geek tragedies sampler

Note: this guide is included here to help facilitate lively discussion of Carljoe Javier’s debut fiction collection Geek Tragedies for your local reading group and/or classroom presentation. Geek Tragedies is a book that begs deep discussion to be enjoyed absolutely, and answering these questions may provide the key for that promised enjoyment.

1. It is recommended that you read this book’s sister volume And !e Geek Shall Inherit !e Earth, a collection of essays published by Milflores Publishing Inc, written by the same author. I see these two books as girls-next-door sisters, that book as the bubbly ditzy perky frosh two-years-younger-than-you sister you ask for a handjob and then leave suddenly, this book the once-or-thrice-around-the-block utterly worldly two-years-older-than-you babyfat-free sister who’ll show you tricks you’ve never felt before, whose headboard you’ve been wanting to bang daily and nightly and ever-so-rightly. Is the aforementioned analogy suitably apt?

2. !e title of this book is Geek Tragedies. Is this justified well enough by the selections, ie, are the stories tragic and feature characters that can be described as “geeky,” or is the choice primarily dictated by the author’s desire to be flippant yet intellectual, ie being a play on the term “greek tragedies?” Follow-up question: If taken to task to re-title the book, what title would you give it? My own

A Reading Group Guide

to Carljoe Javier's

Geek Tragediesby Adam David

personal title for this book is Generation Whine: Tales for a Decelerated Culture. Follow-up question: Is my title choice justified well enough by the selections, ie, are the stories meditations on the trials and tribulations and the moralities and mores of my and the author’s generally spoiled nihilist generation, or is my choice primarily dictated by a desire to be also flippant yet intellectual, ie, being a play on the title of Douglas Coupland’s debut novel, which is coincidentally a meditation on the trials and tribulations and the moralities and mores of his generally spoiled nihilist generation?

3. Josel Nicolas’s illustrations scattered throughout the book are humble homages to classic covers from the nearly half-a-century-old bibliography of Marvel Comics. Do the illustrations enrich the reading experience if not the book as an art object and/or cultural artifact? If so, whose art/culture? Do the illustrations come o! as too garish for a book that is positioning itself as “literary”, ie “serious,” or do the illustrations succesfully negate any such binary assessments/considerations of literature and merely celebrates/exposes the direct connections/intersections between the High and the Low? Are the illustrations a subtle reference to that other masterpiece of the celebration/exposé of the direct connections/intersections between the High and Low and also specifically comic book geekdom, Kevin Smith’s 1995 film Mallrats, or is the reference tenuous at best? Do the illustrations come o! as merely cheap gimmicks, maybe even glorified page padding?

4. Considering the author’s reputation as a leisurely smarmy ladies man, can the book’s general tone of geeky social-ineptitude-bordering-on-charmingly-light-misanthropy

be trusted as an earnest pursuit for whatever buried-yet-ine!able Truth fiction is capable of uncovering under the tough bedrock of Life through the shovel-sharp clarity of Art, even if that leisurely smarmy ladies man reputation exists only in the author’s mind, ie !e Kobayashi Maru of Love?

5. After reading the book, can it still be argued that it’s only actually a coincidence and not actual destiny of biblical proportions that two perfect anagrams for the word “Carljoe” are “cajoler,” and more importantly, “jacoler?”

You are encouraged to use the above questions to stimulate conversations and exchanges of ideas on the potentials of at the outset what must seem to be yet another collection of disparate baby-man fiction but what could actually be a throat-clearing and fine-tuning of a voice at times still breaking, of ears at times still tone-deaf, of hands always sampling, always improvising in three-bar chords the Four-Colour Blues set against the drone of a television tuned to a dead channel after a week-long Lost DVD marathon, what could actually be the latest chapter of the continuing chronicles of the tragedies and triumphs of a generation blooming, of a rock band guitar hero strumming on stage shouting-out back to Greg Brillantes and Butch Dalisay, echoing against Sarge Lacuesta and Luis Katigbak, melodising with Dean Alfar and Anna Sanchez, what could actually be a soundchecking of the front act set for the stadium rock anthem concert soon to come, and this could be your scalped ticket to the stage-side seats–dudes and dudettes: ARE YOU EXPERIENCED??!!?!?!?? Welcome to the Carljoe Javier Experience.

personal title for this book is Generation Whine: Tales for a Decelerated Culture. Follow-up question: Is my title choice justified well enough by the selections, ie, are the stories meditations on the trials and tribulations and the moralities and mores of my and the author’s generally spoiled nihilist generation, or is my choice primarily dictated by a desire to be also flippant yet intellectual, ie, being a play on the title of Douglas Coupland’s debut novel, which is coincidentally a meditation on the trials and tribulations and the moralities and mores of his generally spoiled nihilist generation?

3. Josel Nicolas’s illustrations scattered throughout the book are humble homages to classic covers from the nearly half-a-century-old bibliography of Marvel Comics. Do the illustrations enrich the reading experience if not the book as an art object and/or cultural artifact? If so, whose art/culture? Do the illustrations come o! as too garish for a book that is positioning itself as “literary”, ie “serious,” or do the illustrations succesfully negate any such binary assessments/considerations of literature and merely celebrates/exposes the direct connections/intersections between the High and the Low? Are the illustrations a subtle reference to that other masterpiece of the celebration/exposé of the direct connections/intersections between the High and Low and also specifically comic book geekdom, Kevin Smith’s 1995 film Mallrats, or is the reference tenuous at best? Do the illustrations come o! as merely cheap gimmicks, maybe even glorified page padding?

4. Considering the author’s reputation as a leisurely smarmy ladies man, can the book’s general tone of geeky social-ineptitude-bordering-on-charmingly-light-misanthropy

be trusted as an earnest pursuit for whatever buried-yet-ine!able Truth fiction is capable of uncovering under the tough bedrock of Life through the shovel-sharp clarity of Art, even if that leisurely smarmy ladies man reputation exists only in the author’s mind, ie !e Kobayashi Maru of Love?

5. After reading the book, can it still be argued that it’s only actually a coincidence and not actual destiny of biblical proportions that two perfect anagrams for the word “Carljoe” are “cajoler,” and more importantly, “jacoler?”

