Diary 13

This encounter depressed me. I wish I could shift roles as easily as other gays in this life's masquerade. It is said that homosexuality follows a natural path. From a closet queen a gay person would gradually grow toward self-acceptance and only then will he acquire freedom. But the whole deal is a painful process. One way of easing the pain, it is claimed, is by having more emotional relations with fellow gays or having more sex or joining gay clubs. Or by being wild. Somewhere along the way I think I've missed something. Granting that I am an exemption because my path is hustling, and hell, I work hard for it, wouldn't I be entitled with happiness by now? Why the fuck do I still don't know who and what I want in life?

It is different when a man is accepted by other men, or a gay person by other gays - he belongs. For me, I belong to neither straight men nor gays. Like a clone, I am unclear about my origins and where I am heading, unable to locate the rare species belonging to me. When I find them, they are hiding behind stupid masks. They are everywhere, transforming reality into fantasy, always dangerous and sad. They are the true experts of hypocrisy and pretensions : family men, professionals, religious, hookers. Men who train themselves to kill their true identities and when their isolation and loneliness become unbearable, they thrive on anonymous encounters in darkness; committing murders, perversions; always failing to find true love.

The street vehicles were declining, the bars were closing, I was whistling a ballad , wishing Roberto Policarpio beside me. Damn, I should have paid more attention to him in our encounters. Where would I find him now that he is dead?

I don't know how to describe it, but by wishing Roberto Policarpio being beside me, his apparition appeared like magic. We were standing in a dark room; a single lit candle stood in the center of a table beside the carton box I've lost.

"I am here," he said.

I stared at him. "Where did you come out from?"

"I was watching you inside the bar. Hey, I did not want the way that Rolando Magbanua treated you."

"Oh Roland? I'm used to him."

"Remember what I said before, you are my friend, I defend my friends."

"Thanks for your concern. What are we doing in this room?"

"We're getting back to that bar. You and I." He placed his cold arm around my shoulder. We left the dark room. We walked back to the bar. He walked ahead of me - leading me. I looked at him from behind. He was not exactly preppy tonight. But he was very sexy. He was wearing a shortened blue denim torn in strategic places. His chaleco revealed a sexy body, muscles well defined and bulging veins on the skin. He was decorated with silver chains, an S&M man, I surmised. I smiled at my lurid thoughts, no doubt, he was expecting action tonight.

We returned to Monokel.

On the dance floor, Roberto Policarpio looked ready, willing and able. A package of immense sexual energy, he danced wildly and kissed every willing mouth on his path. He targeted Rolando and seduced him until Rolando fell to it. The two took a corner and kissed torridly. Later I saw them walking towards the bathroom. From there I froze in time as I watched the two - Rolando and Roberto move in fast scenes -- as if they were in a movie screen in fast frames. As if a camera flashes at them continuously second by second. Inside the bathroom, Rolando unzipped Roberto's pants. He sucked Roberto's dick. Roberto began unchaining his silver chains. I got shocked when Roberto shackled his chains around Rolando's neck, pulled them until Rolando turned white, his tongue stuck out blue, and his eyes widened in disbelief. I screamed but it was soundless scream. Next thing I knew, Roberto was pulling me again towards the dark room, this time, my parents emerged from the carton box, my mother was serving a delicious dinner, my father whispered to Roberto, "You did not have to do that for my son."

The images and the visions faded as abruptly as they appeared.

I found myself back at the Monokel, with a lot of ambulances surrounding the gay bar. Roberto was gone. The police were questioning the people about the murder of Rolando Magbanua. They all had the same answer. The killer was in his twenties, six feet in height, his face... his face? We can't see him in the dark fog of the bar but he looked like a ghost; he wore a ghostly mask.

I walked away.

I took a turn towards Manila Bay, not caring if someone had seen me in the company of Roberto or not. Good thing about the bay was its endless crowds even at two o clock in the morning. On the sidewalk surrounding the Philippine map, I observed people's stares.

Call it paranoia but their eyes seemed to express a gamut of expressions. Some expressions appeared critical, others begged for company, a few were spiteful, arrogant, and indifferent. What really frightened me were the empty eyes, as if nothing was left to see. Are those eyes belonging to Roberto? I sat on one of the benches in the park and checking that no one was about to bother me, I pulled my notebook and began to write my thoughts. People were used to seeing me writing my diaries at the park. There goes the genius, I heard them mock often. I went ahead:

What is going on? Am I getting crazy? 'There are too many deaths around. Mother, Father help me. Why did you leave me this way? I can no longer distinguish real from unreal. It is difficult to hunt for those who belong to me. Hell to studies and dignity and self respect! I am asking the eyes I meet - do you feel the way I feel? They don't answer because their masks forbid them to.

