The Unpolished Stories

The Rush: Epilogue

RE: Floren: Thank You and Well Wishes
9:07 p.m.

Floren,

Thank you for your kind words. I appreciate your reassurance that everything will be okay. I do hope everything will be okay. I remember Henryk really well. He used to join Michal and I playing family computer. It is good to know that he, and your daughters, are all well-accomplished and succeeding in their chosen career. Give my regards to Aniela most of all, my warmest greetings to her husband-to-be. Extend my well wishes to your husband, Sir Bartosz. It is good to hear that despite the unfortunate accident, he is still in good health. Papa misses him. I am glad Aniela and Papa have kept in touch. I never knew. With Michal, well, I guess he has his reasons. I’m fine with them so long as he’s good, healthy and happy. I’m proud of his success with the cafe, I want him to know that.

Thank you again for taking the time Mrs. Graboswki. You’ve been very gracious to our family and I will continue to pray for all of you. Much love from Manila to Krakow.

Jamie

PS We really miss your Zupa pomidorowa. And of course, the shots of Belvedere that taught the twelve-year old me I should avoid alcohol as best as I can. I haven’t succeeded as much though.

There was a quiet contentment after I pressed ‘sent’. Relief? Joy? I could not tell what it was. It was already nine in the evening, I had been editing my reply for a good half-an-hour, obsessed to leave subtext, or anything asking for sympathy, out of my email. Mrs. Grabowski, as I said, was always a gracious lady who knew how meticulous life can be. She was a woman radiating with warmth despite being so soft-spoken and retiring. I wanted to reassure her that I was indeed okay, if only I could remove her uncertainties over how I’ve spent the last couple of years. Perhaps she thought it was spent in regret. It wasn’t too far off but I still wanted to let her know I was okay. Maybe she would call me. Maybe.

A sudden light. Then, some vibrating motion on the table. Casta Diva by Maria Callas. One of my absolute favorites. With her divine voice, my attention was drawn to my phone ringing with operatic familiarity as it shook the study table and passed the reverberation on the mouse. Few people called me on my mobile, fewer still at nine in the evening. Charlie, Ria, Joanna and I had always preferred texting, especially in this kind of economy. An unknown number. Who could this be? Floren, perhaps. It must be her! I could see four and eight on the screen. Outside the country definitely. I inhaled a big scoop of air, as if I was to dive into a pool for a hundred-meter brushstroke competition.

Answer.

“Hello?”

Split-second silence.

“Floren?”

A coincidental prank-call?

“Mrs. Graboswki,” I asked once more, with an agitated tone and heightened voice.

“Jamie?” said in rich baritone, with the slight Polish inflections, and through crooked lower teeth.

“Michal?”

The Rush: Part Four

Charlie, Ria, Joanna and I went to the football field to rest our minds, and breathe. I guess it was information overload for them. Michał was always a myth, a disjointed figure from the essays and poetry I wrote; and now, he was clearer than a summer day. We were quiet for the most part, as we looked into the distant buildings being constructed around the university. The sky would be soon be covered with ten more of these: humongous steel structures jutting out, and casting shadows on the field. I wondered how the grass would survive? Michał was right. Things changed at a pace no one could ever anticipate. I was too proud to accept such an idea. I was too sentimental to even consider it possible. Life, as I knew it, was prone to changes gradually not in some spur-of-the-moment action.

After a quick chat on where we were to meet for tomorrow’s mock thesis defense, we dispersed like Jesus’ disciples, as we set for home - España, Noval, Lacson and Dapitan. I was waiting for an email and I was in hurry to get back to our house. Traffic was bad, but it gave me enough time to think. Not about the past. Not about the email. But about the future. This was my last year in university, it was time for me to be decisive. I needed to choose a career path soon because in two months, I would be officially unemployed. Decades of relying on allowance was already putting a lot of pressure on me. When you find yourself close to the edge of anything, priorities change and perspectives jumble. The same happened with feelings. If for a minute I was thirsty, then I drank water, the feeling would be gone. Feelings were fleeting. They could be quenched in a moment. The most important things last only for a second, only when they become a necessity - water when thirsty, sugar for coffee, a toilet after eating too much, parents for a kiss and allowance.

Papa was at the hospital when I got home. Mama was asleep. They’ve been the kindest parents they could be, and I really could not ask for more. For treating them so badly, they never once compromised their love for me. It’s embarrassing to be their child, the vicodine-stealing, delusional Jamie who told lies and broke people’s hearts, including theirs. But I didn’t have as much choice as they did. The least I could do was remain devoted to them. Be obedient. Be more affectionate.