You are encouraged to use the above questions to stimulate conversations and exchanges of ideas on the potentials of at the outset what must seem to be yet another collection of disparate baby-man fiction but what could actually be a throat-clearing and fine-tuning of a voice at times still breaking, of ears at times still tone-deaf, of hands always sampling, always improvising in three-bar chords the Four-Colour Blues set against the drone of a television tuned to a dead channel after a week-long Lost DVD marathon, what could actually be the latest chapter of the continuing chronicles of the tragedies and triumphs of a generation blooming, of a rock band guitar hero strumming on stage shouting-out back to Greg Brillantes and Butch Dalisay, echoing against Sarge Lacuesta and Luis Katigbak, melodising with Dean Alfar and Anna Sanchez, what could actually be a soundchecking of the front act set for the stadium rock anthem concert soon to come, and this could be your scalped ticket to the stage-side seats–dudes and dudettes: ARE YOU EXPERIENCED??!!?!?!?? Welcome to the Carljoe Javier Experience.

look from an old woman or a lecture on the ills of the imposed patriarchal society from an overzealous young feminist. Heck, you didn’t even have to want to be a hero to get chewed out, all you had to do was try to be a boy scout and you’d get it. Billy’s mind drifted further, thought of heroes. You couldn’t find them in the real world anymore, but he had a bunch in his bag. Sure, comics were getting di!erent, more mature, shooting for the adult audience. But there’d always be kids who’d want to read about superheroes dressed in cool costumes, using their powers and saving the world. Super powers were something that every kid enjoyed. He reflected that it was what every guy wanted at one time or another, something to make him special, to make him cool. Being cool, being able to say the right things. He wondered when he would be able to say the right things. He wondered when he would be able to say the right things to her. He hadn’t noticed that the train had slid into the Cubao station. Most of the passengers got o!. She sat down where the man had been and he settled onto the bench across her. As the passengers filed out and the doors hissed shut, Billy smiled and said to her, “Everybody gets o! at Cubao, huh?” “Yep,” she smiled back; then they looked away from each other and out the windows. EDSA was around them, and it was all they had between them.

“EVERYBODY GETS OFF at Cubao,” was all that he had been able to muster up. "e blandness of the statement, the lack of meaning it held as it passed from his lips to the just vacated train swish-humming away from the Cubao station frustrated him. He wished he could say something that could draw her into a conversation, something to impress her, make her want to talk to him more.

MOVEMENT DID SOMETHING for her, the rumbling of the MRT train on the tracks, her trembling inside the car. Billy watched her, the mundane blue plastic seat she leaned over, the fat man sitting in front of her glancing at her butt every once in a while, the bland fluorescent light washing over the dullness of people deadened by the eight-hour workaday routine. As she swayed with the train he watched her hair flick back, shoulder-length straights highlighted at the tips. "e gray handle she held for support, sliding against the metal bar, slipping, brought her closer to him. Just as it sped by Camp Aguinaldo the train seemed to hit a bump and with the jolt she swung his way. It shook and rattled; the wail of its movement changed in pitch but was just as deafening. In that moment he thought of turbulence, remembered the plane trip that had eventually landed him here. "en the memory was gone as the loud swish-hum of the train brought him back, then away again to a scene from a movie half-remembered of a fighter jet’s after-burners kicking it into a dizzying roll, then a heart-plunging dive. A dive not unlike the one that she had almost taken in front of him. Was this the chance he’d been waiting for? he thought as she stumbled then caught herself. She righted her legs, stood up straight, then looked down at the man who was sitting in front of her. She clenched her teeth at him but the man was indi!erent, more concerned with sending o! a text message than doing a good turn. Billy smirked and pushed his glasses up, wondered if chivalry really were dead. "ese weren’t days for heroes, when doing a good turn like giving your seat up for a lady could get a mean

Everybody Gets

Off at Cubao

Everybody Gets Off at Cubao

look from an old woman or a lecture on the ills of the imposed patriarchal society from an overzealous young feminist. Heck, you didn’t even have to want to be a hero to get chewed out, all you had to do was try to be a boy scout and you’d get it. Billy’s mind drifted further, thought of heroes. You couldn’t find them in the real world anymore, but he had a bunch in his bag. Sure, comics were getting di!erent, more mature, shooting for the adult audience. But there’d always be kids who’d want to read about superheroes dressed in cool costumes, using their powers and saving the world. Super powers were something that every kid enjoyed. He reflected that it was what every guy wanted at one time or another, something to make him special, to make him cool. Being cool, being able to say the right things. He wondered when he would be able to say the right things. He wondered when he would be able to say the right things to her. He hadn’t noticed that the train had slid into the Cubao station. Most of the passengers got o!. She sat down where the man had been and he settled onto the bench across her. As the passengers filed out and the doors hissed shut, Billy smiled and said to her, “Everybody gets o! at Cubao, huh?” “Yep,” she smiled back; then they looked away from each other and out the windows. EDSA was around them, and it was all they had between them.

“EVERYBODY GETS OFF at Cubao,” was all that he had been able to muster up. "e blandness of the statement, the lack of meaning it held as it passed from his lips to the just vacated train swish-humming away from the Cubao station frustrated him. He wished he could say something that could draw her into a conversation, something to impress her, make her want to talk to him more.

MOVEMENT DID SOMETHING for her, the rumbling of the MRT train on the tracks, her trembling inside the car. Billy watched her, the mundane blue plastic seat she leaned over, the fat man sitting in front of her glancing at her butt every once in a while, the bland fluorescent light washing over the dullness of people deadened by the eight-hour workaday routine. As she swayed with the train he watched her hair flick back, shoulder-length straights highlighted at the tips. "e gray handle she held for support, sliding against the metal bar, slipping, brought her closer to him. Just as it sped by Camp Aguinaldo the train seemed to hit a bump and with the jolt she swung his way. It shook and rattled; the wail of its movement changed in pitch but was just as deafening. In that moment he thought of turbulence, remembered the plane trip that had eventually landed him here. "en the memory was gone as the loud swish-hum of the train brought him back, then away again to a scene from a movie half-remembered of a fighter jet’s after-burners kicking it into a dizzying roll, then a heart-plunging dive. A dive not unlike the one that she had almost taken in front of him. Was this the chance he’d been waiting for? he thought as she stumbled then caught herself. She righted her legs, stood up straight, then looked down at the man who was sitting in front of her. She clenched her teeth at him but the man was indi!erent, more concerned with sending o! a text message than doing a good turn. Billy smirked and pushed his glasses up, wondered if chivalry really were dead. "ese weren’t days for heroes, when doing a good turn like giving your seat up for a lady could get a mean

