Diary 15

"Do I need a ticket for this?"

I heard her giggle. "Oooh God. Silly. Fashion shows invite, they don't charge, you should know that. What I have is an invitation for one. Wear something formal. Really...After working with these models everyday, the least I'd like to see is another one of their shows."

"Well, thank you," I said.

"Listen," she said, "Claim this card from the guard alright?"

"You bet."

When night approached, I took out my only formal barong Tagalog from the closet, shaved, gurgled with Listerine, avoided cigarette for two hours and sprayed musk behind my ears and underwear, just in case. I brushed my Bally shoes-the only leather shoes I had- a gift from a German (or was it Swiss?) client.

The soles of my Bally made clinking sounds on the asphalted road, as if I was on my way to the bank to work. When I stood at the intersection of Quezon Boulevard and Santos Avenue for a jeepney, I had a feeling of euphoria, which was not strange to me. The first time I felt this way was when I had my first heroin shot...which was followed by another.... That was over now. Good thing there was no death sentence in the Philippines for drug possession, unlike Singapore.

On my way to Arte Studio in Cubao, the feeling did not diminish. I've been to Cubao before. It was a shopping complex famous for its Christmas celebrations. Last Christmas, COD presented animated Santa Klaus, reindeers, fake chimneys, fireplaces, snow and European looking Filipinos singing Hallelujah. The narrow streets were crowded. Really crowded. People elbowed each others, much like in the cemeteries during All Saints Day or in Santo Domingo Cathedral during Maundy Thursdays. In this third world country, cars spilled from parking lots to the streets. Traffic was so slow and heavy.

I stood in front of Roces Coliseum, touted as the a triumph of Philippine engineering technology after its construction in 1970's. Now it looks so old. A dome. How they came up in placing it in the center of a shopping mall was beyond me. I guess they thought anyone who played sports in the dome would always shop afterwards. Televised Philippine Basketball games are always held in here. People who watch these nowadays are not sports enthusiasts, they are bettors and gamblers.

The dome led to All-Rose Mall and Farmer's Market. In between these were drug dealers, prostitutes, robbers, murderers.

The Bakal Boys, the best and cheapest hustlers in Manila stood side by side beside its metal fence. They offered sex as cheap as a meal. A boiled balut would do. They were the fallen stars in my kind of business. Ali-Rose mall was usually where-they-get-picked-up area, followed by quickies behind Farmer's Market.

Yuck! Not me!

Following the directions given to me by Narita Ocampo, the secretary, I took a short cut behind Farmer's Market. There were boutiques of assorted apparels of, foreign brands. Walking further, the road was taken over by barbed wires encircling a solitary two story building carrying the name Arte Studio.

I trudged through the street while dust and soot from passing vehicles colored my white barong Tagalog. It was now difficult to see. I could not understand the presence of garbage incinerators beside the studio.

My euphoria vanished. I felt so alone. I slowed down as goose bumps rose on my skin. The vision was dawning on me.

I froze as I reached the studio's gate.

The vision came to me in the form of a single light at first, like a falling star. The star became as large as the moon, fluorescent. It became larger and larger and larger until it enveloped me, it was intimidating, frightening; a light that had its own mind and voice.

Stop this.

I held on desperately to my reality. But the last real thing I saw was the solitary figure of a security guard staring at me as if I were a lunatic. The light blocked him too. In an instant, I felt like having a seizure or something. Silence took over, as silent as the silence of a cemetery. Spooky. I failed to utter a word. When I screamed, it was voiceless. The light enveloping me released a vision of a different place and time. The roses were in full bloom and rivers and brooks released clear waters towards the sea. I heard the jumping fishes. The lizards were giant and stood on their tails. The water itself waved in graceful rhythms. The lilies performed a waltz, the trees raised their branches towards heaven like hands in prayer. The light next shifted through all the colors of the rainbow, another tunnel formed in its center. It was a lonely lavender circle within a bright rainbow circle. Roberto Policarpio emerged from it. He was walking fast towards me.

