The Death of Tony
For many days now, all Tony could think about was how would his wife, Gloria, and their 4-month old son, Nathan, would cope in case he died at any moment. It was something that kept his mind occupied on idle times. Like after drinking with his fellow instructors in the university.
He and his colleagues would always wrestle with theories and philosophies on which their varying theses oftentimes clash, and always, while on his way home, his head soaked in alcohol like a dishwashing sponge, he would ponder on his death while staring out at the bus window. It wasn’t the view outside the window that made him think about his death and how his family would cope; nor was it the neon lights full of life, the billboards screaming with pleasure laced with some famous celebrity’s photoshopped smile nor of the late-night commuters waiting for buses or jeepneys with their bored drivers—no, it wasn’t it. The thought was biting in his mind like a brain parasite, and the only way to prevent it from totally winning over him was to think about it. For him, thoughts about his death held a heavy significance, like a dense object occupying a small room in his heart.
Minutes later, he arrived at their apartment. All the laughter and academic language that occupied his ears while drinking with his colleagues dispersed at once, leaving a hush of silence like rain suddenly disappearing after a cruel downpour. Gloria opened the door when he knocked. He kissed her on the lips and she noted the smell of liquor.
“I had a drink with my colleagues,” Tony remarked even though she didn’t ask about it, nor did her countenance featured any sign of distress about his late arrival. He simply felt he needed to say it.
“I see,” Gloria answered. It was her usual neutral reply. The kind that sounded like an echo in an empty cave.
Thoughts of the cave brought Tony back to the Ancient Greeks and their uncanny curiosity for everything around them. Plato was the one who spoke about the dancing shadows as observed by people in the cave, and approximately two thousand years later, Tony was still preaching about the people inside the cave, the shadows they missed, and then he’d drink with his colleagues, he’d think about his death, and then kiss his wife on her lips.
Tony sat at the sofa in the living room, took off his shoes, and then turned on the TV. The late-night news was on. The whole astronomic community was celebrating the successful flyby of a space probe on the distant dwarf-planet, Pluto. Tony had heard about it from a student of his earlier, but he hardly paid attention because his mind was on somewhere else. Probably as far as that probe. Thoughts about his death came to him even during his classes.
He stared at the TV screen as he sipped some leftover sour broth that Gloria had reheated for him. He felt that the news of the probe’s nine-year travel through the vast emptiness of the outer space held the greatest importance.
Nine years. That was how long they were married.
It took 9 years to finally convince Gloria that they should have a child. It took 9 years to convince himself also. Maybe it has something to do with ideas for settling down. As if time will slow down to be savored.
“Hey listen,” Tony began. “I got these vacation leaves saved up. And I was thinking, maybe, the three of us could go somewhere for the weekend.”
“What’s on your mind?” Gloria asked. She was smiling. She sat beside him on the sofa.
“Well, there’s a travelling agency offering a discounted trip to Hawaii,” Tony replied, all the while thinking of the right adjectives for the place enough to convince her.
“Hawaii sounds nice,” Gloria said.
“Good, good,” Tony was nodding as if agreeing at something. His eyes found the TV screen and watched the rest of the broadcast: another terrorist group surfaced in some country in the Middle-East, insurrection down in Mindanao, rumors about the members of the senate planning to run for the 2016 Presidential Elections—same old, same old. He sipped the rest of the soup. He wanted to start talking about the thoughts he had about his death. He wanted to ask Gloria how she and Nathan would cope in case he unexpectedly died, but she had already gone to their bedroom. Maybe she was tired. He read somewhere that women get fatigued easier once they give birth.
How it worked for the husband, he had no idea.
He placed the empty bowl on the sink. He splashed cool tap water on his face. He drank a glass of water, and before going to the bedroom, he stopped by Nathan’s separate room. He peeked on the crib. His son was fast asleep. He felt a twitch of envy on his infant son’s predicament. Sleep, cry, and be fed—without the least bit of anxiety about his death!