Everybody Gets

Off at Cubao

Geek Tragedies

But it had taken him three months to muster up the courage to mutter the phrase. Now that he’d been seeing her six months almost every day on his way home he still couldn’t say more. He held onto his bag, full of the comics that he took home every day from the stall. He looked at her seated across him, thought of so many things to say, and his fingernails ground into the fabric, opening up the zipper where it wasn’t closed tightly. !e MRT train slid into the GMA station and she stood up, gliding to the door before the train jolted to a stop and she almost slipped again. He imagined himself as Superman flashing over to catch her. She’d be lying in his arms and he’d be standing over her saying the right words. !e hiss of the doors opening brought him out of his daze and he shook his head, as if shaking himself back to the world. He picked up his bag, not noticing that the way he held it made the zipper locks slide open, and walked o" the train to follow her. “Everybody gets o" at Cubao,” he muttered to himself as he slipped his card into the slot, walked through the turnstile, and watched her walk down the stairs to the East Ave. side of the station. He walked up the flight of stairs to the top floor of the station that served as a bridge to the Timog side. Up on the top floor he was alone and he muttered the phrase again. Somehow, he hoped that if he hurt himself enough physically, then he could forget about what he wanted to say but couldn’t say to her. He gritted his teeth, slapped himself so hard that his head flicked back and the weight of his bag swung him to the side. !e world went blurry as his glasses were flung to the floor. He bent down swinging his hands across the floor looking for the glasses. !e slight opening in the bag now jumped open and the comics in it went flying out onto the floor.

BILLY LAY DOWN on the bed and put his glasses on the bedside table, then felt for his bag with the trade paperbacks that he had just gotten in it. He brought the blurry book up close to his face until things became clear. His eyes focused on the page, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate, thoughts unable to stay on that comic book but drifting further, still about comic books. Comic books weren’t bad business. But they weren’t very good business either. Billy had been trying to keep the stand running just on comic books but six months into it, it was clear that they just wouldn’t do. He had started talking to magazine publishing firms just to add some merchandise on the rack that might attract more customers. Having a poster of the FHM cover babe couldn’t hurt business, he reasoned with himself, after all his target market was adolescent boys anyway. !e stall had already been open six months, he thought. Six months with the stall and eight months in the country and he still wasn’t firmly on his feet, things shaky as he made his way paying the monthly overhead. It cost most of what he was making. Lucky thing that he was living in one of his rich aunt’s houses and didn’t have to worry about paying rent. !e cash he was spending was still money his mom was wiring him. His little project of dropping out of school for a while and starting up a business seemed a good idea as he made the purchases before heading to the Philippines. His dad had wanted him to stay in school since he only had a year left, but he’d had the itch to start up something that he really wanted to do, and after spending almost all of his life in the States he wanted a taste of his native land. It seemed like an adventure, like a hero’s search for his true origin. He thought he knew what he was doing, and he knew comic books. So he closed his bank account and used all the money that he’d saved up as a working student at the library, Johnny Rocket’s, Sam Goody, and Toys R Us and the money that his mom had given him to load up on his merchandise.

Geek Tragedies

But it had taken him three months to muster up the courage to mutter the phrase. Now that he’d been seeing her six months almost every day on his way home he still couldn’t say more. He held onto his bag, full of the comics that he took home every day from the stall. He looked at her seated across him, thought of so many things to say, and his fingernails ground into the fabric, opening up the zipper where it wasn’t closed tightly. !e MRT train slid into the GMA station and she stood up, gliding to the door before the train jolted to a stop and she almost slipped again. He imagined himself as Superman flashing over to catch her. She’d be lying in his arms and he’d be standing over her saying the right words. !e hiss of the doors opening brought him out of his daze and he shook his head, as if shaking himself back to the world. He picked up his bag, not noticing that the way he held it made the zipper locks slide open, and walked o" the train to follow her. “Everybody gets o" at Cubao,” he muttered to himself as he slipped his card into the slot, walked through the turnstile, and watched her walk down the stairs to the East Ave. side of the station. He walked up the flight of stairs to the top floor of the station that served as a bridge to the Timog side. Up on the top floor he was alone and he muttered the phrase again. Somehow, he hoped that if he hurt himself enough physically, then he could forget about what he wanted to say but couldn’t say to her. He gritted his teeth, slapped himself so hard that his head flicked back and the weight of his bag swung him to the side. !e world went blurry as his glasses were flung to the floor. He bent down swinging his hands across the floor looking for the glasses. !e slight opening in the bag now jumped open and the comics in it went flying out onto the floor.

BILLY LAY DOWN on the bed and put his glasses on the bedside table, then felt for his bag with the trade paperbacks that he had just gotten in it. He brought the blurry book up close to his face until things became clear. His eyes focused on the page, but he couldn’t seem to concentrate, thoughts unable to stay on that comic book but drifting further, still about comic books. Comic books weren’t bad business. But they weren’t very good business either. Billy had been trying to keep the stand running just on comic books but six months into it, it was clear that they just wouldn’t do. He had started talking to magazine publishing firms just to add some merchandise on the rack that might attract more customers. Having a poster of the FHM cover babe couldn’t hurt business, he reasoned with himself, after all his target market was adolescent boys anyway. !e stall had already been open six months, he thought. Six months with the stall and eight months in the country and he still wasn’t firmly on his feet, things shaky as he made his way paying the monthly overhead. It cost most of what he was making. Lucky thing that he was living in one of his rich aunt’s houses and didn’t have to worry about paying rent. !e cash he was spending was still money his mom was wiring him. His little project of dropping out of school for a while and starting up a business seemed a good idea as he made the purchases before heading to the Philippines. His dad had wanted him to stay in school since he only had a year left, but he’d had the itch to start up something that he really wanted to do, and after spending almost all of his life in the States he wanted a taste of his native land. It seemed like an adventure, like a hero’s search for his true origin. He thought he knew what he was doing, and he knew comic books. So he closed his bank account and used all the money that he’d saved up as a working student at the library, Johnny Rocket’s, Sam Goody, and Toys R Us and the money that his mom had given him to load up on his merchandise.