I went to my parent’s bedroom and I looked at Mama as she slept so still. Dappled under the first full moon of the year, her skin was patchy in pale light, but glowed in the feverish darkness of the master bedroom. I love her dearly. On the day we went home after the visit to the Principal’s office, she told me how everything will all pass, and how people will soon forget. She was very reassuring despite the odds people will simply not remember. But she was my mother, the lone light I needed to wade through the flood of lies in an evening of disquiet. She was my stability when everyone, including Papa, seemed to have turned their back on me.

I crept past her room and straight to the office. There must be a reply by this hour. I opened my email, and found I was right. Mrs. Grabowski had replied. We’ve kept a correspondence ever since I got a hold of her email address two days ago. Thank god for Facebook, I would have never known she was into technology. I’ve never tried to contact any member of Michał’s family since they left. I guess, the guilt was just too strong to overcome. But now, I had nothing to lose. I sent her an email yesterday, mostly a reintroduction of who I was in case she had forgotten. I told her how my family was doing, and I asked the same about hers. It was long shot, but I also left my mobile number, maybe hoping after an online correspondence, she would call me.

RE: Jamie Liquigan: To my much loved Polish family
8:13 p.m.

Dearest Jamie,

It is very nice to hear you are all well. Sorry if I replied late, I am still getting used to the computer. There are too many buttons for my age, you have to bear with me.

My husband is doing good although he suffered a fall last year, after slipping in the bathroom. He can still walk but has trouble staying up for more than an hour. But he is still in great health and his heart problems haven’t been bothering him as much. I don’t know if you’ve heard but Henryk, the cousin who visited us in Manila, joined the military two years ago. He’s been asking a lot about you as well. Kamil is currently teaching history at the Jagiellonian University while Aniela moved to Warsaw to work. They are both doing well. Aniela was just engaged last month. We still don’t know when she is going to get married but the possible date is this September. She has been in contact with your father although not regularly, updating us about your family too. I don’t know if you heard.

It’s really good to hear from you again. Michal misses you a lot even if he does not admit it. I do not know why he has not contacted you. Everyday, I tell him to send you a letter but he has been very busy lately with the cafe and school. I always scold him for that. Jamie, I would you like you to know that it is okay. We are not angry at you. You were so young then and so was Michal. I wanted to give you his email but I just found out from you how he replied. Such a silly, silly boy. You know, he kept your letter. He keeps it in his wallet. He has changed it a few times but he always has your letter there. That is why I know he will forgive you. I think he has. Soon, you will be friends again. I know.

That is it for now. Regards to your parents. I wish them the best of health. We hope to visit the Philippines again soon. Keep in touch.

Florentyna Grabowski

How does one react to knowing? How does one remain receptive to the truth after all the lies? How does one take comfort in the understanding our flaws, more than our strengths, make us who we are? The facts have been stated. He has my letter. A small consolation but one that thoroughly eases my guilt. Somewhere, folded in his wallet, was a part of me that was the only surviving reminder of a past swallowed by regret. For the past five years, I thought I’ve been thrown in the trash, a selfish piece of paper that was brimming with cowardice. Now, I could hear him again, the rich baritone that spoke my name as he rereads my apologies. I see him again; I see the kindness in his green eyes looking straight at me. Now, more than ever, I was alive. I was with him all these years. All those words I had rehearsed were gone and I was left to face him inarticulately. What would I say? What should I say? What could I say?

I remember when we were young - I was almost seven, he was already nine - and I accidentally broke his favorite toy car. He came back to his room and saw a wheel of the toy model rolling to a corner before hitting his bedroom wall and spinning to a stop. I had broken something dear to his heart. I anticipated a guttural yelp, a crushing shout of a young boy displeased. Instead, he took the broken wheel, put it in his pocket and looked at me kindly.

“Mom will fix this. She’s got some glue.”

“Michał, I’m really, really sorry. I was just trying to look….”

“It’s just a toy car. I’m not angry, don’t worry about. Mom can fix this.”

“Okay.”

“Gago, don’t worry yourself with this.”

“Hindi ah! I just wanted to make sure.”

“You do know I don’t get angry?”

“I do.”