He changed to an old shirt and his boxer shorts before lying down on the bed with Gloria. Though her eyes were closed, he knew she wasn’t asleep yet. She was the type of woman who would feel anvils weighing down on her eyelids while doing something, only to find that the anvils would be gone once she laid down on the bed.
“Say, have you ever thought of what you’d do in case I suddenly die?” Tony finally asked.
Gloria’s reply was something he didn’t expect. “But how would you die?”
Gloria’s question was something he pondered upon the next day. If he were to die, surely before asking what she would do, it was necessary for him to know how he would die first. With purpose comes action, after all.
Yet it was something that he had never given any thought: the cause of his death.
During his break, he read in the paper that a man was found butchered in some empty street in Quiapo. The article wasn’t really graphic, but inside his head, Tony imagined what it might have looked like: a solitary alley in a solitary part of the city: the man’s lifeless body lying on one side; his eyes bloodshot with fear, his face still swelling, and his abdomen split open, spilling out his entrails and looked like those deranged black market sausages made from double-dead meat.
Tony felt he wanted to puke. And because of that, he thought of another possible way he could die: by a terminal sickness. He imagined walking on the doctor’s office. The doctor had this gloomy look when he entered and sat. “The results of the tests have arrived,” the doctor said. “And you are positive with [insert name of terminal sickness here]. It is a rare disease that is obtained from too much malt beer. I’m sorry, but you only have a month to live.”
“No!” Tony exclaimed. He didn’t exclaim it during his daydream, but in reality. And he didn’t do that because he was thinking of dying due to a terminal illness, but rather because he didn’t like the doctor saying he still got a month to live. If he was to die due to some disease, it wouldn’t be slowly creeping inside him, killing him slowly. No, it should be something instant. Like heart disease. Or aneurism. Or SUNDS.
The last one was something he read on the Internet. Most of the victims that died because of it were Sotuheast Asian males. In the Philippines, it was known as Bangungot. Noted teen celebrities fell victim to it, their deaths more mysterious than their public lives. In the medical world, it was known as Sudden Unexpected Death Syndrome. The cause was unknown, but some research suggested that it was because of some complication in the lone organ known as the Pancreas; or the heart suddenly ceasing from beating; or to trust those “new age” literature, a supernatural being—a common way of explaining unexplainable things in this archipelago.
But to be clear: Tony didn’t really want to die. He just thought about it, and loved it, in fact. The same kind of fondness he had for teaching humanities and drinking with his colleagues while engaging in a discourse about a human being’s essence and existence, and death.
His next thought was about being in a shipwreck during their planned visit to Hawaii, and in his planned heroic feat to save some of the passengers, instead hopping on one of lifeboats with his wife and son, he was trapped within the sinking ship.
Why did he want to go to Hawaii anyway? He was scared of the ocean.
And maybe, just maybe: it’s the fear that will eventually kill him.
After class, he went drinking with his colleagues again. He hesitated at first, saying that he and Gloria was planning to watch one of those late-night cable-TV shows. “Just one bottle,” Nick, a Math instructor, urged him. Tony gave in, of course. There would be endless re-runs of those shows anyway.
“Just one bottle,” Tony said to himself. But after one sip, he felt the urge to ask his colleagues about what they would do in case he died.
“That depends,” Mark, a Social Science instructor, answered. “How would you die?”
Tony took a sip from his beer and scratched his head. He always scratched his head when he had to think about something real quick despite its ridiculousness. “Say I volunteered to be on a manned spacecraft to Pluto, and the trip will last for 9 years, but after passing through Neptune’s orbit I collided with this giant chunk of rock and everything just exploded?”
“What’s the size of the rock?” Nick asked.
“Does that matter?” Tony asked, dumbfounded.
