Not of the Same Feather

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