No one was asking me for a one-night stand. People were no longer interested with me. I was now rotten meat in this flesh trade. I stood and took a few steps. I had this sudden urge to talk with Robert; I turned another page in my notebook and began a letter.

Dear Robert,

Who are you? What is going on? Man, you are tough. It takes a brave man to enter the world of the Dead through the water of Manila Bay. What is your motive behind all these? You know death used to scare me... now, I'm just totally fucked-up when I think about it. Speaking about you, will you tell me why despite your looks and future you still had to kill yourself? Did someone murder you? Have you seen something in the other side I have not seen yet? Are you celebrating there now? Are heaven and hell true? You were at least sure of what you wanted. I wish you were here to answer me. I wonder, who could be happier between the two of us. Huh, watch me here, sitting all alone in the park hoping to meet you and my parents again. Did you see how beautiful they are?

"Hi," I heard someone whisper to me.

I raised my head and recognized the tall guy standing behind me. He was wearing a white Fruit of the Loom shirt and denims, too tight for his thin frame; his Adidas shoes were loud in red. Carlos was one of my most intimate confidantes in this part of the world; to me, he was the owner of the entire Rizal Park. No grass or corner or statue erected here was unknown to him. Carlos was a person I emulated a lot, he succeeded by mere shrewdness.

As kid, he helped his family 's ends meet by collecting discarded bottles and cans and sold them to recycling factories. Accumulating capital, he rented a stall in Quiapo to sell smut. He expanded it into a flower shop. Now, he's earning thousands.

"Carlos," I beamed. "It has been a long time."

He stomped his foot on the pavement, looking at me with a smirk. "Antonio Salamanca, you know better than to call me that horrible name in a lovely night like this. It is midnight, call me Carla."

"Yes, Carla," I said.

"What in the world are those pen and notebook in your hands supposed to mean? Are you copying that old Mi Ultimo Adios poem again? Damn, for a person who studied in that corner for so long, you should know that poem by heart in twenty-four languages. So what are you writing now, Voltaire?"

"What do you think I am writing about Carla?"

"Beats me. You found the dying gay millionaire who named you in his will and you can't help but write about it. Or maybe a gay publisher promised to deliver your book, that great Filipino novel."

I shook my head.

"Stop this game Antonio," he said closing his eyes. He rubbed his hands together - a sign of impatience. He was always busy. Everyone in the park wanted to have a word with him. Call boys, call girls, gays, lesbians, homeless, he always dished out rudimentary solutions. There was always a gay person like Carlos everywhere. The know-it-all Mama.

"I am writing to someone who just died recently. Last night to be exact."

"I am sorry to hear that. Is he related to you?"

"Not at all Carla. This is very mysterious. I am not even sure if I need to tell you this."

"Okay, okay. So you don't trust me now eh. Antonio, let me tell you one thing. I can see in your flirty eyes, wimpy dick, sagging tits, loosening teeth, growing nails and goaty that you are just dying to tell Mama your little secret."

"You are crazy, Carla."

"Of course I am, every fucking faggot in this city is crazy."

He leaned against the bars surrounding the Philippine map, and stared at me intently; hypnotic eyes, they gave me no choice but talk; they offered comfort and security.

"I've met a guy last night whose name is Roberto Policarpio. We talked but I was too tired and became bored until I fell asleep."

"Aren't we all sweetheart," he interjected in a maternal voice.

"By the next morning, I woke up in his absence, and in Quiapo, his picture was all over a tabloid - dead by drowning."

"Oh child, stop pulling my leg," he answered unexpectedly. "I cannot buy that. A newspaper couldn't be so fast in spotting and printing news in just a matter of four to five hours. Look at me child. You said it was midnight when you fell asleep. Lets say he jumped the moment you snored, and I don't blame him if he did, it would take him at least ten to twenty minutes to go all the way to the deeper part of the bay to die. Antonio, have you ever noticed how dark it is in Manila bay at nights? It will require time for the body to float and light to be discovered by people. With the system of our third world country, it would at least take days and decomposition before the police would even analyze it and for the press to report it."