“Well,” Nick lit a cigarette. “If it’s a huge chunk of rock, then you in the spacecraft should have detected it from a million miles away, enough for you to change your trajectory and avoid it. Unless it’s a suicide mission. Which you didn’t specify. On the other hand, if it’s a tiny rock and it didn’t appear on your radar, or it wasn’t detected by any instrument you have on board, then it just means you shouldn’t worry about it. Meaning, there was no explosion, you didn’t die.”
“Okay, what if I didn’t hit a huge chunk of rock? What if—say, I maneuvered the wrong way and now I’m off to some black hole or something?” Tony asked.
“As far as I know,” Luke, the IT instructor, interjected. “There are no black holes in our solar system. If there is one, well, we’d be sucked in its wide mouth. You know, there’s no escape in there. Even light can’t.”
Tony took a swig from his beer. “Let’s just say I died. Whatever reason. I am dead. What are you guys going to do?”
“We’ll go to your funeral. Tell all the good stuff about you. You know, all that cliché stuff,” Mark answered.
“We’d bring you flowers. Pink ones,” Luke said. They laughed.
“I’d look after your son,” Nick said. “You know, check in from time to time, make sure he’s growing up okay.”
Tony smiled. From somewhere in the depths of his heart, he felt relief. Like rain after a scorching summer.
He checked his phone before hopping on the bus. Gloria hadn’t called him, nor left a message.
The bus conductor gave him a grim look when Tony entered the bus. Usually, drunkards this time of the night were up to no good. Or they’d doze off and forget to pay their fare, or puke all over the seat and stink the whole bus. But Tony was a smart drunk. He maintained best consciousness about his surroundings. He took his wallet and paid the fare. The bus conductor took the money, clipped it between his fingers along with other dirty bills, before ripping off two pieces of tickets and handing it to Tony.
At the window, the city was a blur. With the awe of a child on a bus ride to the mountains, Tony watched the city, thinking about what his family would do in case this bus collides head on to another bus, and then to a cliff, and then into the icy waters of the West Philippine sea.
Gloria barely looked at him when he entered their bedroom.
“We drank again,” Tony said. His tone was a bit slur.
“I know,” Gloria replied. She sounded tired.
When Tony lay beside her, he realized that Gloria smelled great. She had her back turned to him, and the smell leaked from her hair and neck. It was a scent that felt familiar to him—her favorite perfume, perhaps? Or something he bought for her months ago—nonetheless, she smelled really good. He turned to her and placed a palm on her breast. Gloria did not move. He started kissing the back of her ears, until Gloria nudged him away.
She apologized. “I’m just tired.” Tony felt embarrassed. His wife smelled good, and he only smelled like liquor. Perhaps it was the scent he wore best.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. When he grew tired of that, he got up and went to the bathroom and splashed cool water on his face. He went back to their room and asked, “But really, what if it’s our last night together?”
She ignored the question.
“I’ve been thinking,” Tony began. It was a weird thought. “Have you ever wished that I would die?”
He waited for her answer. After a few minutes, her silence held no sign of breaking. When he got up and looked at her, she was fast asleep.
The following night was Tony’s death. He never saw it coming, but he felt it was bound to happen soon.
As usual, he drank with his colleagues. But this time, Tony didn’t speak about his death. Their topic was about the impossibility of a marriage between general relativity and quantum mechanics.
Around 11 PM, while walking to the bus station, Tony was greeted by a man who held a knife in his hand.
“Give me your wallet, and I’ll be gone,” the man declared. He pointed the long, kitchen knife to Tony. He was dressed as a typical person—a shirt and jeans. A typical pedestrian-turned-mugger.
“I don’t have any money here,” Tony said. Of course he was lying. He kept most of his bills in a tiny purse in his other pocket. Nevertheless, his hands were shaking as he pulled out his wallet, the one where he stacked his ID’s and ATM cards. The man took it and ruffled through it.
“But there’s no money here! Fuck, no, no, give me your money. I need your money!” He threw the wallet on the ground and took a step closer to Tony.
“Give me your fucking money! I know you have money! You’re a rich man!” the man exclaimed.
“No, I’m not,” Tony said. “You won’t take anything from me.”
