red highlighting her cheeks. “I was under the impression I have unlimited access to this.”
“You do.” Shinta nodded somberly. “But this is a special coupon. It comes with never-before-seen tricks.”
“How dare you, sir. You’ve been holding back on me?”
“A man has to keep some secrets up his sleeve. I didn’t want to risk boring you. Now, on an equally important yet admittedly more pressing note—”
“This better not be another coupon.”
Shinta pulled Jill onto his lap, planting his chin on her shoulder, her chin resting on the steep line of his nose. Their limbs stuck together, crook of arm around hot shoulder, clammy palm on bare thigh. Shinta liked the feeling, of sticky skin on sweaty skin. He liked that they were stuck.
“You have a lot of things going on, and to add to that, there’s this too.” Shinta gestured to the mapped out flyers on their right. “And I know it seems crazy, but why does crazy mean you can’t do all of it? You’re not just a girl in a band. You’re the smartest girl I know.”
Jill sighed out, her breath hot on his lashes. “Smarter than your celebrity exes?”
“I sense mockery.”
“Sorry.” Jill stifled a giggle. “I think I was always on the lookout for an opening to say that.”
“If you must know—” Shinta angled his head so he held her gaze, absorbing the full X-ray force of it. “—you are the smartest of them all. You are amazing. You can do anything.” He rubbed his thumb along her cheek, helping her tiny smile move further along. “Also, I’m here with you. Present, helpful, and you have to admit, kind of cute.”
Jill smirked, angling her head up so she could plant a kiss on his thumb. Her gaze fell back on the narrow, yellow slip of cardboard, turning it over and over in her hands.
“I really wish this didn’t come with an expiration date.”
“We don’t need to think about that now,” Shinta rushed out, a tiny flare of panic sparking inside his chest.
The moment broken, his ears were filled with the patter of shoes and slippers on the rugged pavement—sounds of people in motion. He heard the happy honks of cars and jeepneys that flew past them, the urgent bell-tolling of a man peddling ice cream, and the laughter of college kids lured by his cart. A jeepney dawdled in front of the waiting shed where Shinta and Jill were taking shelter, its radio blaring out the noise of a DJ’s obnoxious voice.
Shinta turned back to Jill, smiling. “We don’t need to think about that now,” he repeated, more to himself. Then to her: “I think I know the person who can help fix your lineup.”
September 29, Tuesday, night
Strike 11 Radio Interview Transcript
DJ Diego: Aaaaaaaand welcome, boys and girls. If you’re only catching us now, you are listening to your favorite late night radio show Strike 11, here at Alt Code Rock Radio. You’re hanging out with me, DJ Diego, and the pretty boys and girl of that band you may or may not have heard of, Trainman. Give it up for the kids in the house!
(Scattered applause)
Son: Woot, woot!
DJ Diego: Isn’t it great how you guys were just here a few weeks ago promoting the launch of your first ever LP, and now you’re here again?
Nino: We also don’t know how this happened.
Jill: And why. So soon.
Kim: Thanks for having us again, Diego. Mars must really like you. And your show.
DJ Diego: Last time I got you guys, you were getting ready to launch your follow-up single and title track, ‘To The Moon.’ Which you should really do already, by the way, because let’s be honest. We’re all pretty much fed up with ‘Bright Side.’
Jill: I think we’re all fed up with a lot of things these days, Diego.
Kim: Thank you for always being excited for us, Diego. It has been quite a busy past few months of promotions.
DJ Diego: So, guys, come on, update me. ‘To The Moon’’s launch is happening at Free Fall Festival right? Which is like, only the biggest music event this side of the semester. Bands are born as much as bands go to die on that stage. You know what I mean?
Nino: Do you know what you mean?
DJ Diego: This is so exciting! Haven’t you guys dreamed of going up that stage your whole post-pubescent lives?
Son: Yes, but no pressure, right?
Nino: A bunch of pretty Korean boys called East Jeans something—
Son: East Generation? Like the girl group?
Nino: East Genetics Plan?
Jill: East Genesis Project. They’re a rock band too. Their music is good!
Nino: Whatever. They will be there to perform too, but I firmly believe we’re a good match to their aesthetic. Yep.
Kim: Thank you for that, Nino, Son. To answer your question, Diego, yes we’re very excited. We’ve been attending Free Fall since college freshman year, and we’ve always wanted to take the stage someday. This year, we finally get to do that. It’s like homecoming.