Geek Tragedies

First he bought the subscriptions for some comics and comic magazines. He stacked up the Special Edition and Collector’s Item comics before leaving. First issues, glossy covers, holograms, anything that would catch the collector’s eye. He hounded all the comic book conventions in the Los Angeles area the months he spent getting ready for his freefall. He imagined his freefall drawn out onto the comic book page, a page-long lengthwise panel to start, establishing him making the jump. !e rest of the page would be filled with jagged-shaped panels cross-cutting from his face to the way his body curled into a ball, then spread out as he changed, the cape swishing up then fanning out as he went into a roll then hit the ground on his feet, the impact of his landing sending o" shockwaves. He was still waiting for the landing though. He felt that his cape hadn’t fanned out like he’d planned. !e sales that he was expecting hadn’t come through, and the friends that he’d met up with when he came back were busy and couldn’t help him out with the stall. He was alone, plummeting now and flailing his arms grasping for something or someone to hold on to. When superheroes like Spiderman made their jumps o" buildings, Billy thought, they were sure of things. Spidey was sure that his spider-sense would kick in when he needed it and that he had enough web-fluid to squirt out and pull him out of the fall. For him the only sure thing now was the MRT rides, in the morning to Megamall and home after closing time with that girl who could just be his Mary Jane.

THERE WERE A few days when Billy closed shop early because of the slow, lazy business. He’d head to the MRT station, but since he had closed early he’d have to compete with all the other commuters rushing home.

!e trains would slide into the station, stop somewhere near the arrows taped onto the floor to show where the doors would be. But even before the train could slow down he could tell that he had no chance of getting on it. Its cars would be jam-packed with people going through their get-home grinds. It was times like these when he wished that he had buddies to hang out with after work, catch a few happy hour beers before heading home. !e past months he’d been out with old friends and cousins a few times, but hadn’t been able to get a real barkada together. It seemed that those people he thought of coming back to, the elementary school friends and neighborhood kids, were o" doing their own things, couldn’t make room for him to squeeze into their schedules. He couldn’t blame them. !ey’d all grown apart, the way that he grew apart from certain heroes or storylines. He understood them, understood that they were living very di"erent lives, some still in school, others with families, still others working for big companies that took up all their time, and he knew that he couldn’t expect them to hang out with him like they used to. !e common interests like the afternoon basketball games or Super Mario Bros. secrets were gone, and none of his old friends cared for comics anymore. !ey had outgrown them, and had probably outgrown him. Fine, he told himself. He understood, they were all adults doing their own things, but it still felt damn lonely standing alone on that MRT platform waiting for a train to take him home so that he could spend the night alone munching on chips in front of the boob tube. !e only thing he was grateful for was that he had cable and wouldn’t have to endure the horrid local programs. !is loneliness he felt about his friends made him think of himself like an old TV show. He was like one of those cartoons that he used to watch when he was a kid and he and his friends would get together and talk about it the day after at school, like He-Man or !e Transformers. !ey were great then, but today they

Geek Tragedies

First he bought the subscriptions for some comics and comic magazines. He stacked up the Special Edition and Collector’s Item comics before leaving. First issues, glossy covers, holograms, anything that would catch the collector’s eye. He hounded all the comic book conventions in the Los Angeles area the months he spent getting ready for his freefall. He imagined his freefall drawn out onto the comic book page, a page-long lengthwise panel to start, establishing him making the jump. !e rest of the page would be filled with jagged-shaped panels cross-cutting from his face to the way his body curled into a ball, then spread out as he changed, the cape swishing up then fanning out as he went into a roll then hit the ground on his feet, the impact of his landing sending o" shockwaves. He was still waiting for the landing though. He felt that his cape hadn’t fanned out like he’d planned. !e sales that he was expecting hadn’t come through, and the friends that he’d met up with when he came back were busy and couldn’t help him out with the stall. He was alone, plummeting now and flailing his arms grasping for something or someone to hold on to. When superheroes like Spiderman made their jumps o" buildings, Billy thought, they were sure of things. Spidey was sure that his spider-sense would kick in when he needed it and that he had enough web-fluid to squirt out and pull him out of the fall. For him the only sure thing now was the MRT rides, in the morning to Megamall and home after closing time with that girl who could just be his Mary Jane.

THERE WERE A few days when Billy closed shop early because of the slow, lazy business. He’d head to the MRT station, but since he had closed early he’d have to compete with all the other commuters rushing home.

!e trains would slide into the station, stop somewhere near the arrows taped onto the floor to show where the doors would be. But even before the train could slow down he could tell that he had no chance of getting on it. Its cars would be jam-packed with people going through their get-home grinds. It was times like these when he wished that he had buddies to hang out with after work, catch a few happy hour beers before heading home. !e past months he’d been out with old friends and cousins a few times, but hadn’t been able to get a real barkada together. It seemed that those people he thought of coming back to, the elementary school friends and neighborhood kids, were o" doing their own things, couldn’t make room for him to squeeze into their schedules. He couldn’t blame them. !ey’d all grown apart, the way that he grew apart from certain heroes or storylines. He understood them, understood that they were living very di"erent lives, some still in school, others with families, still others working for big companies that took up all their time, and he knew that he couldn’t expect them to hang out with him like they used to. !e common interests like the afternoon basketball games or Super Mario Bros. secrets were gone, and none of his old friends cared for comics anymore. !ey had outgrown them, and had probably outgrown him. Fine, he told himself. He understood, they were all adults doing their own things, but it still felt damn lonely standing alone on that MRT platform waiting for a train to take him home so that he could spend the night alone munching on chips in front of the boob tube. !e only thing he was grateful for was that he had cable and wouldn’t have to endure the horrid local programs. !is loneliness he felt about his friends made him think of himself like an old TV show. He was like one of those cartoons that he used to watch when he was a kid and he and his friends would get together and talk about it the day after at school, like He-Man or !e Transformers. !ey were great then, but today they

