Songs To Your Beat: Playlist, #5

Playlist #5

Songs To Your Beat

Jay E. Tria

Copyright

Songs To Your Beat

Jay E. Tria

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any semblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2020 by Jay E. Tria

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Contact the author: www.jayetria.com, [email protected]

Cover design by Tania Arpa

Photography by Alexandra Urrea, featuring Iking Uy

Books by Jay

Playlist Series: Songs of Our Breakup | Songs to Get Over You | Songs to Make You Stay | Songs You Come Back To | Songs to Your Beat

Flair Book 1: You Out of Nowhere

Young Adult/Manga novel: Blossom Among Flowers

Young Adult/Urban Fantasy: Majesty

Anthologies: Make My Wish Come True | Promdi Heart | Summer Crush | Second Wave Summer

Contents

October 9, Saturday, morning

October 16, Saturday, night

Stranger Around Here

November 9, Monday, two years ago

Tag (You Win)

October 29, Friday, night

November 5, Friday, morning

November 5, Friday, night

Crossing

November 10, Wednesday, night

November 11, Thursday, morning

November 14, Sunday, morning, Not A Sunday Slowdown Radio Show Transcript

November 14, Sunday, afternoon

November 14, Sunday, night

November 15, Monday, midnight

Helpful

November 17, Wednesday, afternoon

November 28, Sunday, morning

December 5, Sunday, midnight

December 5, Sunday, noon

Afterparty

December 10, Friday, morning

Love Story

December 12, Sunday, morning, Not A Sunday Slowdown Radio Show Transcript

December 14, Tuesday, morning

December 18, Saturday, night. Why Aren’t You Banging the Drummer Transcript (Private Recording)

December 19, Sunday, afternoon

December 19, Sunday, night

February 12, Friday, afternoon

Never Let Me Go

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Songs You Come Back To Excerpt

May 1, Saturday, night

To Ma. Ana, for taking all the shifts.

To shooting your shot and fire exits.

October 9, Saturday, morning

NINO WAS A MAN WHO stomped to his own beat.

It’s okay. He’s the drummer. The beat was his currency.

Most days though he played a half step and a wild bounding leap ahead of the song’s pace. Sometimes. Possibly. His bandmates liked to call him out on this. He low-key agreed with them, aware of his own inherent deficiency, but never out loud. He’d never hear the end of it.

Tonight was different. He knew he was going too fast. And he wasn’t even the drummer tonight. Only a reliever.

The strobe lights were blinding, annoying. To think I actually like neon, he grumbled in his head as a beam of yellow light bright enough to summon Batman slid down to strike his face and stayed there. He dipped his head further until his chin stabbed the hollow of his chest.

The light moves with my beat, Pedro! He angled away and looked back up, hollering to the lights guy for the nth time. It wasn’t the first time they’re working together, so Nino suspected Pedro was doing this on purpose. The guy did enjoy being annoying.

Nino’s hands remained steady on his deck. He was pleased to note he’d done this DJ thing enough times in the past two months to be capable of that—working the beat to a pounding crescendo while battling it out with the lights that seemed intent on taking his eyes out. He bobbed his head, rolled it from side to side, trying to fall back into the rhythm of his trance. But it was a Backstreet Boys song, the kind that was written to be sung along with single-single-double-double dance moves, and he was spinning it too fast.

Slow it down! Karl the birthday boy screamed at him for what felt like the nth time tonight too.

Karl, the lord of this Y2K-themed party, turned 25 today. He was two years Nino’s senior and was paying for his services despite the no-prior-notice DJ switch—a short list of reasons for Nino to obey. He ground the record down the board in a last hysterical, wailing pitch, feeling an unnatural high when he heard Nick Carter’s verse sound like a shrill alien mating call, and brought it down to a milder bass, a more sing-along friendly tempo.

Cue karaoke dance party.

The floor of this little two-story club erupted into a chorus of wanting it that way, arms flapping and waving like limbs of drowning sailors calling for help, and Nino knew he had lost. The dance floor had spoken.

He gave in.

He hollered the chorus back at his packed crowd, these merrymaking yuppies in their ironic t-shirts, sequined tops, and old school sneakers, swaying in front of him like a massive wave. Mid-verse he flipped to a more recent track, millennial-age vintage, a few years’ old, funky Ransom Collective summer anthem, dipped back to Brian Littrell’s sultry promises, then hit the chorus of ‘Unwell’. ‘Unwell’ was his ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’. It was his metronome. Thank you, Rob Thomas, for your fossilized relevance. The crowd yelled out a cheer-laugh harmony, and by the time Nino had spliced back to the boyband pop super hit, the mob was mashing up the lyrics on their own.

