I really should’ve kept my damn mouth shut. Maybe it was hunger, maybe it was my lack of backbone that led to god-awful ideas. They just creep up on you like a fruity club cocktail. You never realize that you’re drinking yourself into a disaster for the following morning, all because you enjoy the taste of strawberries and kiwis lingering on your lips. And, of course, bad ideas can sometimes entangle someone into a web of fate for better or for worse—whether or not one decides to walk along fate’s predetermined path is out of the question.

Of all things, that one night of circumstance started because of what was in our fridge at the time. It was 12:30 AM when my younger brother, Chase, knocked on my bedroom door to tell me that he was hungry. I was hungry, too, because of my intermittent fasting. Seven days a week, I cut myself off from anything that wasn’t water or unsweetened tea at two in the afternoon. But you’d never hear me knocking on his door because of tummy rumbles.

“There’s chicken adobo in the fridge and rice in the cooker, just make yourself a plate.”

I don’t know why I expected him to actually make himself a plate.

He flicked the light switch on in my room with his filthy, intrusive fingers. The light was sudden and showed me no sympathy.

“No. I want real fucking food. Not any of that weird shit you eat at Mom’s on the weekends.” Filipino food—he always referred to it like that.

“Then go to the grocery store and buy yourself a box of Lean Cuisine or something.”

“That’s a 15-minute drive, though,” he whined.

I slapped myself gently across one of my cheeks and let my hand slide down slowly like molasses as I chewed my bottom lip, trying to hide the frustration in my next few words.

“Then why don’t you go to McDonald’s? It’s literally a five-minute walk from here.”

“I already had that for lunch,” he told me, raising one of his toned arms to flex. “I got the Filet-O-Fish. I gotta stay swole, that’s the fuckin’ goal.”

I thought that he might’ve been joking, but I was wrong. I remembered that part of the night because I wanted to say something to him so desperately. But I didn’t. Instead, I closed my eyes while the words, “You look like an asshole, go back to your room and starve to sleep” echoed in my head before fading.

“Well, you not wanting to eat food that isn’t between two slices of white bread isn’t my problem, is it?”

I expected him to give me another childish excuse, but he didn’t. He sighed and relaxed his neck muscles, letting his head fall back before groaning at the ceiling like some entitled animal. Given his caveman hygiene habits and willful ignorance towards paying rent, cleaning, and not smelling like ass around the damn apartment, the meathead already seemed to be more ape than college student to me.

He’d always been like this though, but he seemed content with himself—he was a model idiot. It wasn’t like he was incapable; he knew how to scrub down bathroom tiles and clean dishes back when he lived with Mom and Dad. But he was always prompted to do those chores—he was always reactive, never proactive.

Chase marched back to his room and slammed his door shut, and I tried to go back to sleep. But of course, like a child, he couldn’t let me have the last word when he wanted something.

Not even 15 minutes after I laid down, I heard Chase hollering from down the hall. He was playing some video game, the same game he played every night, a game whose title I don’t even know. I closed my eyes but remained restless thanks to his incessant bursts of hysterical laughter and guttural yells. By the time I re-opened my eyes to check the time on my phone, it was almost two in the morning and I could still hear the prick cursing at his monitor.

But I don’t think that it was Chase’s screaming that ultimately got me out of bed and dragged me over to the fridge. I could feel burning from within me. An amalgam of gastric juices bubbling called out for me to consume, causing a violent ruckus within me like shark pups roughhousing in their mother’s womb.

Much like many other college kids across America, my brother and I either had a filled fridge or nothing at all. That night, we had nothing. We had a tenured bottle of ranch, six bottles of beer, a half-empty bottle of water, a box of baking soda for deodorizing, and the aforementioned plate of leftover chicken adobo.

For some reason, the image of browned, tender drumsticks and thighs chilling in the fridge managed to remind me of my job as a busboy. Maybe it was the peppercorns that reminded me of the waiters seasoning meals for the unapologetically wealthy or maybe it was the two pale bay leaves mocking what little cash I had in my bank account simply with their complexion. I didn’t know why I was mad at myself for being poor, I was the one who decided to pursue an English degree—I knew that this would come with the territory but decided to pursue it anyway. Whatever the reason, looking at the plate meant that I, at least, had enough money to cook for myself rather than order take-out. As for the gym rat rooming with me, he was fine and dandy with take-out every day. He was well-connected enough that he could get a job upon request and that meant that he had the budget to buy all the fish sandwiches he wanted. I suppose that’s a perk of being a jock.