Geek Tragedies

were more interested in the new TV shows and programs. !ere wasn’t any time for cartoons; they had to watch serious stu". Sure, those old cartoons were great to go back to once in a while, but nobody would want to watch them everyday with all the new stu" going on. Well, new stu" for him wasn’t going on. And he felt the irritation and frustration bear heaviest on him on these rush-hour trips. !ere would always be groups of kids hanging out, or couples holding hands waiting for their ride, and he’d always be there waiting on the platform alone, on his way home where he would be alone. He’d wait with his heavy backpack, filled with comic books, slung over one shoulder as the packed MRT trains swept past him. On occasions when a few passengers would get o" the train and he’d be standing in front of the door some other people waiting to board the train would cut in front of him and nudge him out of the way. Billy would step away from the door to give the passengers room to get o" the train. But as soon as he did one of the people standing around would step in front of him and bump him o" with his shoulder. !en another would come in from the other side and push Billy aside, knocking his glasses loose, and the world would go fuzzy and he would keep getting pushed and nudged until he looked up and saw that the doors were hissing shut and he was still on the platform. He would fix his glasses and watch the train hiss-clanging down the tracks, pulling away from him and he’d look down at the tracks, wondering what would happen if he jumped down there. He’d be angry with himself, biting his lip or smacking his forehead because he’d let those people cut in and take advantage of him. Would he be able to stand in the way of an incoming train? he asked himself. !en he’d think No, why would I want to do that? He was frustrated, angry with the way he’d been pushed out of the way, with the dismal outcome thus far of the biggest

thing that he’d ever done in his life, with his being alone and the inability to change that. He imagined himself a comic book character driven to the edge. It was those instances when he wondered if the villains weren’t right. He thought of Magneto, a character greatly wronged by humankind and waging his own war against his transgressors. He wondered if it wasn’t right that instead of getting angry at himself, instead of smacking himself on the head, he should instead take it out on other people, lash out at those people that had just shoved him out of the way. He saw it all on the page: the MRT station drawn in bland peach and fluorescent white so that the blood of his rampage would stand out; him out on the rails with his arms raised up, lips pulled back revealing fangs as he let out a righteous wail. His arched back led down to powerful legs under which were crushed all those people who had pushed him aside, cut ahead of him, taken advantage of his passivity, now brought down by his wrath. !en he snapped out of it as he was nudged aside again as new people started coming to the MRT platform. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t go mad and let everything out. He tapped his forehead lightly, bringing himself back, reminding him that he wanted to be one of the good guys. He pushed his glasses up fixing them so things were clear. !en he’d think of her and decide to wait in the station until she came around.

HE THOUGHT OF Superman’s glasses, which served him as a disguise, wondered why no one recognized Superman as Clark Kent. !ere was a time in the second grade, when he had started wearing glasses and combing his hair like Clark Kent. He even let that little curl fall down across his forehead. He waited for his powers to emerge, but they never did.

Geek Tragedies

were more interested in the new TV shows and programs. !ere wasn’t any time for cartoons; they had to watch serious stu". Sure, those old cartoons were great to go back to once in a while, but nobody would want to watch them everyday with all the new stu" going on. Well, new stu" for him wasn’t going on. And he felt the irritation and frustration bear heaviest on him on these rush-hour trips. !ere would always be groups of kids hanging out, or couples holding hands waiting for their ride, and he’d always be there waiting on the platform alone, on his way home where he would be alone. He’d wait with his heavy backpack, filled with comic books, slung over one shoulder as the packed MRT trains swept past him. On occasions when a few passengers would get o" the train and he’d be standing in front of the door some other people waiting to board the train would cut in front of him and nudge him out of the way. Billy would step away from the door to give the passengers room to get o" the train. But as soon as he did one of the people standing around would step in front of him and bump him o" with his shoulder. !en another would come in from the other side and push Billy aside, knocking his glasses loose, and the world would go fuzzy and he would keep getting pushed and nudged until he looked up and saw that the doors were hissing shut and he was still on the platform. He would fix his glasses and watch the train hiss-clanging down the tracks, pulling away from him and he’d look down at the tracks, wondering what would happen if he jumped down there. He’d be angry with himself, biting his lip or smacking his forehead because he’d let those people cut in and take advantage of him. Would he be able to stand in the way of an incoming train? he asked himself. !en he’d think No, why would I want to do that? He was frustrated, angry with the way he’d been pushed out of the way, with the dismal outcome thus far of the biggest

thing that he’d ever done in his life, with his being alone and the inability to change that. He imagined himself a comic book character driven to the edge. It was those instances when he wondered if the villains weren’t right. He thought of Magneto, a character greatly wronged by humankind and waging his own war against his transgressors. He wondered if it wasn’t right that instead of getting angry at himself, instead of smacking himself on the head, he should instead take it out on other people, lash out at those people that had just shoved him out of the way. He saw it all on the page: the MRT station drawn in bland peach and fluorescent white so that the blood of his rampage would stand out; him out on the rails with his arms raised up, lips pulled back revealing fangs as he let out a righteous wail. His arched back led down to powerful legs under which were crushed all those people who had pushed him aside, cut ahead of him, taken advantage of his passivity, now brought down by his wrath. !en he snapped out of it as he was nudged aside again as new people started coming to the MRT platform. He couldn’t do that, couldn’t go mad and let everything out. He tapped his forehead lightly, bringing himself back, reminding him that he wanted to be one of the good guys. He pushed his glasses up fixing them so things were clear. !en he’d think of her and decide to wait in the station until she came around.

HE THOUGHT OF Superman’s glasses, which served him as a disguise, wondered why no one recognized Superman as Clark Kent. !ere was a time in the second grade, when he had started wearing glasses and combing his hair like Clark Kent. He even let that little curl fall down across his forehead. He waited for his powers to emerge, but they never did.