A cylinder of pink light slapped his face, burning his retinas, but Nino’s grin spread wider. A triumphant neon leer.

He turned his gaze to catch a girl looking up at him from the dance floor. She was a tiny thing, and on all accounts Nino shouldn’t have noticed her. But she was standing still in the middle of the tipsy-happy, gyrating crowd. The single stationary human in the otherwise rolling mass. Her big, dark eyes were focused on his face, her expression decidedly unimpressed.

What the—? Dance! Look at Karl, he’s enjoying his 2000s-throwback-themed birthday! Nino wanted to shout at her.

She tilted her chin, lips curving to a half-smirk, like she couldn’t be bothered to give him a full one. She spun on her heels in a whirl of thick, dark hair and disappeared. 

Nino stared at the space she’d occupied a few seconds longer than he should have. The smirk and the dark, heavy lidded eyes were sexy. That swirl of hair made time stand still. Okay, acknowledged.

He shook his head and turned back to his deck, to his thumping crowd. He brought up the tempo, a sly move, up a few notches to keep up with the bass drop of blood in his ears.

What did one stoic girl matter? The dance floor had spoken.

NINO DIDN’T HAVE TO take up these DJ-ing gigs.

His band Trainman hadn’t exactly been lacking work. If anything they’re playing more venues than ever, brand new settings in front of fresh waves of people. An impressive feat for an indie rock band birthed from high school days of swapped playlists and bonding over crispy fish balls.

Trainman’s recent two-step jump was a welcome development. Little bit of thanks due to the distribution deal they’d recently signed with that used-to-be elusive big record company, and the generous push said company had been giving their latest album. So yay and thanks, I guess, titos of the Manila music scene.

His band was doing great. He would never admit it to DJ Diego, but Nino kept saying yes to these gigs Diego would unceremoniously drop on his lap because of the only acceptable reason: he enjoyed them. They were fun and new, an extra thing to fill up the spaces left on his calendar, rid it of empty nights.

Nino was getting the scraps though. The first time he was tricked into it.

The radio DJ caught episodes of Nino’s stale online radio show via comments and hashtags floating around the Internet. Diego told him he loved it in the obnoxious, expletive-happy way he did best. Cool shit you got here, brother, you have a fucking psychedelic beat-matching ear, let’s totally do this shit together sometime.

Sometime happened soon enough. Diego called him about a gig, a house party of some rising milliner. Nino showed up excited—the beat was his currency and a beat went beyond drums, right?—but clueless about the job. The host met him at the door and led him to a deck, a computer and a stack of CDs, and thanked him for filling in on Diego on such short notice.

There was no togetherness.

Good thing he knew how to press play.

"What the hell were you thinking?" His friend and Trainman’s guitarist Miki had burst out when Nino told them about it. It wasn’t a question. He looked annoyed and also like he pitied Nino, all while their bassist Son laughed out the full extent of his lung capacity.

DJ Diego had always loved having Trainman over as guests on his late night radio show, but the feeling was never ever mutual. Overall an existence that needed getting used to, the DJ exhibited a particular enjoyment in infuriating Miki, and the band was never sure if he was doing it on purpose or if it was because Miki was the anti-Diego and thus the antics came naturally.

"It wasn’t terrible. And it was fun," Nino had insisted to his friends, and by the second gig he was sure it wasn’t going to be the last.

He should have taken down that radio show long ago. He hadn’t updated it in ages, and its demise to internet obscurity had been a long time coming. But at least he got some fun and profit out of it now.

He already had his own place as Trainman’s drummer. He had a throne, literally, and the jumping mass crowded around Miki, Son, and their front people Jill and Kim was his shared kingdom.

When he spun a set on the deck, he was alone, while also surrounded. He went up there with no plans, no set list, no rehearsals. Just his instinct and his emphatic feel of the dance floor.

It was a learning curve but it’s a steep climb. It was a good rush. He liked it in small doses.

He was a drummer first and foremost though. He declared this with certainty, to their de facto leader Kim’s curt approval. 