A minute after closing the refrigerator door, I opened it up once more, perhaps expecting something new to appear. But, of course, that didn’t happen. Instead, I grabbed the case of beer and fished for a bottle opener in one of the kitchen drawers. I’m pretty certain the clinking of glass bottles charmed Chase out of his room, and it was that thought that made me chug the first bottle before I saw him a few minutes later.

“Sup,” he said. He wore a comfortable university hoodie and basketball shorts even though it was that time in the year when the autumn winds started to howl. I grumbled in his general direction.

I watched Chase make a beeline to the fridge. Like myself, he found nothing viable for consumption at this hour.

“Ain’t got shit to eat here,” he exclaimed before slamming his body onto the opposite end of the couch where I sat. Normally, I’d try to put on a serious face and maybe get my nag on, attempt to be a good older brother who tells their younger sibling to say no to underage drinking, but that didn’t happen. Because, while I was still his brother, what could I have actually done? He was 18, a legal adult. Who was I to say no? Why should I waste my energy? What could I do to make him act right? Intimidate him? Chase was three inches taller than me and still retained the high school body that he used to succeed in athletics. And on top of that, after he left varsity sports, he pursued archery of all things to get away from the stress of baseball and basketball.

“Three for me, three for you,” I told him.

“Okay, but listen. How about four for me and two for you?”

I turned to him and repeated myself. “Three for me. Three for you.”

“…But how about four for me and two for you?”

I didn’t even like beer that much—I’m a bit of a lightweight.

Eventually, all six bottles had gone dry while my brother and I mindlessly stared at our television, where some late night host was laughing too hard at their guest. That was when Chase started talking.

“Hey, kuya,” he said, patronizing me with that title. “Why are you still awake?”

At that moment, the beast in my belly bellowed and answered on my behalf. “A lack of earplugs and a daily commitment to starving myself,” I replied.

“Ha! What the hell do you know about commitment?” You’re still fat,” he exclaimed. Then his stomach growled as if to call out to mine. “Besides, the hops from the beer fucks with fasting.”

“Look, can’t you just go to bed and be quiet for the rest of the night?” I asked.

“I told you before, I’m hungry. I can’t go to bed like this so I’m gaming it off.”

Just as I reached for the remote to turn off the TV, I felt the shark in my belly chomp at my insides. I bit down a curse and clutched my stomach. While I’d been good with my fasting habits for quite some time, I wasn’t used to dealing with my pangs deep into the night before. Some cheating might’ve been involved. There’d only been one other time I’d felt this sort of throe.

“You good?” Chase asked.

“Yeah,” I answered, “it just feels like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Grab me some water from the fridge, will you?”

Chase grabbed the half-empty bottle of water in the fridge. “How the hell do you know how that feels?”

For some reason, the sleep in my eyes was gone. Maybe it was the violent pang in my stomach, but it didn’t matter. There was no way that I’d be getting any rest any time soon. So, I smiled back at my brother and sat him down to tell him a story.

I was out with a girl one night when I was an undergrad. The witching hour was upon us, and we’d made it to the third bar of the night. I’d made the effort of asking her out without collapsing in the fetal position, so she’d suggested bar-hopping. I like to think that things were going well.

“Just imagine talking comfortably with someone, someone who’s still a stranger, and they’re absolutely interested in everything you have to say,” she said. “That’s the ideal date situation for me.”

“Not interested in a person’s differences at all?”

She smiled as she looked down her glass before taking a sip of beer. “Why would I be interested in that?”

I returned her smile, nodding reluctantly. “Why not? Having a foil of some sort might teach you something about yourself.”

She clutched her pint of beer and placed a gentle hand on my cheek. “When you put it like that, then what have I taught you tonight?”

It would be easy to say that we both felt that electricity of longing as we left that bar, but I’d be lying. We were simply piss-drunk, staring at each others’ noses, maneuvering through the town like blind fools.

Despite everything so far, we left that bar laughing together, cackling at anything, everything, and nothing all at once. I don’t even remember what we were talking about as we wandered through town. That was when she proposed the idea to me.

“Are you tired yet?” she asked.

“I mean, I’m feeling good right now. Least, I think. I’m feeling something,” I said. “Don’t worry though, I’m a big boy.”

By then, the orange rays of the streetlights and the 3 AM shadows seemed to blend into each other. She took me by the shoulders and looked at me with determined amber eyes.

“Are you tired?” I asked.

“Nope. Just bored.”

“Maybe we can do something to fix that?”

There was a passing moment before she flashed me a smile, took my wrist, and dragged me over to an alleyway two blocks away. Once she took me into that alley, you’d think that I’d fear for my life since she could’ve easily chloroformed me and robbed me blind—but by then, my other head was making decisions for me.