The Rush: Part Three

“I spent third year high school making up stories. Every day and night, I thought of a lie, a set up where I could put Andy in a bad light. To make it fail-safe, I anticipated the possible questions that people were to ask. That way, I could answer in a heartbeat. If I was good at something, it would be with details. Head to toe, one end to another, I made sure every story had a physical proof, a perfect knot that kept the bag of bones tight, and of course, a cover up. Essentially, I blackmailed Andy with my words and my actions. There was no shred of remorse to my plans, not even a slither of pity. I was a lunatic, obsessed with something I thought belonged to me. Shamelessness at its worst. Idiocy when limitless. Anger, when unforeseen. Love, when young. Passion, when unguided. That was me in junior year.

Over a period of seven months, I got his friends to hate Andy. I got my friends to hate Andy. I lied to Mr. and Mrs. Grabowski. I even lied to Andy’s parents. I stole bottles of vicodine and other prescription drugs from my Papa’s clinic, and sneaked them in Andy’s bag and locker. School administrators found them days later, to an exceptionally humorless and troubling scene of reprimand. I paid the right people to get unflattering photos of Andy, and spread it like wildfire. Hell, I even paid people to speak ill of Andy in front of complete strangers. I kept my enemies close, so I knew their most vulnerable spots.

It was a whole web of deception that was stickier than what anyone could imagine. I was the evil conductor, and this was my opus, the great opera of lies, choreographing aggressive strings and massive percussion that shook the foundation of whatever stood between me, and what I wanted. Unlike opera however, everything was done discreetly. I was the ‘boss’. This was my gangster film. It was amazing how I stomached myself when I spent time with Michał and Andy. I could look at them and not even flinch. At the back of my head, I was moving my pieces. Checkmate, it was clear. I would win. I would claim my best friend back, and withdraw my first year statements. The plan was good. I was going to be the deserving part-time lover.

Yet for lies to work, you had to believe in them. And I did, but it became my reality. I was addicted to lying. At the height of my foolishness and reckless behavior, I could no longer distinguish the truth from the lie.

But I forgot one more thing about the nature of lies. It was a brick wall that could never support a height beyond its limit. If truth was steel, then lies where indeed bricks. The higher you went, the heavier the structure became, the greater the chances of a collapse as it could no longer support its own weight.

Lies were the same. The deeper and more complex they became, the more absurd they sounded. My stories were slowly becoming unbelievable and subject to greater scrutiny. I sensed I was about to be caught but not before Michał broke up with Andy after the latter was found to have slept with a male prostitute. There were pictures that validated the incident despite how incredulous it sounded. I got them photoshopped. I won. Andy was on the verge of being kicked out of school.

But as soon as victory came to my palms, it slipped away like water. The brick wall had collapsed. An accomplice turned up against me. How? Up to this day, details have evaded me. All I could recall was that you never trust a fellow liar, never work with him twice. My parents also found out I was planting prescription drugs to get Andy into trouble. They took it upon themselves to report me to the student’s affairs office. Andy figured it out. Classmates and teachers also found out. In just one day, the whole school found out. I left everyone in a state of disarray and got myself almost kicked out. My conduct records were eternally tarnished. I was suspended for three weeks, and was enrolled in counselling. When I returned, old friends became strangers. Michał’s friends would not talk to me. A few classmates spilled even more about my modus operandi - the fake prostitute photos, the fake drug test, the fake everything. The lies were endless. Even I could not pinpoint where it started and where it ended. It was a very shitty to place to find yourself in.

The day I got caught by my parents, Michał was planning for us to watch a movie together. He wanted a distraction from the mess that was Andy. After school, he went looking for me and found out I was in the Principal’s office being reported for grave misdemeanor by my parents. He probably got confused. But I knew he would connect the dots in seconds. His friends were outside the faculty room. Andy was also with me in the office, together with her parents. Surely, that spoke loads. When I got out, I saw Michał at the waiting area. He stood up and went straight to talk to Mama and Papa. My parents exchanged pleasantries with him, murmuring countless sorry’s and wordy indefinites. I could not look at his face. In the split-second I did, his green eyes tore me apart. Andy came out of the office and he gave her a tight embrace. Papa took my hands, and I was scooped outside to our car. We were going home.

He never confronted me. But since that day, I never spoke to him. Since that day I longed for his baritone, his Polish inflections, the sound of my name through his crooked lower teeth.

I never tried to reach out. There were only two months left in school. The Grabowski family was returning to Poland in April. I probably made the biggest impression about Filipinos than anyone else. Yet they were very forgiving, and took whatever happened with a grain of salt. Mr. Grabowski was healthy enough to travel and it seemed that his relationship with Papa was never strained despite my impossibly idiotic behavior. The Grabowski’s even invited our family over for their farewell party. I thought it was best I didn’t go.