Geek Tragedies

Instead of the glasses helping him to be more like a superhero, as he thought the glasses would since most smart people wore glasses, they had made him a joke. !e other kids called him bug-eyes and four-eyes, and he wound up sitting out games during recess because his glasses stopped him from running freely and his first pair of glasses were broken when he had slipped and they had gone flying. !ere were two heroes that he thought he could have the same powers as, Daredevil and Cyclops. Daredevil had been blinded, but all of his other senses had developed at superhuman levels. As Billy’s eyes got worse he waited for his other senses to develop. !en he realized that his chances of gaining super-agility and echo-sense were as likely as his getting bitten by a radioactive spider. Maybe Cyclops then, he thought. Cyclops could shoot rays from his eyes. As a baby he’d fallen from an airplane and su"ered a concussion, which deprived him of control over the energy emissions his eyes made. Cyclops had to wear ruby-coated glasses that contained the blasts from his eyes; if those glasses fell o" those blasts could destroy everything around him. Hiss. !e MRT train’s car door slid open in front of Billy and his mind was pulled back from its drifting. He watched the passengers moving to get o" the train and he stepped aside to give them room. His glasses were sliding down his nose and he nudged them up with the back of his palm as he used his other hand to open his bag. He was putting the TPB he was holding back into the bag when someone behind him pushed his elbow. He turned and his bag caught someone at his side with a thud. Another person shoved him aside now, and another. A shoulder rammed his chest and the rush of people dragged him to the car doors that were sliding shut. He went into a spin. !e bag hit people as he pivoted, but meeting his pivot was a wall of commuters. No matter how

hard he pushed and thrashed against them he was doomed to its thunder and crash. Still he fought against it, but it was like trying to stand in front of Juggernaut as he tried to crash into Xavier’s School. Despite the small space he’d made with his spin, the people came crashing down on him, then pushing him aside. He made a last push against them, but their force countered his and he lost his balance, stumbling away as the car doors hissed shut and his glasses went flying. He fell on his knees, cursing and groping for his glasses, tears coming to his eyes as he was unmasked. He had finally tried to fight the crowd that was always pushing him, and it had left him blind and helpless, crawling on the floor. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing the snot dribbling down his nose with the tears in his eyes. He had a handkerchief in his pocket but couldn’t think of whipping it out as he continued to search the floor. A hand held his shoulder and he swung around to face it. !e face was a blur, but the hand placed the glasses in his hands as he stood and straightened his back. He tried to smile as a way of saying thank you as he put his glasses back on. !e half smile turned into a gape as he looked into the face. It was her, Mary Jane/Lois Lane come to witness her would be hero crawling the floor. He blinked, blinked again, unable to let the thought register and be processed, blinked again, hoping it wasn’t really her. But when the face didn’t change and the body didn’t fade away he stood there, frozen, tongue hanging slack, wouldn’t move in his mouth that was still agape. “Uh ... um ... uh ... ” He held his palm up at her, tried to flash another half-smile, then made a run for the bathroom. He put his glasses on the sink and splashed water on his face. “Idiot, stupid, dumbass, idiot,” became a litany as he splashed water on his face and slapped his forehead with his palm over and over.

Geek Tragedies

Instead of the glasses helping him to be more like a superhero, as he thought the glasses would since most smart people wore glasses, they had made him a joke. !e other kids called him bug-eyes and four-eyes, and he wound up sitting out games during recess because his glasses stopped him from running freely and his first pair of glasses were broken when he had slipped and they had gone flying. !ere were two heroes that he thought he could have the same powers as, Daredevil and Cyclops. Daredevil had been blinded, but all of his other senses had developed at superhuman levels. As Billy’s eyes got worse he waited for his other senses to develop. !en he realized that his chances of gaining super-agility and echo-sense were as likely as his getting bitten by a radioactive spider. Maybe Cyclops then, he thought. Cyclops could shoot rays from his eyes. As a baby he’d fallen from an airplane and su"ered a concussion, which deprived him of control over the energy emissions his eyes made. Cyclops had to wear ruby-coated glasses that contained the blasts from his eyes; if those glasses fell o" those blasts could destroy everything around him. Hiss. !e MRT train’s car door slid open in front of Billy and his mind was pulled back from its drifting. He watched the passengers moving to get o" the train and he stepped aside to give them room. His glasses were sliding down his nose and he nudged them up with the back of his palm as he used his other hand to open his bag. He was putting the TPB he was holding back into the bag when someone behind him pushed his elbow. He turned and his bag caught someone at his side with a thud. Another person shoved him aside now, and another. A shoulder rammed his chest and the rush of people dragged him to the car doors that were sliding shut. He went into a spin. !e bag hit people as he pivoted, but meeting his pivot was a wall of commuters. No matter how

hard he pushed and thrashed against them he was doomed to its thunder and crash. Still he fought against it, but it was like trying to stand in front of Juggernaut as he tried to crash into Xavier’s School. Despite the small space he’d made with his spin, the people came crashing down on him, then pushing him aside. He made a last push against them, but their force countered his and he lost his balance, stumbling away as the car doors hissed shut and his glasses went flying. He fell on his knees, cursing and groping for his glasses, tears coming to his eyes as he was unmasked. He had finally tried to fight the crowd that was always pushing him, and it had left him blind and helpless, crawling on the floor. He wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing the snot dribbling down his nose with the tears in his eyes. He had a handkerchief in his pocket but couldn’t think of whipping it out as he continued to search the floor. A hand held his shoulder and he swung around to face it. !e face was a blur, but the hand placed the glasses in his hands as he stood and straightened his back. He tried to smile as a way of saying thank you as he put his glasses back on. !e half smile turned into a gape as he looked into the face. It was her, Mary Jane/Lois Lane come to witness her would be hero crawling the floor. He blinked, blinked again, unable to let the thought register and be processed, blinked again, hoping it wasn’t really her. But when the face didn’t change and the body didn’t fade away he stood there, frozen, tongue hanging slack, wouldn’t move in his mouth that was still agape. “Uh ... um ... uh ... ” He held his palm up at her, tried to flash another half-smile, then made a run for the bathroom. He put his glasses on the sink and splashed water on his face. “Idiot, stupid, dumbass, idiot,” became a litany as he splashed water on his face and slapped his forehead with his palm over and over.

Geek Tragedies

He knew that he should have said something to her, thank you at least, should have tried to talk to her. Now he just wanted to lock himself in one of the stalls and never go out. He waited in there, listened to the trains coming and going, waited until five trains passed since the time he had started listening so that he could be sure that everyone who was around when the incident happened would be gone. To be sure she was gone.

