A continent away, headhunters decorate the rugged terrain of the Cordillera Region in Northern Philippines; six ethno-linguistic tribes, like the Igorots, survive.
Passing Beverly Hills, driven in a white limo, I’m making lots of money. Wherever I am, my trendy, ultra-high tech lap top works--any competition gets slit.
Tucked under my arm, we race up my private jet, stomping each step as I go. We sit next to a window and I watch buildings and streets where people are getting smaller and smaller like compressed digital memories, until they can all fit on a postage stamp.
Enter my password. Click on Shares. Sell short all oil stocks. Cha-ching! Going online on a plane is sexy.
Windows Media Player pops up with the latest on The Apprentice. Is that really Trump’s hair? He’s edging me on branding--“You’re fired!”
A steward slips off my shoes and raises my feet on velvet cushion but I do not look up, too busy, I have other more important things to do. He brings me a cocktail of Valium, Xanax and Paxil and for a crazy second, I wish I can ask him for a bottle of etag (the most popular Igorot rice wine) to drink with it, but I doubt there is any here, since it’s so exotic, it can only be found high in the Philippine mountains. Right about now, I’d also like some sweet, sugar-coated Tsu-om, its rice grain split and crushed by my own mother’s hand…
Google plastic surgeons, must get another nose job.
Email my lawyer.
Buy stocks of Trump’s real estate.
Check my accountant’s website.
NOISE. I jerk forward, turbulence in the skies, the seatbelt grabs me back, but my lap top slips my fingers and crashes to the floor: Gold, English Pounds, American Dollars, Peso, Yen, NASDAQ, cigarette commercials, Scrooge McDuck... I want to die, let me die.
This life has been hell. A lap top doesn’t love me. I must fly back to the Igorots.