On his graduation day, I mustered enough courage to say sorry to Michał, but not enough to say it to his face. I was a wreck. My reputation was non-existent and he would simply doubt the sincerity of my apology. From someone who wanted him back, I became someone asking for his forgiveness. He gave me his love but he was not going to give me his mercy. He was leaving for Poland a week after graduation.

So I wrote a letter, and asked Mama to give it to him after the solemn investitures. On a piece of yellow pad paper, it read:

“I really don’t know what to say. But I am deeply sorry for hurting you. I have been selfish. I hurt people with words. I hurt people with my actions. I hurt you the most and I don’t even have enough courage to say it to your face. Please forgive me. Please. Jamie.”

Certainly, not my most eloquent.

He left for Poland without saying a word. The Grabowski family returned to Kraków the second week of April.

And now here I am, in college, with a new set of friends, and a new lease on life. Here I am talking to you about that life changing experience. Of course, there were some good things that came out from what happened. I managed to patch things up with my high school classmates and some of Michał’s friends. I even managed to make peace with Andy. We’re pretty civil. I’ve also developed an aversion towards lying, and I haven’t faked a story since. But I hadn’t been able to resolve anything with Michał. Out of all the lies I said, the one that I told him at the stairway seems like the most impossible to fix.

We hadn’t spoken a word in five years until I tried to add him on Facebook just last month, in the hope time and social networking had healed the wounds. Instead of confirming me as his friend, he sent a message instead.

“Sorry but I loathe you. I can never trust you again. I never knew you.”

Three sentences but it read like a novel.

Do you understand now what I don’t believe in destiny? Why I don’t believe in soul mates? Why I don’t believe in love at first sight? What I do believe in is freedom, and how with freedom we are given choices. I made a terrible choice, a monstrous sin, and I’m atoning for it by not having Michał around.

From what I’ve heard, he’s now a chef-in-training, and he just recently opened his own cafe. A hole in the wall in Kraków. From the website, it appears the cafe serves the “super bad in a good way tuna omelet”. I laughed when I read that. I really thought he was going to be a teacher. He was so sure of it when we were best friends. Maybe, he had uncertainties after all. But it doesn’t really matter what he is now. I’m proud of him. He would make a really good executive chef one day, hopefully sans the best-selling omelet. That was our recipe.”

I laughed a little. I was approaching the last page of my speech. Surprisingly, my classmates were still awake. As usual, Ria was teary-eyed. She cries over the silliest of dramas. This was probably too much for her, as she, Charlie and Joanna quietly nodded to say I did well. Professor Perez looked the same. She was on the verge of losing it. I laughed a little again.

“I don’t think I’ll ever be able to love him in this lifetime. And so I am hoping against all odds he will be mine in another. I’m pinning my hopes on Dr. Bishop to connect me to the parallel universe. That’s a joke if you watch Fringe. Anyway, at least now I know that in times of uncertainty, taking a risk is better than not taking any choice at all. Michał will always be the love of my life. And maybe in some way, I am his too. It sounds really strange coming from someone like me who has always been skeptical of the sugary side of romance. But this one is not a lie. It’s a fact. It’s the hard truth I have to bear every waking day. I loved and I lost. I lied and I lost more. But I lived to tell the story, to be that cautionary tale to, as Charlie calls it, the virgins. Hopefully, my mistake will not be yours. That when the time comes you also find the good stuff, you don’t throw it away. That you take it with all your heart, and you remember me, the living argument that will suffice, that will convince you to take the plunge, rather than regret never knowing that exhilarating feeling.

That’s it. Thank you all for bearing with my sentimental side.”

My classmates clapped and I made my way back to my seat. Professor Perez took to the stage, congratulated me, and proceeded to explain once again that we were to be graded not solely on what we wrote but also on our diction, inflection, use of hand gestures, use of humour and word choice. Grades were to be posted next week and soon class was dismissed. The weight I had been carrying on my shoulders for years was finally lifted. Yet, there was still something missing.

The Rush: Part Two

“It was odd. I had no inkling something was to happen. Nothing was significant about a November night, a humid one for that matter. Was it a lucky night? Well, superstitious beliefs were something I despised, and zodiac signs were completely idiotic. Michał knew that. The best word to describe that evening was random. We were both headed home from school when out of the blue, he just told me. Type kita. “I like you” in rough translation. “I am falling for you” if you read between the lines. It came out with such ease and nonchalance, one would have thought it was profanity. Being thirteen, I guess I hadn’t absorbed enough of such.

Then a kiss to my cheek, a quick maneuver to my lips. A stolen one.