Suddenly, there were steps coming from somewhere.
“Give me your money or I’ll kill you.”
“Then just kill me because there’s nothing you can take from me.”
The steps were becoming louder. They were people. Perhaps late-night commuters. Their voices began to sound audible.
“Give me your money now!”
“I told you—”
The man ran towards him. Tony tried to block the knife with his hand, and grabbed it off the man’s hands. The blade gashed against his palm and wrist. The man, surprised with what Tony did, stumbled and fell on the ground. Tony placed the knife on his other hand and stabbed the man on the stomach. The man screamed.
“Who’s there?” some voice yelled. “Hey!”
Tony ran.
“Stop!” the voice boomed from behind.
Tony continued running. He didn’t mind where he was headed, but he just kept running. It seemed to be the best idea.
He rested for a while in a street corner. He was covered in blood. The wound on his palm was still bleeding. He took a handkerchief and wrapped it around his wounded hand. He considered going to the hospital, but he thought about going to the police first to report what had happened. However, he felt he must tell Gloria first. He hailed a cab, got in, and told the driver his address. The driver was pretty anxious when Tony spoke to him. Probably because of the blood on his skin and clothes.
When he arrived at their apartment, his phone rang. Tony glanced at the screen: it was an unregistered number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Mr. Velasquez?”
Tony cleared his throat. “Yes.”
“Your wallet was found in a crime scene—your ID’s.”
“Yes, um—”
“Do you mind, sir, to come down here in the station? We just have some questions.”
“Yes, sure, no problem.”
“Okay sir. We will wait.”
The line went dead.
Gloria emerged from their bedroom.
“Gloria,” he was still shaking.
She looked at her with worry in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“I--I—” Tony burst into tears. Gloria let him sit on the sofa and then she went to get some cold water from the fridge. She filled a glass and handed it to Tony.
Tony sipped some water. “I think I killed a man.”
“What do you mean?”
“I killed a man! But I didn’t want it to happen—he—he was trying to take my money and—” Tony stood. “He pointed his knife at me, and swore he’d kill me if I didn’t give him any money, and then he rushed towards me but I grabbed a hold of his knife, and I was bleeding and he fell and then I stabbed him in the stomach—” Tony tried acting out, to the best of his ability, what had actually happened.
“But—where are your wounds? It’ll certainly need some stitching! We need to go to the hospital!”
“Oh, no, for some reason the wounds are gone,” Tony made Gloria look at his arms. “I didn’t know why, but it doesn’t matter. I got a call from the police and they’re summoning me to the station. I’ll tell them exactly what had happened, and they’ll deduce that it was self-defense.”
Gloria was crying.
“Why? What’s wrong?”
“It never really happened, right?” she sobbed.
“What?” Tony’s eyebrows were close together. “Of course it happened!”
“None of it happened! The nine years of our lives, all of it, wisp and smoke!” Gloria’s voice echoed across the living room.
“Now you’re talking like a crazy woman,” Tony said. He was trying to be calm. If there was one thing he learned about marriage, it’s that you don’t try to speak so loud together. He pulled out his phone. “Look and see the call I got from—” He stopped mid-sentence. There was no call registered in his phone that happened a few minutes ago. “No, no, it was here!”
Gloria cried harder.
“No! I really did receive a call! I was being summoned! They found my contact details on my wallet which they found in the scene! I swear I got the call!”
Tony sat back at the sofa and scrolled again and again at the call records on his phone, but found none that traced the call he received minutes ago.
“I’m leaving tomorrow, and I’m taking Nathan with me.”
“So that’s what you’d do,” Tony said. “Okay. You do that.”
“I will. You will never see us again,” Gloria said. But Tony didn’t hear that. He went out of the apartment and went down to the street. He took a few strides and found a 7-Eleven. He bought a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of beer. He sat outside the store, opened the bottle of beer and lit a stick of cigarette.
For what seemed like a long time, he felt so alive.