Twenty past 6 a.m. and the strong rays of the sun found him ambling out of the closed club, his gear his only burden. He had parked his car in front of a cozy looking eatery across the street and was relieved to find it open. He’d lucked out on a 24/7 joint, hurrah. His gear locked and loaded in the trunk, he stalked toward the diner’s door and pushed it open. He plopped down on a seat at the bar.

Jumbo hotdog with rice, fried eggs, and coffee, he called to the man behind the counter. I’d like the hotdog edges crispy, please.

Nino had about five minutes of feeling sorry for himself for having breakfast alone, being equipped sparsely for me-time meal experience due to the regular company of bandmates or dates, when a loaded tray landed in front of him.

It smelled like heaven. It looked like the breakfast of champions.

It also wasn’t his order.

But he was shattered and ravenous, stripped to the bone from standing, crouched over a table for five straight hours, and he couldn’t care less. He took his first bite and knew it was his best decision ever.

He thought he heard a sharp shriek from somewhere to his right, rising above the lazy jazz floating from the eatery’s speakers.

Come on, Manny. This isn’t our first time. We’ve been at this for three years now.

Nino’s ears prickled, but not enough to stop eating. This breakfast was so good, whoever it belonged to.

Oh, my lord. I’m sorry, Santana. I’m having an off day.

Nino looked up from a scalding gulp of coffee. His first two spoonfuls were finding their way down his stomach, and his body was starting to feel warm and sustained, enough for him to take an interest in his surroundings.

It was the man behind the counter, talking to whoever it was seated two spare stools away from him. 

Is it the wife? came the answer from this Santana. Did you forget your anniversary again? It’s October, Manny. I remember what happened last year. I remember everything.

No, no, the wife is great. It’s the kid. He got a failing grade in his biology exam. I’m worried he might get kicked out. Why can’t he be as smart as you, eh?

Biology is hard, Manny. I almost flunked that too. Don’t be too hard on Peter. We can discuss this more later when I’ve been fed and your face doesn’t look like a hunk of ham to me.

It was a girl, and she had a great voice. Nino liked voices. It wasn’t even because of his job. It was just the first thing he noticed, the first trap he fell for. At least that was the story with his ex-girlfriend, Suze.

Twenty pesos to the Get On With Life jar. Nino heard Miki’s voice in his head.

You extortionist, his thoughts replied.

He took out his wallet and folded up a 20-peso bill, sulking at himself.

"Oh my lord, he is eating it. That dude is really eating my breakfast."

Nino turned a quarter to his left, so his laugh and next giant spoonful would be within limited view of his right-side neighbor. So this heavenly meal belonged to her. He was almost sorry if he didn’t find himself fortunate. He closed his eyes to savor each bite, and to take in her voice.

It was low, and measured, like the dying notes of a lullaby. It would lift every few sentences, with the shifts in her emotions. (It was sharp annoyance and angry hunger—hanger—right now, maybe.) And it had a tilt in the end, making some lines come out like a song. He had never heard a voice like hers before.

I don’t understand. Manny the eatery guy sounded panicked. He ordered jumbo hotdog-silog and I gave him champorado with danggit. Why is he eating it?

It is an amazing meal, Manny, that’s why he is eating it. Why don’t you get me a new one, okay?

Okay, Santana. Rush order! I’ll have the cook add a few extra pieces of fish for you. Don’t worry, I got you.

You’re lovely, Manny. This friendship we have, don’t you forget how precious this is.

Nino watched Manny disappear into the kitchen in a succession of hurried limps. It apparently took three years of patronage for this girl to be the boss of him, surely much less.

He turned a side eye to the direction of the voice, hidden behind a lock of his longish hair and his raised mug as he took his next sip of coffee. He was good at stealing glances like this, thanks to years of expert flirting.

Round, dark eyes were staring at him. She didn’t even look embarrassed he’d caught her looking. She looked defiant, like he owed her, and very clearly annoyed. She held his gaze long enough for him to see her squint to a glare before she turned away.

It’s the non-dancer. Nino’s sleepy mind crawled toward recognition.

He lifted himself and transferred to the seat beside her, half-demolished breakfast in tow. He thought he felt waves of something simmering come off of this non-dancing girl stranger.

So. Nino turned his head, one rich eyebrow hooked upwards. Champorado with a side of bacon and fried danggit. His gaze flicked down, to the bowl of sticky chocolate porridge, halfway gone, then eyes back up to her. This isn’t even on the menu. What a spark of genius.

Her glare fell full force on him. The round eyes were brown from this