It never crossed my mind that he would like me, let alone summon enough courage to put his lips anywhere near my lips. The static was surreal. My best friend was kissing me. What a terrible time to recall childhood memories of us playing hide and seek.

He wasn’t my first kiss. I had my own little adventures. But I was his first. Did it mean anything to me, as much as a “first kiss” would have meant to him? Well, I would not have known and I could have only responded by letting him savor the nuances of an emotion. He was someone I’ve known for the greater part of my life, and with an unskilled kiss he had sealed with such focus and sensitivity, sentiments I tried with adolescent capacity to properly distill. I was keen on suppressing whatever butterfly floated inside my stomach, trap it under a glass. And so as soon as his moist lips found its way back to self-awareness, I acted like nothing happened. The ultimate awkward moment that leaves only two options: silence or laughter. We chose the latter.

You see, I had been complaining to him how terrible it was that someone like him who possessed such remarkable physical qualities would still be single in high school. He had the goods. He had my support. Even if he did not want to, boys and girls would have certainly desired to, pardon the extremely pedestrian term, fuck him. Or be fucked by him. He was from eastern Europe for crying out loud, he could have charged for a queue, and the lines for a relationship would point out to a blockbuster.

But mutual understanding was more common at the time. Couples who desired intimacy but were averse towards having a commitment preferred such a relationship subtype. I didn’t think of ours as one. I always viewed us as best friends. And we were. Even after the kiss. But it was the admission of a feeling previously believed with such bullish prerogative to be non-existent which pressed on my bones and left my skull unhinged. There were now incongruities in our friendship, and the stability I once felt turned into a volatile plane. Michał’s certainty was even more disconcerting. Apparently, everyone else knew, including my family and his. Was I truly that naive? Maybe. Or was I just so used to having him around I didn’t see it coming until it was only literally inches away from my face? It’s like when you read a book or a magazine up close - in fact, too close - all the words just turn to a blur. Needless to say, I had been guaranteed opportunities to look at our friendship at a distance but I never risked it, because I could not afford subtext, or whatever this was.

We weren’t a couple. There were no labels. I was happy albeit a bit confused. We hung out just the same. He cooked, and teased me just the same. I listened and laughed just the same. The only difference was the thick fog of honesty. We could not clear it. We could not remove the obvious. It was trying to stay dry under the rain with no umbrella.

It stayed that way until the following school year when he decided to publicly proclaim his new found ardor for me. He was a junior, I was a sophomore. A plan had been brewing, and was to be executed in school for maximum shock. It was nearing the first class after lunch when he went to the hallway in front of my room. I was surprised he wasn’t on the third floor, where all the junior classes were held. He brought my favorite book, a new copy of Kafka on the Shore, and my favorite poem, The Garden of Proserpine, printed out and stealthily sneaked in one of the book’s pages. Incest and metaphysical was my reader’s fetish at the time. Swinburne was the idol for decadence. I was pleasantly surprised. My best friend brought literature for lunch. Wait, there was more. Then came a forum. He called all those near us to be witnesses to a decree. He was to give a speech. Was he running for student council? I thought he must be out of his head. It was, according to him, the most important thing in the world. What could it be?

After clearing his throat, he proudly announced it with silly theatrics - hands flailing like he was headed for war, eyes wider than the sun. He wasn’t running for President. He was running for a position as, in his words, part-time lover to his best friend. It came with all the fancy romantic works – balloons coming out of nowhere, my classmates-turned-conspirators handing me flowers. Pageantry at its best. Shamelessness at its worst. Idiocy when limitless. Love, when young. Passion, when unguided.

I walked away.

It felt like heartburn. My chest was constricting and my palms were clammy. Sweat was running on my back like a waterfall. Nothing was working properly, even my thought processes. The only reasonable thought which stood out was that I preferred us as best friends. Why was he making things worse? Why the need for balloons? But I needed a strong excuse, and not just a confident denial of what he wanted. There had to be a firm proof of incompatibility, a razor sharp blade to remove the abscess of Michał’s disenchantment.

If I loved him more than just as friend, there was greater chance that I would lose him for good. I had seen something similar with my classmates. A boy and a girl started out as friends, and fell in love with each other midway first year high school. When things got shitty, they broke up, but their friendship was never restored. Funny. They entered a relationship as friends, and exited as strangers. What was the point?

That was my logic. My alibi. My excuse not to love him back. Even if…”

I was halfway through when I started choking. What was about that sentence that turned into a lump on my throat? I scanned the room for reassurance. My friend, Joanna, who sat just a few seats away, looked at me. She was rooting for me to finish the sentence. I had to do it. She knew I could.