"Robert," I called. He seemed not to hear. He was wearing a dirty Banana Republic shirt, his hair considerably thin, his face was colored mud, his teeth yellow, eyes plucked out. His facial veins pulsated, when he raised his head, it was almost a skull. When he spoke, I smelled liquor from his breath. A slimy dark fluid flowed out of his mouth.

"Last night," I heard him say, "I've been to Tia Maria with my closest friends. I drank my heart out until I threw up. I said to myself, aaah, how comforting it is to be drinking zombie and tequila with my friends. I belong here. This is ultimate happiness."

Tears flowed out of his empty eye sockets. Each time he spoke, deep lines wormed on his face.

He continued.

"In the middle of the fun, George, a bastard classmate of mine stood up and announced to everyone that I am a fucking gay. Hearing this, the others moved away from me as if I was suddenly sick; they suddenly had the alertness and reason to do this, even when they were just as drunk as I was. What were they afraid of Antonio? That I would make a pass at all of them? After I was out-ed by stupid George, all they suddenly wanted was a distance between me and them. Bullshit distance, can't they for a second think of me as part of them? I will do anything, even sell my soul and body just to be their friend. Just to belong."

The praying trees lost their leaves and began to stoop, vultures with weathered wings settled on their branches. The world behind him turned into a desert, the moon hang low.

"I cursed them - I said, one day, may they bear homosexual children so they'll see how their children would be treated.

"Saying that, Antonio, I ran away screaming. Who would help me? Women are disgusted with me, men are afraid of me. Please help me Antonio."

I wanted to embrace him. But I could not move. I could not open my mouth though he could read my thoughts.

"Roberto, why don't you just leave this world, it makes you so unhappy?" I uttered in pity.

"I tried everything to be happy."

"How can I help?"

"I can't tell you, I don't know, it hurts."

He was now sliding away from me, back into his tunnel.

"Robert, wait." I tried running after him, to console him, but my feet were glued to the ground.

"Roberto, I am just as afraid as you are." All my muscles shook..

HEY!

The vision faded.

"Hey!" repeated the security guard at the Arte Studio. He was looking at me somewhat funnily. He was awakened by my screams in my hallucination. I walked towards him, embarrassed by my tears. He became distrustful as I approached.

"I came for the card left to you by Narita Ocampo, the secretary."

Totally ignoring me, "What's going on there?" he pointed at the spot where I saw my visions.

"Nothing," I said.

"Hey young man, you were just gesticulating like crazy over there and you say it was nothing?"

"I'm a student of Pantomime."

After getting the card, I left, almost running. I failed to notice the waifs on the sidewalks that were laughing at me.

Eleven o clock PM, I was walking hurriedly towards Philippine Village Hotel located at the Cultural Center of the Philippines, a reclamation area at the rough edge of Manila Bay. In order the reach it, you pass by the Playhouse where localized Broadway shows, Tagalog operas, and Philharmonic orchestras are played; a colorful fountain spun in front of it. On its left are two capricious edifices, the Philippine International Convention Center designed and built for international gatherings and conferences and the famous Film center, well known as tomb of 200 laborers who fell on the fast drying cement. The former First Lady, it is said, chose to let them be buried than to delay the construction.

On its right stood the Coconut Palace, another whimsical building the ex- First Lady touted as the symbol of coconut usefulness, which now is a waste; a relaxation mansion for her guests from Europe and America.

The last structure, the Folk Arts Theater, was where Hollywood stars held their frequent concerts. I looked at the lawn beside the playhouse and remembered the time I fell asleep there, with Roberto Policarpio.

It was completely dark.

Recently, my senses have gained intensity, an extra sharpness. In fact, I thought someone was following me. I turned around, there was no one.

This odd feeling, when will it end?

I found it hard to enter the Hotel on this night. The attendees waited hours for a thirty minute fashion show. I passed through an x-ray detector, searched like a criminal and my 1D had to be surrendered.

"Brother," I addressed the machine- gun wielding security guard, "I'm just plain student researcher."

He stared at me like I was at the NBI's wanted list.