HE COULDN’T SLEEP that night. He tossed in bed, would try to force himself to sleep by turning o! the bedside lamp. "en he’d turn the lamp back on and try to read a TPB to get his mind on something else. But the blurry images on the comic book page were no escape from the thoughts jammed in his head, one set of images coming into focus, then flipping to another set, then another, then back to the previous ones. He kept thinking of the blurry image that became her face looking at him. What kind of a look was it? Was it one of pity, or of friendship, or of — what? He wished that she had had a thought bubble up above her head so he could read it and tell what she was thinking about him. Or maybe she didn’t care about him at all. She just happened to be there at the spot where his glasses fell and her handing them to him meant nothing more than that. Was it some random circumstance, some product of coincidence that she was the one who picked up the glasses? Or are all things in a way contrived? His being knocked aside, the blur becoming her, the look in her face that he lost himself in, could barely mutter himself back from, the words that would not form in his head nor roll out of his mouth, the entire incident that would now not let him go, the feeling that he was being driven towards something, was it all some kind of cosmic set-up?

Or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all, he would tell himself, then turn o! the lamp. And after a few moments turn the lamp back on and run through the same thoughts again.

HE STOOD OUT on the platform, sweating. His palms were cold and he had to keep pushing his glasses up because they kept sliding down his nose. He tried saying thank you in di!erent tones until he noticed that the woman standing beside him could hear him and was looking at him like he was insane. He stepped away from the woman and walked to a bench closer to the turnstiles so that he could see her when she arrived. A train slid into the station as he watched for her at the turnstiles. He turned to see her coming out of the bathroom. She’d gotten there before he did and he hadn’t noticed her. Idiot, he thought as he rushed over to the last train where she was boarding. "e doors were closing and he wouldn’t make it to the last car. Damn, he thought, if only I could’ve been faster. He was tempted to drift o! into imagining himself as Daredevil going into a flurry of cartwheels then diving and sliding into her car, but caught himself and pushed on. He slid into the car nearest him, and as the train started to pull out of the station he pushed his way down the train. He bumped and pushed, drove against all the bodies in his way, pushing his glasses up every once in a while as they kept sliding down. He bowed his head and thought of it as a battering ram, and he didn’t look up until he was at the last train and he saw her standing with a wrapped present in one arm and the other arm holding onto one of the safety handles. Billy came over to her, “Um, m-m-miss can I hu-hold that for you?” She smiled, then handed him the present. “"anks,” she said.

Geek Tragedies

He knew that he should have said something to her, thank you at least, should have tried to talk to her. Now he just wanted to lock himself in one of the stalls and never go out. He waited in there, listened to the trains coming and going, waited until five trains passed since the time he had started listening so that he could be sure that everyone who was around when the incident happened would be gone. To be sure she was gone.

HE COULDN’T SLEEP that night. He tossed in bed, would try to force himself to sleep by turning o! the bedside lamp. "en he’d turn the lamp back on and try to read a TPB to get his mind on something else. But the blurry images on the comic book page were no escape from the thoughts jammed in his head, one set of images coming into focus, then flipping to another set, then another, then back to the previous ones. He kept thinking of the blurry image that became her face looking at him. What kind of a look was it? Was it one of pity, or of friendship, or of — what? He wished that she had had a thought bubble up above her head so he could read it and tell what she was thinking about him. Or maybe she didn’t care about him at all. She just happened to be there at the spot where his glasses fell and her handing them to him meant nothing more than that. Was it some random circumstance, some product of coincidence that she was the one who picked up the glasses? Or are all things in a way contrived? His being knocked aside, the blur becoming her, the look in her face that he lost himself in, could barely mutter himself back from, the words that would not form in his head nor roll out of his mouth, the entire incident that would now not let him go, the feeling that he was being driven towards something, was it all some kind of cosmic set-up?

Or maybe it didn’t mean anything at all, he would tell himself, then turn o! the lamp. And after a few moments turn the lamp back on and run through the same thoughts again.

HE STOOD OUT on the platform, sweating. His palms were cold and he had to keep pushing his glasses up because they kept sliding down his nose. He tried saying thank you in di!erent tones until he noticed that the woman standing beside him could hear him and was looking at him like he was insane. He stepped away from the woman and walked to a bench closer to the turnstiles so that he could see her when she arrived. A train slid into the station as he watched for her at the turnstiles. He turned to see her coming out of the bathroom. She’d gotten there before he did and he hadn’t noticed her. Idiot, he thought as he rushed over to the last train where she was boarding. "e doors were closing and he wouldn’t make it to the last car. Damn, he thought, if only I could’ve been faster. He was tempted to drift o! into imagining himself as Daredevil going into a flurry of cartwheels then diving and sliding into her car, but caught himself and pushed on. He slid into the car nearest him, and as the train started to pull out of the station he pushed his way down the train. He bumped and pushed, drove against all the bodies in his way, pushing his glasses up every once in a while as they kept sliding down. He bowed his head and thought of it as a battering ram, and he didn’t look up until he was at the last train and he saw her standing with a wrapped present in one arm and the other arm holding onto one of the safety handles. Billy came over to her, “Um, m-m-miss can I hu-hold that for you?” She smiled, then handed him the present. “"anks,” she said.

Geek Tragedies

“Well, it looked like you were having a hard time with it. I wasn’t sure if you’d trust me or just give me a bad look and think that I was a thief or something.” She smiled at him, but he wasn’t sure if it was a Shut up and just hold that thing you idiot smile, or an It’s really nice of you and I never would have taken you as a person who’d try to pull something over on me smile. He wished she had thought bubbles above her head so he could know. He wanted to shut up, but imagined the scene on the page, and knew that if he left it like that he’d hate himself for leaving empty panels. It would be like a superhero getting into costume just to grab a Coke. “Just wanted to help you out. Return the favor. !anks about yesterday, I was kinda ... you know, out of it last night. Didn’t get the chance to thank you. So ... er ... well, thank you.” She smiled. He couldn’t take the silence. “You know, I feel like we’re friends now since we’ve been catching the same train together for months.” She smiled again, “!at’s nice.” He couldn’t tell if “!at’s nice” meant !at’s nice now please stop bugging me are you some kinda psycho or something or !at’s nice I’ve been noticing you, too. !e train swish-hummed into the Santolan station and Billy went quiet as the door hissed open. He sucked in, trying not to make it obvious that he was nervous, wondering if his voice was quivering. !e doors slid shut and as the train started moving he decided to make the jump again. He held the present in one hand and pushed his glasses up, imagined that nudge on his glasses equivalent to the swish of a cape fanning out. “I’m Billy.” “Hmm, that’s nice. I’m Janice. I had noticed you and made it a game to try and guess your name. It helped pass the time on the train.” So she’d been thinking about me, too, great Billy thought. Hold on, what kind of names did she think of for me. He suddenly