“…even if, I did.

He followed me as I took off. I went up to the fourth floor landing near the Chemistry Laboratory. I was ready to cry, ready to mentally play Erase/Rewind as the soundtrack to what was the most ambiguous day of my high school life. Then, his voice. How I despised his baritone, his Polish inflections, the sound of my name through his crooked lower teeth.

Jamie. Jay-me. Like his own Me-cal. Me. I never hated my name so much. It cracked, and pierced; it was a tattered ideal, a dangerous fragment from the whole that I was before Michał’s spectacle.

What’s wrong? he asked. With such starling speed, I simply replied that I didn’t love him. Easy. And classy I thought. Immediacy wasn’t always sincere, but it blasted a cannonball. Of course, as his best friend, he knew I cared for and loved him to a degree. Asking for more however, was the token teenage mistake. I questioned his certainty; I made him doubt about how he felt about me. Like some marketing specialist, he was trying to convince me of the good stuff, the benefits of loving your best friend. However, I was a very skeptical consumer. I looked at the labels, and at the breakdown of ingredients. I kept still then turned to his eyes. They were mint green and soothing. Where was the innocence of our youth, I asked in my head. He told me I was the love of his life. I stared blankly at some test-tube holders and Bunsen burners.

We didn’t speak for two weeks after. I dodged questions from my friends. His parents called to asked what happened. I said we had a small misunderstanding and I was confident we would fix things soon. Like me, he kept to himself. We did our best not to cross each other’s path for days. But high school was too small, so after almost three weeks of not talking to each other, he finally approached me and said sorry. The ‘apology’ had little fanfare. No books. No hideous flowers I could not identify. Definitely, no balloons. Yet it managed to sort things out between us. Or so I believed. We started talking again, but not with the same confidence as we did before hormones, and some ungodly adrenaline pushed him to ‘love’ me. In place of the certainty we once knew was a brittle friendship that was hanging on forgetfulness and nostalgia, subtext and anticipation. We still went home together but there was less talk and more looking at the city views. We still had the summer before his senior year but there were fewer and fewer days spent in each other’s company.

On the first day back at school I found out from a friend that Michał was heading back to Poland after graduation. It was very unlikely of him not to tell me such things. A matter as big as his return to Poland should have been something I knew in advance, and at least warranted my opinion. I knew his hideous secrets. I knew the number of scars on his knees from learning how to bike like the back of my hand. Why would he keep this one a secret? But like everything else since his proclamation of love, the answers could not keep up with the guesswork. Maybe he didn’t want to hurt me like before? I wasn’t too sure.

We still had lunches together but I could not find the right words to ask him anything. Why didn’t you tell me you’re going back? It sounded very bitter. And it was the last thing I wanted to be.

He had found someone else during the summer. It was what kept us distant during those terribly humid days. As I joined other friends for trips out of town, he was busy filling a void, covering a scar from the blunt force trauma of my denial. As the murmur of my apparent ingratitude towards my best friend subsided, rumors of the princely bachelor dating Andy was in full swing. Andy was perfect. Andy was intelligent, and inquisitive. Andy was born to be liked. I doubt I was any better.

There was a tiny needle pricking my heart anytime I saw them together. They looked great. But I was wary of what Andy could do. What if Michał felt like impressing Andy, and ate shrimps, something he was terribly allergic to? What if Andy bought Michał green tea instead of milk tea? What does Andy know about him? What did I know? Well, I knew that how I was reacting sounded like the type of window in my room. Jalousies. A trivial similarity with a sentiment I was not supposed to feel.”

Charlie and Ria had a way of staring at me, and letting me know just by a squint, that things were going well. Together with Joanna, we were a team since day one in the university. They’re practically family to me in the big world of college. Having them around gave me a better purpose. They made me a more reasonable person. I questioned myself a thousand times why I was never upfront to them about Michał. He was to them, a myth, someone they knew only in passing conversation, and in footnotes from blog posts. I kept mum about his whereabouts, and kept even more quiet when asked if we were dating. They were not in a good position to criticize or to know, since their bias for me would obviously, and instantly, influence whatever point they had.

Anna smiled softly. Charlie gave a little hand signal saying I was doing a good job. Joanna, surprisingly, was wide awake.

“I wanted him back. Badly in fact. I was too much of a coward to just tell it to him straight in the face. I couldn’t risk making another scene again. That would be a catastrophe. I didn’t want people to know I was brimming with envy. That I was mistaken. So what I did was even worse.