DJ Diego: A homecoming party! And no one parties like college kids parched in the middle of exam hell, you guys know that. I still remember that one time at Free Fall when I was a freshman myself. I woke up in the middle of the sunken garden, drenched in beer and in what I hoped was my own piss.
Nino: Good times.
DJ Diego: Is Miki man enough now
to sing his own song live?
Miki: I’m sitting right here, Diego.
DJ Diego: Oh yes, there you are, you beating heart of a man. I mean, we’ve all heard the song already. It’s on the fucking album. I don’t understand all this drama of you not wanting to perform it live…Oh. Hold up, I have an incoming. (Patches in a call) Hello, fan of mine. You’re on air!
Caller: Konnichiwa!
Jill: What the—Shinta?
Shinta: Hello, everyone. Hello, Jill, surprise!
Jill: What are you doing?
Shinta: Helping!
DJ Diego: Don’t tell me. Is this Jill’s new toy boy? The Asian hunk? The one Jill threw away a seven-year relationship with Kim for?
Jill: That’s not how it happened—
Kim: Um.
DJ Diego: We’ve got a legit celebrity on the air! This might be the first time.
Son: Hey! I know my jeans have holes in them and that this is a very old Bon Jovi t-shirt, but people like us too!
DJ Diego: Jill, girl, I don’t blame you. I have seen the butt. I have seen the shirtless pictures.
Nino: Shinta, you said you called to help? Now would be a really good time.
Shinta: Yes, my question is for Diego. When you call yourself DJ, you don’t use the term loosely, right?
DJ Diego: If you’re asking if I spin records outside this godforsaken box, you are right, you beautiful man.
Shinta: Great. Can you make yourself available Thursday night? Next week?
DJ Diego: Well, I’ve got this show, but who cares? It can run a little late. No one listens to this shit anyway (loud cackling laughter).
Nino: Again, Kim, one wonders why we’re here.
Shinta: Bring your own tools, sir. Build your 30-minute set list. But I will need you to run it by me ASAP. And by me, I mean Jill. Because this is her show.
DJ Diego: What is this? Jill is cooking up something on the side? Can’t blame you though. This music thing can’t be making a billionaire out of you. I, for one, still live in my ex-girlfriend’s house. It’s complicated.
Shinta: To be clear, this gig will not require you to speak. You show up, spin the vinyl records for a half hour or so, and turn over the floor to Trainman. Got it?
Nino: You hear that, guys? We’re seeing Diego again really soon.
Kim: That’s really…ah. Awesome.
Miki (whispers): Jill, you don’t really need three guitarists on Thursday, do you?
Jill: Don’t even think about it, Mikhail.
DJ Diego: Got it and got it, yellow-skinned god. I am your slave.
Shinta: Okay. So, Jill.
Jill: I’m taking this is what you meant when you said you had a plan?
Shinta: Yes, unless I have another surprise hidden in here somewhere…
Jill: Please, enough with the surprises.
Shinta: I kid, I kid (chuckles). I know this sounds like a crazy plan but you know I always defer to you. What do you think?
Jill: I think you are a strange, crazy man, and an amazing man. And I think a DJ on Gig Night sounds like a doozy.
October 8, Thursday, night
They went through three cases of beer in the first hour. That added up to 72 bottles, each one attached to a person paying the price of admission.
People streamed into Lala’s shoebox book café like gushing rainwater, regulars and new faces alike squeezing into the pink leather seats and squatting on the rented wrought iron stools. A burst of rain and riot of thunder marked the end of the first hour, but instead of keeping more people from coming, it encouraged them to pour in, for shelter or for the promise of live music, or maybe for both. They stood with their beers and plates of fish crackers in what little space they could claim on the floor, elbows and knees locked, bumping against each other in the crammed space.
By eight o’clock, the rain had let up. Some chose to go outside to meet the cool, light drizzle and fire up their cigarettes. By nine o’clock, Shinta’s playlist—art punk, 90’s grunge, J-pop, and OPM rock—had reached its last song, going on its second loop. By 9:30, Jill was riding her first wave of panic.
“That wretched DJ is 30 minutes late,” she roared into Shinta’s ear, standing beside him in a quieter corner behind one of the bookshelves. “He was supposed to start the show. The many times we told him that.”
“He says ETA is in 30 minutes more.” Shinta took Jill by her shoulders and started rubbing circles down the length of her arms. “He’ll be here and he’ll be ready to perform. I will kill him. But before that, he’ll perform.” Shinta craned his head left and right, trying to spy the rest of the night’s lineup. “How about your guys?”