"All you have to do is to wait there at the door until I verify your ID." He was careful with his words. I was still a student of Dela Ateneo University, remember.

It took nearly thirty minutes before he let me in.

"Arnie Te life is always threatened," he whispered to my ears. "That faggot is the most wanted man to die in the Philippines."

I smiled and turned towards the entrance of the hall.

Then, I stopped. Worry crept up in me. What if my hallucinations come back during the fashion show?

I found myself in Filipino Pipo fashion show.

"A masterpiece!" How many times have I heard that word?

Fabulous! Original! Beautiful! Super fabulous! Graceful fingers pointed at this and that model cat walking on the ramp, modeling Moreno and Andres collection which, I didn't give a damn about. In split seconds, fashion model Marlena Dizon changed her clothes so fast like it was magic. If there was a real masquerade, this was it. I watched the excitement on the face of Arnie Te from model to model, from attire to attire. I could not believe him! He reveled in his own dream-world. I approached him before the show began and becoming excited on the prospect of being footnoted on a thesis, he asked me to sit beside him. I knew what the society pages would write the following morning: Arnie Te has a new pet! Like I am a damn kitten or mongrel or something.

He grabbed my forearm. "Look at that lining, isn't it so unique?"

The linings of a summer dress worn by Tia Valenzuela are gold plated thin Philippine shells in rococo which were swaying as she cat walked in a manner only professionals did.

"That is definitely creative I must say," I answered, as if I knew what I was talking about. He winked at Tia Valenzuela when their eyes met. She gazed at him, her eyes asking who ME, the kid beside him was.

Capiz were woven in the form of an oriental fan that was clipped to her shiny black hair. A black see-through veil covered her face. A straight cut jusi barely showed her ankles walking against a backdrop of Spanish villa - a picture that no matter how fabulous the description Arnie Te could be, remained cheap and out fashioned for me.

My inquiry about Robert Policarpio might not be pushed through with an Arnie Te so obsessed with the splendor of fashion before him. Too bad, I could not share his excitement. I just occupied my mind with some other thoughts.

I surveyed the stage and the entire place. In front was a ramp. The ambiance was all hatched by embellishments behind it. Plain curtains hung over wide glass frames. Bits and pieces of geometric figures were interspersed on the screens that absorbed the rays of light emitted from ceiling bulbs. The entire mood easily changed with unfolding of curtains or movements of bulbs, producing a new set of tapestries and collection. As what Carlos would say, it was like a movie. Quick steps toured the aisles, steps followed by tossing of wine glasses, oohs, and aahs.

A screen of mother of pearl was revealed. A shadowy figure emerged behind its transparency. It was out of synch to the rhythm of the women's catwalk. The shadow walked left to right while the women paraded to and fro.

Then the image broke through the mother of pearl and in seeing it, I pinched myself. This distortion was not happening again. The face of a masked male model mingled with the models. I looked around to see if everyone else saw this unsightly vision, no one did. The masked model strutted like a flirt, making fun of the audience, the other models didn't care. I leaned my mouth towards the ear of Arnie Te. "Who is that male model?" I asked.

He covered his mouth with his fan, pinched my elbow and whispered back "What male model? This is exclusively women's apparel." He giggled. "But I don't blame you, some of these women look like men."

With a masked face, Roberto walked on the ramp. He smirked at the audience.

Here he comes again. My God, I should stay put, not utter a word. If l create a scene, I will be in the front pages of newspapers tomorrow. I could imagine the headline: A hustler went berserk. What if he strikes me from the ramp? What if he steers the audience attention to me?

He was wearing a barong Tagalog of pineapple fiber. Underneath his jusi was a black shirt. A silver sombrero capped his head, his shoulder length black hair shone. When he passed by my seat, I noticed pearls strung together into a belt around his pants. He did not have a footwear.

Thankfully, nothing untoward happened during this show. I remained quiet until the show was over.

"How was Roberto Policarpio in commercial modeling?" I asked Arnie Te when chance permitted it. We were at the reception hall of the hotel.

Alex Maskara