I lied.”

The Rush: Part One

For our English 105 class, we were to share lengthily a personal experience that changed our life. Public speaking had been the main focus this semester and we were to finish it with a half-hour, informal speech about an experience we remembered the most. It didn’t take me long to pick out that life-changing moment. Mine was actually something I’d rather forget. I had been aching to share it though, maybe to guiltily earn sympathy, or perhaps to afford myself a bit more self-respect than what I thought I deserved. But whatever the reason was, I felt sure that this was my chance.

Today was my turn.

“Liquigan, next,” Professor Perez called.

I had been ready for years. This was a story few people knew, except for those who were in my past and stayed with me despite having shared it. I found even more courage knowing the people in front of me were unfamiliar with the events that transpired and were thus strangers to what I was about to share. No biases. No preconceived notions. A blank slate.

I stood, and took my place in front of a class that I learned to love, more so over the years, when the precipice between reality and university education became difficult to scale. Family, I thought to myself. My good family. I cleared my throat, looked straight into my professor’s eyes for a split second and quickly turned towards my friends. They had been cut-off from this part of my being and they were about to hear me open up about it for the first time. Perhaps, even the last time. I needed their reassuring gaze. My palms were not just sweaty. I was carrying waterfalls.

“My closest friends know I don’t adhere to concepts like destiny, serendipity, soul mates or even love at first sight…”

A few classmates smiled. My professor grinned. My friends - Charlie, Ria and Joanna - laughed.

I wrote poetry for the literary section of our faculty paper. They knew my style. Yes, I wrote romantic works (which quite frankly were commissions for the paper), but I was never inclined to consider ideas like “meant to be” or “forever” as plausible in reality. Such terms were foreign to me, as I was more interested in the reality of love – the brutal honesty, the lustful intimacy, the unforgivable infidelity, the uncertainty of relationships which threatened the very self-confidence one owed himself. Life was not sweet candy in my book.

“It’s not a front,” I continued.

“But now that I am to speak to you about my story, I’ve come to understand this aversion towards ‘sappy’ concepts came from my own experience, my own failures. You see…”

Much teeth grinding was to come in the next minutes.

“…I once believed I found someone good, you know? Real good. Stuff like drugs. But even better.”

There was tangible mood to the room. Everyone highlighted a sense of anticipation, quietly moving their bodies forward to savor every thing I was about to say. I was confident when I started but now I was fearful of how people would see me after. I’ve never been personal even when it meant being open with my friends. Aside from family, my “other” relationships were non-existent, and I’ve always been single since I could remember why I should.

“I was five when I first met him. He was two years older. He was the son of a Polish expatriate who was a patient of my Papa. His family came to the Philippines in ‘89 when he was just a year old. As a result of growing up in a Polish household in Manila, he could speak Polish, English and Filipino fluently. He also had Filipino tastes, craving fishball and sweet-style spaghetti, demanding adobo at least once a week, and requiring a supply of patis in their cupboards. If it wasn’t for his obvious Polish features, one would think he was actually pinoy.

To show off his mastery, he got the local profanities down pat before he turned six. And so when I met him, tangina was already an easy curse, something he said frequently although with bated breath, while he waited for his father outside the cardiologist’s office. It was in my Papa’s clinic that I was formally introduced to him. Michał. An L with a stroke. Not “my cal”, or Michael, but “me cal” he explained. That was his name. He always tagged along check-ups. Eventually, we became used to seeing each other with the frequency of his father’s visits to my Papa’s private clinic.

Mr. Grabowski was suffering from palpitations, and further examinations revealed he had a heart murmur. It wasn’t life-threatening but Mr. Grabowski had been advised to stop strenuous work and change his diet. He visited Papa mostly for check-ups but also to get prescription for his medicines. Michał was always impatient when my Papa checked on his father, whom he fondly called, Sir Bartosz. So I often invited Michał to play hide and seek to keep him company in a place of uncertainty, and to keep him distracted from worrying about his father’s condition. That’s how we became best friends. That’s how I learned he loved saying gago when I surprised and tagged him. You’re it!

The Grabowski family lived just a few minutes away from our place. A year after they arrived, they had settled down in a newly-built townhouse on 5th Street, New Manila. Papa came to visit them once in a while. And soon, Mama and I came along with Papa on his visits. And even sooner, the Grabowski family was in our living room - exchanging pleasantries, gifts and food. I was the only child. Mr. and Mrs. Grabowski had three. Michał was the youngest, and the only son. On the days our families practiced neighborly duties, we bonded. He solved my larger-than-life picture puzzles, and made a feast out of my books. I hid under his bed, and arranged his car models by color and size. We had weekly sleepovers where we both tested our confidence watching the scariest movies and funniest cartoons. Jurassic Park scared me to death. He had the loudest laugh when we watched Ren & Stimpy.