We didn’t have much of a plan. The only thing she told me before we broke in through the back door of some patisserie was that she had a bottle of pepper spray in her purse.

“I’ll use this in case things go sour,” she told me. “Just keep your eyes open.”

So we went in through the back door of that patisserie, a place called Broken Bread. We didn’t literally break into the place, we simply turned the rusted handle and we were inside just like that.

We used our phones as flashlights as we made our way down a hallway which led to where the treasures were: shiny brioche buns begging for attention, earthy-tones pumpernickel loaves inviting any and all for comfort, and croissants falling on top of each other in a flaky mountain. Even if the bread was stale, I wouldn’t have minded taking a bite out of each loaf if there weren’t so many drinks in me.

“What are we looking for here?” I asked her.

“I’m looking for a baguette.”

“A baguette?”

“Don’t judge. Just grab one. They’re not going to notice,” she said. “Plus, this place looks like it’s covered by insurance.”

Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: what the hell does it mean when a place looks like it’s covered by insurance? My answer to that question: beats me, but I digress.

“Just one?” I asked.

“Grab something for yourself too, we’re already here.”

I appreciated the offer at the time but I was fine. Aside from the alcohol, I think the addition of adrenaline pumping through my body might’ve inhibited whatever feelings of hunger I could’ve felt in a place like Broken Bread.

I shined my light through the aisles of once-warm pastries on display, which included much more sugary and complex selections—crème brûlée donuts, almond cookies shaped like maple leaves, and even something suspiciously called a pizza biscuit which surprisingly didn’t look bad as its name did on its display label. Imagine a savory waffle with all of the fixings of a supreme pizza, with a careful drizzle of sweet-looking tomato sauce on top of it all. In the silence of our raid, it was almost peaceful to just eye all of the baked goods in the near-dark. However, I had to remind myself about the immediate goal at hand and quickly snapped out of my own thoughts.

I could not locate a baguette, but my date was able to and clung to the 12-incher like it was a teddy bear. But like many other heists, it was only a matter of time until things went sour.

The lights turned on above us and I turned around. I never saw the left hook to the liver coming, and I dropped to the floor writhing in pain, clutching the right side of my belly, wondering if this was what childbirth felt like. The person responsible for the attack seemed to be a woman in tartan boxers and a loose white tee twice my size. She looked down at me, scowling, as I fell to the floor.

By the time I came to, air returning to my lungs, I saw my date digging frantically through her handbag as the woman who’d clocked me approached her. Behind me, I could also hear a masculine, elderly voice calling out from down the hallway in a language I could not readily identify—all I could make out were unknown, fiery words in an arid voice. Meanwhile, my date, as the bullish woman finally grabbed her by the wrist, yanked that little bottle of pepper spray out of her bag and pressed hard on the thing with her thumb. To everyone’s surprise, she ended up spraying herself in the goddamn face.

So, we were both there not having fun at all. When she sprayed herself, everyone in that bakery began to grow deaf as my date screeched louder than any drunkard could. As the two of us suffered—three, if you count our claimed baguette, now sprinkled with mace—I felt the rubber tip of a cane jab me on the small of my back. I looked up. The owner of the cane was an old man with shar-pei wrinkles and thick eyebrows shaped like scimitars, peering over us with milky pupils.

The woman in boxers approached the blind man carefully, pulled him in close, and whispered something in his ear. I don’t know what she said to him, but I can only assume that she was telling him a rousing story about two college-aged knuckleheads who broke into their bakery and tried to steal a baguette in order to do god knows what with it. When she pulled away, the man scanned with his cane before muttering something under his breath. The woman in boxers left the lobby of the patisserie and returned with a clean, slightly damp hand towel. In the silence beyond the witching hour of that evening, the woman wiped the pepper spray off my date’s face. The old man stared aimlessly, muttering under his breath for a good minute, until the woman helped my date find her footing and disappeared into the shadowy hallway leading to the back of the store. About 20 minutes later, a cab pulled up to the front of the place and the man returned with departing words for my date.

“Leave. And take bread with you.”

As I saw my date get away in the cab with her puffy eyes and reddened cheeks, I couldn’t help but notice how she’d forgotten about me already. Maybe the French loaf would be a reminder of that night, but I doubt it. And as for myself, I was still sitting on the tile floor watching all of this unfold. The couple watched the cab drive off before turning to me once the car was out of sight.

