Peterson

Today is the last Friday of the month. As has been our little tradition ever since we all got jobs, friends from high school and I met to hold our (what else) “last Friday of the month special” (read: let’s all meet, get drunk, whine or babble on about something that has been the cause of happiness… you get the drift).

We have never had a permanent hangout, it’s all been random. Earlier, we were at a bar in Antipolo, high up in the hills. It was great looking down at the houses below, and just after moving one’s head a bit, staring at the stars scattered over the black, black, black sky. Cheesy as it sounds, I love looking at a wide expanse of black sky. It soothes me, makes me feel all relaxed inside. Hell, anything black does that for me.

But anyway. I was talking about my high school friends…

It was nearly 9 pm and drunk as we were, Ron, our 4^th year class clown who became a dentist, still manages to say coherently that there are days when he could absolutely scream if he had to pull another seriously decayed tooth. We tell him that he should be happy instead of whiny because in these times, a trip to the dentist isn’t really a priority for many people and if he is getting more than enough customers to make him hate getting another tooth out, then it is a sign that he is weathering the hard times. He says “of course not” and tells us stories about how vain most people are, and the reason that majority go to see him is not because of their concern for dental health and hygiene. Ron says that his client base is composed more of rich matrons and relatively well-off, aging dudes who can afford to spend a lot on cosmetic dental work, after so many years of neglect. I think of Mr. Peterson, good ole Mr. Peterson and his lovely set of teeth and try to imagine what it must have cost to maintain them looking like that.

Liza butts into Ron’s prolonged whining and asks him what’s wrong with having matrons and relatively well-off and aging dudes for his primary customers. Ron says the matrons and the rich dudes aren’t the problem, the problem is that there just aren’t enough of them who are okay with spending a lot to have their teeth fixed.

“So, you aren’t really that financially fluid right now?” Megan, the enterpreneur in our little group, asks.

Ron doesn’t reply, opting to simply tilt back his head and drink his glass of beer straight, down to the last drop.

Megan frowns, chewing on the nail of her index finger. Right hand. Always the right hand for Megan.

Ron’s reaction and Megan’s reaction to him depresses me somehow and makes me wish I was back in Hong Kong and just pretending that I owned the world as I rubbernecked the goods in the Night Market while eating a hot bun bought from the sidestalls.

Liza waves her hand in front of my face, muddying up my memories of Hong Kong. I frown and am about to tell her to drop dead when she raises my cellphone, smiling weirdly at me. I become aware that it is ringing.

The display shows “Peterson, Mark”. Argh.

“David. Where were you off to,” Liza asks. “It’s been ringing for some time.”

Argh again. Should I risk it? Should I answer the dang phone and talk to Mr. Peterson? As if I had a choice. Hah!

“Hello, sir.”

“David? Is this David Garcia?

“Y-yes, sir. It’s me, David. Uhm, good evening.”

“Yes. You sound…”

“Sound…?”

“Different.” He clears his throat and my face screws up in fear. Liza, Ron and Megan find this hilarious and start laughing. I frantically try my best to shush them up, but they only laugh harder and louder. I stand up and walk away for a few steps.

“Where are you?”

“W-with some friends, sir.”

“Oh. Yes. Friday night. Okay. I won’t be disturbing you much tonight, then. But can you come to the office early tomorrow? I understand it’s a Saturday tomorrow and it’s one of your days off, but…”

I cut in, relieved to finally have a chance to say something without stammering.

“Yes, sir. I will.”

“Alright. Thank you.”

He hangs up and I look at the guys with what I can only assume must have looked like a “what me worry” face because they start laughing again.

“Who was that?” Megan asks.

“Mr. Peterson.” I say, smiling stupidly.

“His boss!” Liza giggles. “The love of his life!”

“Boss?! Love of your life?!” Ron looks at me with total disbelief. “You are having an affair with your boss, David?! Brokeback, dude?”

“No, you shitape. But yes, I love him.”

I haven’t been long yet in my present job and only Liza knows something about my boss, and even then, just a little something at that. So it’s not surprising that they go off on a laughing binge again at what I said. Still, I don’t feel easy about it.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my friends but sometimes I feel like an alien beside them. That thing about birds of the same feather flocking together doesn’t apply to me and them. Never has and never will.

Anyway, all that was a few hours ago. I’ve already drunk 4 cups of coffee and taken 2 showers to get the alcohol out of my system. Doing good at that, I think.

Can’t wait for the sunlight. Can’t wait to get to the office.

____

I am David Garcia and my current mood is: OPTIMISTIC

Mr. Peterson was right about this blogging thing. It does relieve my stress.

It also has its downside though. The other day, while trying to get myself drowsy without drinking any kind of alcohol (for a change), I tried to find out what other kind of people blogged and what sort of topics they blogged about.

I used Google to find different kinds of blogs randomly. It puzzled me so much, and puzzles me up to now, why most of what I kept getting were blogs on arts and crafts, namely knitting and needlepoint.

