One May day I stole a Playstation 3 controller. I didn’t plan at all on committing the theft. In fact, the moment I left the apartment on Heiligegeeststraat and dropped off Saki at the primary school around the corner, I was already determined to bike directly to the office at the Higher Institute of Philosophy that I shared with Anja Topolski. I never liked going there but I felt I had to stay out of the way of the movers for as long as I could. So I snaked my way through pelotons of other students for about two kilometers under an overcast Belgian sky, repeating to myself along the way that I should get some substantial reading and writing done today—that I should, after four fully-funded years, be able to take this small step towards finally finishing my PhD.
Anja, who incidentally was also writing her dissertation on Levinas, was already in the tiny office when I arrived, sweaty and out of breath. Grasping tightly the black office phone with her left hand, a blue pen in her right, she looked up at me with furrowed brows and nodded curtly in response to my small silent wave. As I took my seat across from her, I immediately put my headphones on, set down my backpack, and gingerly took out my books, my stack of articles, and my laptop. I decided on reading an essay by CM Gschwandtner on kenotic love. While I did my best to concentrate on the small printed paragraphs, I could still hear Anja arguing with somebody. Every few minutes she would slam down the phone, mutter something inaudible, then pick it back up and start punching numbers. The shapes taken by her mouth brought back the conversation Jade had with me a week ago.
She came into the living room late that night, while I was grasping the red Playstation controller tightly, at the cusp of beating the chapter “Eviction” in CoD: World at War. She’s going, she said. What do you mean, I asked, still focused on the screen. She already secured an apartment at a university residence. She’ll pay for it with her own scholarship. She’ll continue to pay half of my rent until the end of the year, she quickly added. Saki can stay with her half of the time. She’s moving out soon—in a week. Her voice was calm and no tears were shed. As I put down the controller, I wanted to ask her why and say why not give it another chance. But I knew there was no use protesting or negotiating, like that time the Rector told me he was kicking me out of that college seminary in the Philippines. The fact was I wasn’t meeting expectations. What else could I have said to her in response? Most nights I slept in the living room or in Saki’s after gaming until the small hours. Could I blame her?
I put the incomprehensible article down and turned to my laptop and stared intensely at one of my chapter drafts. I went over the lines repeatedly, changing a word or phrase here and there, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say to extend the number of pages I then had. The next thing I knew I jerked awake when the top of my head lightly hit the blackened screen. I was all alone in the completely silent office. It was past lunch time.
After finishing the soggy spaghetti bolognese at the crowded university canteen, I thought I should do something to shake off my lingering drowsiness—otherwise how else would I be able to continue working? Besides I couldn’t go home yet as Jade and the movers might still be at the apartment hauling half the furniture into a truck. And I didn’t have to pick up Saki from school since Jade said she’d do it and bring him to her new place today.
The sprawling Carrefour outside the city center was bustling with the sounds made by the tills, by people pushing carts with squeaking wheels, parents herding their children, and clerks walking briskly along the aisles. I went straight to the electronics section, situated in a corner just past the chrome detectors at the exit. I thumbed through some games in the discount bin, watched a couple of teenagers play a football game demo, and contentedly leafed through gaming magazines with reviews, tips, and walkthroughs. Then walking past an array of accessories, I spotted the generic controller, packaged in clear hard plastic.
At exact same moment the feeling that I needed it crystallized in my chest, a sense of inviting danger began to envelope my entire body. As I stalked the aisles, discreetly scanning the ceiling, I thought, what if? Can I? Why not? They wouldn’t miss it. It’s only twenty euros—dirt cheap compared to the original Sony ones. But what if you get caught? Wouldn’t that be even more humiliating than the time a uniformed security guard followed you around the store and asked you at the exit—a routine procedure he said—to open your backpack, which contained nothing else but journal articles, books, and your laptop? But that won’t happen this time. Nobody’s watching. There’s no magnetic sticker on the packaging. Don’t put the controller in your bag. If the detectors go off, explain in your best basic Dutch that you got lost looking for the cash registers. Put on a Stoic face. Walk casually to the exit, past the detectors. You alone can hear the wild throbbing of your heart.
As I rode my bike away from the store in the failing light of that May day, past blood-orange brick houses and old-fashioned Flemish cafés, I knew distinctly I could finally go home. I would empty my backpack, carefully cut the controller out of its plastic case, connect it to the console, and be completely alone that night in my apartment, with my books, my laptop, my TV, my games.
*This piece is forthcoming on The Brussels Review.
A.D. Capili hails from the Philippines. He came to Belgium to study philosophy and literature and he currently teaches at a European School in Brussels. His poems have appeared in Little Fish and DoubleSpeak; some of his poems, fiction, and non-fiction pieces have recently been selected for publication in The Brussels Review.
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