remembered Robin Hood: Men in Tights where everyone at the wedding laughs at the Sheri" of Nottingham because he’s named Mervyn. “What kinda names did you think of?” “Oh, lots of names, changed from day to day. I’d imagine you with the glasses on, then without the glasses, how you’d look like, what kind of name fit you when you didn’t have them on.” Great, she avoided answering his question, Billy thought, it must have been a corny name she thought up for him. “But you do look like a Billy. Not that there’s a certain look the name should have. I guess it’s just got a nice simple ring to it and it fits you nicely.” He smiled now and pushed his glasses back up; they’d slid down because of the sweat that was pouring out of the bridge of his nose out of nervousness. He couldn’t think of what to say to that, and held his tongue as the train slid into the Cubao station. “Well, everybody does get o" at Cubao, huh,” she said taking the present back from him. “Wait, aren’t you getting o" at the GMA station with me?” “I’m going to a friend’s party tonight and she’s only a trike’s ride away from this station.” “Oh-” “!anks for carrying this for me. And it was nice talking to you. Ingat.” “Okay-” “Bye,” she said as she turned away from him and slid out the door. “Wait,” he called her and she looked back as the doors hissed and started sliding shut, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah, tomorrow.” !e door slid shut and he watched her pulling further away from him. He pushed his glasses up, didn’t bother to flick his hair back into place as the air-conditioner kicked in and whooshed a few strands onto his forehead into a Clark Kent curl. And as his ears filled with the swish-hum his mind drifted to the empty page

Geek Tragedies

“Well, it looked like you were having a hard time with it. I wasn’t sure if you’d trust me or just give me a bad look and think that I was a thief or something.” She smiled at him, but he wasn’t sure if it was a Shut up and just hold that thing you idiot smile, or an It’s really nice of you and I never would have taken you as a person who’d try to pull something over on me smile. He wished she had thought bubbles above her head so he could know. He wanted to shut up, but imagined the scene on the page, and knew that if he left it like that he’d hate himself for leaving empty panels. It would be like a superhero getting into costume just to grab a Coke. “Just wanted to help you out. Return the favor. !anks about yesterday, I was kinda ... you know, out of it last night. Didn’t get the chance to thank you. So ... er ... well, thank you.” She smiled. He couldn’t take the silence. “You know, I feel like we’re friends now since we’ve been catching the same train together for months.” She smiled again, “!at’s nice.” He couldn’t tell if “!at’s nice” meant !at’s nice now please stop bugging me are you some kinda psycho or something or !at’s nice I’ve been noticing you, too. !e train swish-hummed into the Santolan station and Billy went quiet as the door hissed open. He sucked in, trying not to make it obvious that he was nervous, wondering if his voice was quivering. !e doors slid shut and as the train started moving he decided to make the jump again. He held the present in one hand and pushed his glasses up, imagined that nudge on his glasses equivalent to the swish of a cape fanning out. “I’m Billy.” “Hmm, that’s nice. I’m Janice. I had noticed you and made it a game to try and guess your name. It helped pass the time on the train.” So she’d been thinking about me, too, great Billy thought. Hold on, what kind of names did she think of for me. He suddenly

remembered Robin Hood: Men in Tights where everyone at the wedding laughs at the Sheri" of Nottingham because he’s named Mervyn. “What kinda names did you think of?” “Oh, lots of names, changed from day to day. I’d imagine you with the glasses on, then without the glasses, how you’d look like, what kind of name fit you when you didn’t have them on.” Great, she avoided answering his question, Billy thought, it must have been a corny name she thought up for him. “But you do look like a Billy. Not that there’s a certain look the name should have. I guess it’s just got a nice simple ring to it and it fits you nicely.” He smiled now and pushed his glasses back up; they’d slid down because of the sweat that was pouring out of the bridge of his nose out of nervousness. He couldn’t think of what to say to that, and held his tongue as the train slid into the Cubao station. “Well, everybody does get o" at Cubao, huh,” she said taking the present back from him. “Wait, aren’t you getting o" at the GMA station with me?” “I’m going to a friend’s party tonight and she’s only a trike’s ride away from this station.” “Oh-” “!anks for carrying this for me. And it was nice talking to you. Ingat.” “Okay-” “Bye,” she said as she turned away from him and slid out the door. “Wait,” he called her and she looked back as the doors hissed and started sliding shut, “I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah, tomorrow.” !e door slid shut and he watched her pulling further away from him. He pushed his glasses up, didn’t bother to flick his hair back into place as the air-conditioner kicked in and whooshed a few strands onto his forehead into a Clark Kent curl. And as his ears filled with the swish-hum his mind drifted to the empty page

Geek Tragedies

of a comic book being paneled out with rich backgrounds but no speech bubbles yet, his mind drifted to Tomorrow.

128 129

In the digital world, I dominate.

Noobs, cry now for your mothers!

!is blood here, it isn’t mine.

But I thought you were dead!

Six-word StoriesGeek Tragedies

168 169

Carljoe Javiergraduated with a degree in English Studies Major in Creative Writing from the University of the Philippines Diliman. He was a fellow of the Dumaguete National Writer’s Workshop and the UP National Writer’s Workshop. He is the author of two other books, the essay collections And the Geek Shall Inherit the Earth and !e Kobayashi Maru of Love.

170 171

Josel Nicolasbelieves in feeling the noize, and drawing to it naked. He draws and writes Windmills, the third book just released in late 2010, and has a monthly four-page strip called “Doctor Brick: Balloon + Scientist Problem Solver” running in the kiddie magazine K-Zone. He is on Facebook and would love if you would add him. His email address since highschool is [email protected]. He can also be found at nekid-monkey.deviantart.com.

Adam Davidis a bookmaker.

170 171

Josel Nicolasbelieves in feeling the noize, and drawing to it naked. He draws and writes Windmills, the third book just released in late 2010, and has a monthly four-page strip called “Doctor Brick: Balloon + Scientist Problem Solver” running in the kiddie magazine K-Zone. He is on Facebook and would love if you would add him. His email address since highschool is [email protected]. He can also be found at nekid-monkey.deviantart.com.

Adam Davidis a bookmaker.

geek tragedies sampler

Documents