Migrant Worker Learns the Bitter Truth: His Kumpare Had Been Riding His Honda While He Was Away
(Pasay City, Philippines) – Alex Fillarca, 27, had not believed what he heard from family and friends, but now that she was right in front of him, there was no more denying the truth.
He remembered phoning his brother from Taiwan to confirm the rumors. “Well, I thought you already knew,” his brother had told him. “Everybody in our street knew what’s up. There’s even that one time he was riding her all night, everyone in the whole block could hear her engine moaning.”
He had come home unexpectedly, and now before his eyes was his 1972 Honda CB750, a beautiful air-cooled, four-cylinder work of mechanical wonder. Her luscious curves would make a hardened man weak at the knees. She was the love of his life.
He had imagined spending the rest his life together with her, but now he wasn’t so sure anymore.
He squatted and looked at the oil dripping from her motor; the dead battery; the worn-out tires; the cold engine that wouldn’t start. When he left her a year ago, her seat was plump and bouncy; now it’s all flat. It was obvious that someone had been riding her while he was away.
“So it is true,” he said to his wife standing behind him, “everything that I’d been hearing while I was away.” “No!” she tearfully answered, “You know I wouldn’t let anyone ride your cherished bike.”
But he didn’t really have to ask–he already knew. He had trusted her, and she betrayed him.
He saw a big rusty wretch in a corner of the garage and revenge briefly crossed his mind–but he quickly batted the thought away. That wasn’t his style. Besides, what man could resist something so enticing as a CB750, all there for the taking?
Tears welled on his eyes for the future he had imagined that was all gone. What was there left to do?
Well, what would anyone do? There was nothing in the world that could replace her–or was there? True, you probably couldn’t get another pristine 50-year-old Honda CB750 anywhere, but why not get something young and new? Something with the same heart-stirring curves but more utilitarian rather than sexy, something that would turn heads but not sexy enough for men to lust over.
A 50cc Honda Supercub.
The thought lit his face. He had seen one a couple of times ridden by a mailman during his one-year stint in Taipei. He thought it was a pretty neat bike with nice curves–utilitarian, trustworthy and reliable. He didn’t actually think he would want one–until now.
He closed his eyes and pictured himself riding a red-and-white Supercub liesurely along the beach, stopping to buy buko juice and turon along the way. He would ride her and they would watch the sunset together, sipping buko juice and eating turon.
Yes, a shiny new Honda Supercub would do.
He thought of his kumpare, how they had fun riding bikes together during their college days. He knew he had lusted over his Honda ever since he laid eyes on her back then. If he really wanted his CB750 so badly, he would let him have it, for old times’ sake.
He got up and let his fingers run along the Honda’s fuel tank and then gripped her handles one last time. “We’ve had some fun, didn’t we?,” he thought, “now it’s time to say goodbye.”
And his lying wife? “He can have her, too.”
He walked to the door and briefly looked back to survey the room–just enough to see the broken pieces of his dream–then stepped outside and gently closed everything behind him, the red-and-white Honda Supercub in his mind beckoning him towards the sunset.