"Bullshit. Carla I saw his picture on the tabloid."

"How sure are you?"

"I checked the paper in the library. The tabloid was specific about the date and time of his death. Approximately midnight. The moment I fell asleep."

Carla was quick in showing his impatience.

"Cut it will you? Why are you so hot about this stupid Roberto Policarpio anyway?"

"I was the last fucking person with him, damn it."

"Well, you fucking well know that if you didn't do it, there is nothing to worry, right?" He resumed his maternal voice. "If it was not your fault, shrug it off my dear. You are a bitch in this place and you know as well as I do that Luneta and Manila Bay are risky places. Death in different forms is so common here, even death is distorted here, and there is no such thing as real here. This is the haven of the downtrodden like you and me. This is the only place in the world where you can get the cheapest death and burial. And do it in style."

"He was no downtrodden, Carla. He was a fucking doctor student."

"A-huh, and I am the queen of Sheba." He kept his cool. That was Carla. He could still be cool even when an atomic bomb is about to drop from the sky. Carla continued talking. "People here are of unknown identities. Luneta and Manila Bay are one big movie screen showing different plots people want to play. Everything here is illusion. Roles are exchanged and renewed. Maybe the person you've met planted this plot for you to intrigue and inspire you to write. He probably knew Roberto and wanted to make a statement, it is hard to land in the headlines, and all angles are possible, just like the movies. Have you heard of the fifteen-minute fame? I bet he is good at it. Just look how it affected you, Antonio. "

Carla sounded logical. I suddenly relaxed. That was the magic of Carla. Breaking down everything to reason. Still, my doubts persisted.

"It was so real Carla. The same Robert Policarpio I talked with the previous night looked exactly the one on the tabloid."

"Wrong again Antonio. If there is one thing you don't trust in this city are the pictures in newspapers. Damn! They are so vague, blurry and for sensationalism, the journalists become so gullible. Tomorrow I can send out my picture and claim Tom Cruise impregnated me and they would print it. You can never tell, the Roberto you met last night might be some shitty newspaperman who had known him for so long it was easy to imitate him."

"Could he be the murderer?"

"I thought he got drowned."

"Oh I don't know anymore, I just feel that Roberto would not die just like that. And I just remembered just now, on that night when he introduced himself as a doctor, he seemed to elude an eavesdropper." I refrained telling him my visions and the more recent death of Rolando Magbanua in Monokel.

"Maybe... Ay come on Antonio. Lets quit this discussion, por favor, it's months since we've last seen each other. Now that we're here, you have nothing for me but a stupid Agatha Christy mystery. Snap out of it will you? Death for a discussion will not provide us sex," he hugged and whispered to my ears. "So how is the Luneta boy doing?" I hated these hugs no matter how comforing. He whispered further, "Antonio, why don't you allow the police do their job and give ourselves a chance to talk about our lives."

"Oh Carla, I am out of the hustling business. I am retiring."

He burst out laughing. "Is there such a thing as a retired hooker? I bet you'll receive a pension from GSIS and Social Security."

I ignored him. "So," I gently pushed him aside, "how's your life?"

He straightened up. "Well, I am loveless as usual."

I thought... "I thought you're living with Ed, the guy who composed love poems and drew personal cards for you, the classmate who loved you with all his heart and soul?"

He raised a dirty finger, "And who for two years drained my wallet and bank account and bled my flower business until my parents threw me out of the house? If I'd see him I'll kill him." He punched the bar fence around the map causing it to vibrate.

That news was new to me. "You mean Carla, your romance for three years is over now?"

"So is my business, my wallet and my family." He gently bowed his head and tightly closed his eyes; it then occurred to me that he had grown a lot older.

Now it was me reasoning with him, amused at how easy for us to exchange roles. "Hey, hey, cheer up." I made my voice as comforting as possible. "You didn't lose so much, I am still your friend, come on. You can start anew anytime."

He started crying. "He made me believe how much he loved me. Those fucking love poems and cards were copied from comics. He made me believe that he ran away from home because his father wanted to marry him to a woman he didn't love when all the while he was wanted for robbing their neighbor of a dozen chickens. I shared my room with him and provided for his expensive tastes since he could not find a job, until my parents learned about it and kicked my ass out of the house."

Alex Maskara