His father saw how well we went along that he decided to enroll him in my school. Although he was a year ahead, we spent our breaks together – recess, lunch, and even after class while we waited for our school bus. As best friends, we were inseparable. The other kids in school where fond of the novelty Polish kid, and often stared at us when we were together: the lanky, brown-skined Filipino, with the green-eyed, brown-haired, freckled Pole. They called him the son of Santa Claus. We really didn’t bother them as long as they gave us our space. I called him my personal bouncer: warding of bullies, taking the punches, and giving them too. I just laughed and cheered on during those prepubescent brawls. He returned bruised with his trademark smirk, then sat in peace as we played chess, uno cards, and even snakes and ladders. No one was going to bother us then.

High school, however, changed everything. Hormones, puberty, and algebra came into view. He was a sophomore, I was a freshman. Although we still enjoyed our breaks together it was not as often as we did back in elementary. Academic pressure was brewing, preparations for university-life were looming, and new-found peers were physically distancing us. We still went home together, except when he needed to practice for a class presentation or meet with his group for a research paper. But for most days of my first year in high school, we remained each other’s shadow only after class.

We managed to stay the best of friends thanks to the convenience of our homes. During the weekends, I got him to tutor me in geometry while I listened to his existential, adolescent woes. He also loved to cook and always whipped his specialty in our kitchen, the “super bad in a good way tuna-omelet” as he called it, a mainstay during the long hours we exchanged notes, gossip, and recent teenage discoveries. As payment for teaching me how to find ‘x’ angles, I listened to him. Intently. It was something I was really good at. I always kept mum as he explained to me his plans. He would be a teacher one day, and go on to serve the poorer provinces in Mindanao. He was very hopeful and idealistic but also knew, to get to his goals he had to work for it. After his turn, I would give him my advice, one that wasn’t always in agreement with his dreams. It was that kind of give and take that kept our friendship robust even during the harshest days of adolescent life. It was the kind of openness that made us vulnerable to one another. I knew his ambitions and his secrets. I knew he wanted to be a teacher. And to his credit, he knew I wanted to be all kinds of things: a teacher, a doctor, a chef, a singer, and a writer.

That was essentially our difference. He had the rare capacity to be single-minded about a goal. I was subject to caprice, to the weather, and yes, to a curfew. He knew what he wanted. I wasn’t so sure if I wanted anything at all.

He also knew things were changing. I didn’t. If he hadn’t told me, I would have never known.

A note

After two weeks, eleven pages and over seven-thousand words, I was finally able to finish “my story”. It’s actually more of an essay come to think of it. But I owe this one to a good friend and colleague, A, who in more ways than one, actually own this story. Her tale brought a greater understanding of how choices change our lives, and how our juvenile fears can often lead us to decisions with unforeseen consequences. Of course, I took liberities in writing the story and included my personal experiences and views. Thankfully, three good friends - K, T and S - all helped me in completing The Rush. It was hardly a rush putting this together but thanks to them, and their wonderful critic, support and recommendations, I was able to finish the story with fulfillment. I’ve never found myself so immersed and dedicated in writing until this idea came along to talk about how introversion, adolescence, love and growing up can all be interwoven with concepts such as hope, repentance and freedom. In a way, this story is a collaborative project where I allowed myself to vicariously live the experience of a friend, and connect it with my own unique life circumstances. I hope you enjoy.

Green Eyes

He had the greenest eyes. But the shades varied under light. In brightness, it was cool mint which soothed the object of the gaze. Nearing dusk, it was softened by the running sun, and recalled the green moss which crept in and out of the garden’s crevices. At night, it would glow, a laser beam cutting through the dark and separating the space where his vision steadied, and where my heartbeat pounded like a drum. He would look at me with such kindness and ferocity, with great fondness and warmth, I often forgot my place in his life. So I would shake my head, take my eyes off him for a moment, look to find he’s still talking, and eventually return to listening.

“Am I already annoying you,” he would ask rhetorically.

He knew I was always going to be there for him. I would simply nod, and with much excitement, he would return to where he left.

For the past weeks though, his stories had all been about Andy. And for the first time, I found his words like sandpaper brushing across my skin.