“Miki’s on his way with Ana.” Jill was performing some sort of stationary tap dance, her nails digging deep into Shinta’s wrists. Her gaze went around the packed room too, searching for a face she knew wasn’t there. “He usually arrives at gigs at least an hour before, but he says he’s helping Ana with a Marketing project, something.” She sucked in a deep breath, returning to Shinta. “Son and Nino are outside, flirting like roosters. But they’re here. And Kim is…”
Jill trailed off, her gaze locking onto something in the crowd. Shinta turned to look too, finding Kim—striding toward them, eyebrows in the air and mouth in a lopsided grin.
“Very big crowd you got here, Jill. And at your first try too,” Kim said when he reached them. “Congratulations, newbie.”
Short, high-pitched laughter escaped Jill’s mouth. “Thank you. If I don’t look too happy, it’s just the stress clawing through my insides because my first act is half an hour late.”
Shinta swooped down towards her. “Tell me what you need.”
“I need to start the show.” Her eyes were focused on the front of the room, on the narrow strip of space held empty by a low barrier of speakers. “You know what, screw Diego. I’m going up there. I have Julia.”
“And me,” Kim piped up.
“Yeah.” Jill zoned in on Kim, her face clearing.
“I’d volunteer Son and Nino but I saw them leaving to hit a Mini Stop with a few, uh, new friends,” Kim added.
“Who needs percussion and a bass line?” Jill shook her head.
Kim shrugged. “People who don’t have ‘em.”
“Right.” She laughed. “Let’s do this.”
Shinta had never wished for any sort of musical sensibility the way he did at that moment, watching Jill take the front of the room with Kim, electric guitars in tow. There was little he could do now apart from swear generously at Diego’s trail of excuses on his phone. He didn’t know what to do with a guitar, except to handle it with care. His singing chops were only acceptable by karaoke night standards, and only with a certain level of alcohol intake. He wasn’t going to let these people suffer just so he’d have something to do.
Jill unplugged the amps while Kim killed off the mics and slid the stands to the side. They moved seamlessly, pulling up stools and plopping down as if there were Xs on the floor, marking their respective spots. Shinta felt frustration settle, heavy in his gut. He hammered his fist once against his stomach, shooing it to oblivion. He found the lights guy and asked him to turn a friendly beam on Jill and Kim. A flick of a switch and a warm spotlight fell on their faces, followed by a hush floating down on the tight crowd.
Jill said a brief hello to the sea of eager faces, then turned to Kim, whispering the name of a song. He answered with half a smile and an easy bob of his head. There was a beat of silence, and then the metal rhythm of their unplugged guitars filled the dense air of the room, the sound raw and bright.
Jill’s voice seeped through the loop, slipping through the rhythm like silk thread in an intricate weave. Kim’s raspy rumble took its turn on the song’s third line.
“I’m gonna look you up this Saturday night/ Walk up your street under the sweet moonlight.”
“I’ll bring a bottle of your favorite gin/ We’ll talk and smoke and sin again.” The last words seemed to drift in the gust of air that Kim exha
led, hanging there between them and melting with the sound of his extended strum. He hit a run of sharp plucks, and sang the next line, the words supple on his tongue. “Won’t you let me in?”
Jill’s lips parted into a wide grin as she joined Kim on the chorus. “Why won’t you let me in?/ Why won’t you let me in?”
Shinta stayed behind in his dark corner. He trained his eyes on the blinding light of his phone screen, arm wrapped around his stomach as he waited for that blasted DJ to take his call. “Twenty minutes left, Diego,” he muttered through gnashing teeth. “If you’re not here by then, I swear I’ll go up there and sing. I’ll do it!”
A ping alerted him to a message. Shinta swiped, speedreading Diego’s text: Trouble with the neighborhood traffic enforcers. Thirty more minutes?
Shinta turned his eyes to the ceiling, his vision blurring into a haze of fire and smoke. His lips curled, spewing out 10 curses a minute. “Brilliant plan, Mori. Hire the unstable DJ and save your girl’s show. Be her hero. Good job.”
“Dude.”
Shinta searched for the source of that spoken syllable and found Lala staring at him, a baker’s dozen bottles of beer sliding on the tray she held up with both hands.
“What are you doing over there?” she demanded. “Apart from sulking, because I can see that.”