Was it a thing with bloggers? Arts and crafts? Was I out of my league? Should I also take up knitting or needlepoint? If ever, what kind of sweater should I knit? Would I wear a sweater that I, myself, knitted?

Further clicking around did not give me the answers I needed and expected. All I know is that there were so many blogs dedicated to arts and crafts which I saw, and so few oriented towards helping a 29 year old guy get his bearings back after a disastrous non-marriage.

If I’m not making any sense to you, rest assured that neither am I making sense to myself right now.

_____

I am David Garcia and my current outlook is: depressed.

I guess thinking so hard and so often about Ira’s mother is somehow affecting the present order of things in the universe. Either that, or she is thawing out because she called me up three days ago.

I’m not a great fan of redemption through romantic slush, so I’m more inclined to believe that I’m affecting the way she sees me, simply through my sheer force of mind. Mind over matter, in other words.

Ugh. Who am I trying to fool? I couldn’t even change her mind when I was practically begging her not to leave. What makes me think I can do it now simply by thinking about it? Wishful thinking, most likely.

Anyway, Mr. Peterson told me the first time that he convinced me to tell him more about my life, that that was something I should not have done – beg. I tried to explain that I was desperate, that I didn’t want Melinda to throw away what we had, and that I was worried about our baby (Ira, at the time yet unborn) and what was going to happen to them if she left.  He listened but he remained unmoved and just repeated what he said that I shouldn’t have begged her to stay.

Of course I asked him what he would have done, had he been in my place. Mr. Peterson said that he would have told her the reasons that she should stay, but if after everything, she still decided she wanted to go, then he would have let her do as she wished.

I told him that I could not do something like that because I loved her. In fact, even after everything, I still do.

He glanced at the ceiling, sighed and asked me how old I was. I said 29. He smiled and told me in a very gentle voice, much unlike his usual raspy drawl that I still had a long way to go.

Long way to go where, I asked?

“To asking yourself the question,” he said.

“What question?”

“Hamlet’s to be or not to be. Only, you change it to, to love or not to love. Do you know why Hamlet asked that question?”

I don’t reply and Mr. Peterson continues, “He wasn’t trying to decide whether or not to commit suicide, although that is the common interpretation. Actually, what he was trying to do was pose a rhetorical question to the audience — as in, should he continue existing or not in the same situation that gave him so much grief?”

“It’s still about contemplating suicide then. Because isn’t existing the same as living?”

“Of course not,” he simply said, staring into my eyes, and at that moment I got the point that Mr. Peterson was driving at.

If Melinda had really wanted to stay with me, she would have. Out of love. She didn’t stay and she hadn’t been trying to get in touch with me at all until three days ago, so in the span of time that she remained incommunicado, that should have already told me something.

But like the fool that I am, I didn’t understand. I didn’t thinkt that a long time ago, she could have already asked herself the question about me — to love or not to love. Hard as it is, I think I am starting to understand now, that she chose the option not to love.

And as to why she was calling up, it was basically due to practical need. Financial support for Ira? Could be. Could be.

Was I going to give it, considering she has never even let me see him, not once?

Is the Pope Catholic? Do I love going to Hong Kong or Bangkok? Will I choose vegetable salad over steak, anytime?

Is there even a question? Hahahahaha!

Note to self: self-mocking laughter can help alleviate stress most times.

____

I am David Garcia and I’m thinking of: why dudes like Hamlet had to wear tight tights back in the old days and why I still miss someone who no longer cares.

Whew.

I’m not sure whether I’m nervous or happy. I do know, however, that I’ve got this terribly insistent pressure somewhere in my tummy and my heart is beating faster than normal.

Why not… for the first time, I am actually blogging.

Now, I know that this may sound overly naïve or even stupid to all “natural” bloggers out there, but hey… that’s you and this is me.

This doesn’t come easy to me at all. Not by a long shot.

But I’m doing it anyway.

As to why, well, I won’t lie. Someone who is very special in my life sort of guided me towards this. He’s my employer, Mr. Peterson. Isn’t that rich? LOL Most employers frown on their employees blogging, but Mr. Peterson doesn’t only let me blog (sometimes, even during office hours), he actually eggs me on to do it.

For me to keep a tighter grip on my sanity, he says with a half-smile.

Uhm… I dunno if that should make me relieved that he understands, or worried that he can see right through me.

For some reason, I keep thinking of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer right now. I first read that book when I was around 11 years old and I admit most of it didn’t make much sense to me then. I’ve reread it now and then over the years, though, and parts of it are going round and round in my mind as I write. Crazy.

If you’re familiar with that novel, you understand don’t you? Hah!

If you’re not, do yourself a great favor and start reading. It’s a book that defies classification, being considered an awesome and unique class act by some of the greatest writers of the century (Beckett, Mailer, Orwell). At the same time, it was the catalyst for an obscenity trial that put to the test US laws on pornography.

Hard to figure out, huh? I guess that’s why I like it. I’m attracted to things I can’t understand. I do hope though, that as time goes on, and if you stick with me, you can help me make sense of things someday.

___

I am David Garcia and my current frame of mind is: Surreal.