The woman helped me up before dragging me down that shadowy hallway and into a small office. Stacks on stacks of paper nestled in manila folders were piled up on an aging filing cabinet. Next to said cabinet was a simple wooden desk which looked like it could’ve been taken from grade school—no cabinets for supplies or keepsakes, not even enough room for someone to overwork themselves to sleep, just a simple surface that could handle paperwork one sheet at a time. The woman planted me on the stool and made me wait for her partner to arrive. When he finally did, the woman left the two of us.

I didn’t look back when he came into the office. I simply let the sound of his thumping cane draw closer to me until I could see him just out of my peripheral view.

I could hear him breathing heavily, almost snoring, and I wondered if he was awake at all. It was odd to hear him seemingly doze off with his eyes open, having him stare back at me lifelessly, exuding this dark aura which trailed and pulsed behind him like a Faustian shadow. But, then again, it could’ve just been the booze in me extrapolating nonsense from the situation.

The moment had marinated long enough when the old man sprung back to life. Without a word, he slid me a sheet of paper and a ballpoint pen.

“Write.”

What? I thought. Why? To whom?

“You write. Now.”

He turned and with one of his gangly arms, he forced a drawer open. From there, he reached for a decently sized photo, one you could frame and set next to you in bed, and he carefully set it down at the edge of the desk. Getting a better look at the image, I could see that it was a young, fair-skinned girl, probably about the same age as my date, with dark hair tied taut. She was sitting at a desk larger than the one where my ass was planted at, but the room seemed to look a lot like a cleaner version of the office I was in. There wasn’t a clear view of the woman’s face. She hadn’t been looking at the camera, so you could just barely see the outline of her face from her forehead to her petite nose to the back of her jaw. She held a pen in one hand and propped the unseen half of her face in the other as she hunched over the desk.

“Who is this?” I asked the man.

“Head of patisserie.”

I looked at the photo again, noticing the woman’s attire—a simple white tee a few sizes too big, whose sole purpose was comfort, and blue jeans—and turned to the man again. I thought that perhaps the heavy-set woman was once lighter on her feet. But to spare myself the possibility of a possible beating from an old man with a blunt object, I decided to keep to myself—but that didn’t stop me from piping up again.

“Is she your daughter? Your wife?”

Silence. I was met only by a reflection of myself in the translucent ivory of his eyes.

“A friend of yours?”

Silence once again, but not a complete one—a beat.

“No,” said the man.

“Co-workers in the past?”

The man nodded. I turned to look at the blank sheet of paper in front of me.

“Is this the first time you’ve done this before?”

“Quiet!” the old man growled, slapping a hand on the desk. “You write. Don’t leave room. Or I call police. You give to me when paper done.”

While I didn’t know exactly what I was doing, that didn’t stop me from uncapping the pen and getting to work. As for the man, he continued to occupy my peripheral view and remained inanimate, like he was part of the office. I began to write aimlessly, hunched over that tiny desk, writing about whatever was bouncing around in my head. Occasionally, I eyed the photo of the writing woman until I began to write about my many questions, mostly concerning her, which flowed out of me naturally: when was the photo taken, was this photo taken here, what was she writing about, was the old man lying, why the hell am I actually writing about nothing again?

I don’t know how much time had passed before I had a full page of complete and utter nonsense. Then again, the man never specified my topic and it wasn’t like he could tell me that what I’d written was bunk. I straightened my back and rose from my desk to give my paper to the blind man, but he was gone.

I think that he must’ve said “Screw it” at some point and left. But he made such an effort to keep his eyes on me. I even went out of my way to go look for him, maybe he was cleaning up the mess at the front of the store but he wasn’t there either. So, I left with a head full of questions. Why would he just abandon everything after making such an effort to get that far? Why wouldn’t he stay to see the end?

TO BE CONTINUED.

Thanks again to all who took time of their day to read the first part of this longish short story that I wrote a few years back. Just for the record, the thing is an homage to literary heavyweight Haruki Murakami and his short story “The Second Bakery Attack”. In terms of goals when writing this was to capture the same tone of Murakami’s piece while putting my own spin to things pertaining to that narrative iceberg and whatnot (which, as a wannabe writer, I must refrain from detailing).

Anyway, thanks again. If you liked my writing, please leave a like, leave a comment, and subscribe to the newsletter. Please stop by next weekend for part two of “Meryenda” and don’t forget to tell your friends about it. Take care and stay hydrated.

Thank you for reading this edition of The Morning Owl. If you liked what you saw here, it would be please leave a like, subscribe, leave a comment, and share this degenerate’s blog to other sentient folk with internet access. Until we meet again, drink plenty of water and take care.