Painful to be Private Preoccupations [Part VII]

VII.

Even though there are no more classes for senior students, I still go to the university because of extra-curricular activities. At the moment we’re busy with the annual literary folio scheduled to be released this week although we know that we cannot push it through. Also, I am obviously busy with something, or someone, for better or for worse. Today we’re scheduled to go out, and I have this creeping feeling that it’ll be postponed again because she’s not replying to my text messages. My frustration with my entries for the folio now mixes with those for her. I decide to check upstairs if she’s still there, and when I arrive at the lobby upstairs I see a long line of students; the final examination for non-graduating students is scheduled next week and their tuition fees are due this day. I see Joyce pacing around the lobby, holding envelopes. I call her and she excuses herself, apologizing because she has tons of deadlines to meet. I walk towards her classmates seated on the floor in front of their classroom, discussing something.

“Kuya Zaldy, ang dami naming ginagawa oh!” Chesca says.

“Ano ba yan?”

Charlene, their classmate, slides in. “Sa Sociology subject namin. Buti nga na-extend yung deadline eh. Kaya nga hindi rin kayo natuloy ni Joyce ngayon.” It seems that their whole section knows that we’re supposed to be going out, unbelievable. Charlene continues.

“Pwede mo ba kaming tulungan? Paki-explain naman nitong theories, paki-check kung tama yung ginawa namin.”

I check their papers and made comments about it, suggesting some editions and omissions, correcting some errors. An hour after leafing through their pages, we start to talk about the professors for a break. Someone suggests that we go to McDonald’s and Joyce asks me to come along. Of course I oblige, anticipating that this would be fun.

After ordering food, we settle on a table beside the glass wall. Joyce’s classmates are teasing us. We’re sitting side by side.

“Eh kuya Zaldy, may gusto ka ba talaga kay Joyce?” they asked, giggling like high school girls.

“Ha? Eh…”

“Ano nga?”

“Tanong natin kay Joyce.” I turn to her and ask, “Joyce, ano sa palagay mo, may gusto nga ba talaga ‘ko sa ‘yo?”

She blushes, smiles nervously and hides her face behind my shoulders, slapping it.

“Ano ka ba? Ano ba kayo? Tigilan nyo na nga yan!” We all laugh. We continue to talk, random topics, while we make fun of each other using exaggeration, sarcasm and false flattery.

“Wala ka bang kalaro nung bata ka?”

“Ang ganda naman ng boses mo, sana boses ka na lang.”

“Manganganak ka ng kikiam!”

We’re all having a good time, and my attention is not only on Joyce but more on her classmates, her friends, her support system. It’s incredible.

After eating, we leave and Joyce asks me to accompany her to the catwalk where her friend, Kat, is waiting for her. Minutes later we see Kat, who looks nothing like when she is in her uniform, like now, looking pretty. She is from Japan, or China. Or Korea. I think of Lucy Liu in her teenage years and bamboo stalks, and I ask myself if she is bulimic because she looks so thin.

They sit on a bench, and I stand behind Joyce, giving her a back rub. While kneading her slumped shoulders, I feel that it’s ridden with cold bumps. Heavy bags? They begin to talk about something, about a guy who apparently has caused them trouble for the past weeks. They hate the guy, but at some point in the past they both felt the opposite.

Who is this little prick? I’ll break him into pieces. I want to bury him up to his neck and leave him with two hungry huskies, who would be tearing his flesh from his face while being unable to do anything but scream at the top of his lungs.

They continue to talk about the jerk, not minding me, as if I am non-existent. How dare she talk about such while I am here! I want to wring Joyce’s neck, bump her head against Kat’s.

I change the topic after the back rub; we make fun of each other because I sense that they need to be diverted from the previous one. After the sun sets, Joyce says that we all should be going home because it’s already late. We take her outside the campus where she hails a jeepney, we say goodbye to each other. Kat is supposed to get a ride from an FX on the other side of the road; we take the overpass and wait. I look at Kat, so cute in a way, looking like a little girl, at least to me, even though she looks like a bulimic. Then I think of a friend, Ken, a guy who looks much younger at his age, the type whom little girls would steal glances at and would hurry to sit beside while attending mass. Would Ken and Kat like each other? Surely they would. We could go on a double date! Ken and Kat, Joyce and me, would dine in an Indian restaurant, go to exotic locales and look at its shining stars in its immaculate skies at night—

“Zaldy.”

We could build a bonfire—

“Hoy Zaldy!”

“Ha? Bakit?”

“May gusto ka ba talaga kay Joyce?”

Why this question again, twice a day? “Obvious ba? Meron syempre.”

“Plano mo ba talaga siyang ligawan?”

“Uhm, oo. Bakit mo naman naitanong?”

“Eh kasi… Atin-atin lang ‘to ha. Sa palagay ko kasi hindi ka niya papayagang manligaw.”

Then, in the distance, was the sound of rolling thunder, a crack of lightning striking what seemed to be a goat.

“Ha? Bakit naman?” I ask, nervously.

“Kasi masyado siyang maraming ginagawa bukod pa sa school. Tapos scholar pa siya, so wala siyang panahon sa mga ganyan.”

Is this an excuse? I look at Kat, she is biting her lip, as if she doesn’t want to hear what she is saying. The traffic is terribly slow.

“Ganun ba?”

“Oo.”

I change the subject and we resume making fun with each other’s looks. She asks me a lot of questions; the feeling of someone graduating in weeks, the hassles of my major, my past relationships (which I don’t have), why on earth does there have to be rush hour. An FX finally pulls over and we say goodbye to each other.

I don’t know why Kat told me such things. Is it an excuse? Or is she concerned? I really hope it’s the latter. I begin to think of other ways, detours en route to Joyce but my mind’s all too clouded to come up with a solution to this labyrinth. Why is it that when I ask what’s the matter with her, something comes up that I can’t do anything about? Maybe I have to stop asking questions, to anyone or myself, because it seems that everytime I do, my face is being shoved against a wall, the answer being more peculiar and appalling than I expected, and it only builds up, my cumulative frustration in any of this. Now I have to prove something, that even though she is preoccupied with all those things, she could make an exception for someone like me. But it’s too much, too complicated, and I don’t know if it’s worth the effort because now my time is being expended in this endeavor although honestly, I have been giving up one important thing in dating—opportunity—for someone who isn’t even sure if she likes to go out with me, oblivious to the fact that I like her. Now, I begin to fear something, that what I am doing is just chasing the wind: all useless.

Painful to be Private Preoccupations [Part VI]

VI.

At last, I’m finished with the final revision on my thesis. I’m quite lucky that the modifications I have to do are only minor ones, and now I have polished and printed all three copies of it, two days before the final “finally”. I already had my own copy unbound; I am keeping the most untidy one for myself. I need binder clips for this so I go outside to buy some. Outside, I see Joyce sitting in the pavilion, sighing through what seems to be her homework. I sit beside her, ask what she is doing and she answers it’s her assignment in logic. She tries to apologize for our postponed appointment, and I interrupt her, telling her that it’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it, have no reason to blame her because her excuse was legitimate anyway, do not see a reason why I have to pour it on her because it would only convey that I am still preoccupied with it, that it’s really a big deal for me (was it?). We chat idly while I massage her hand, her perfect small—

“Ano ba yan, nagpapawis.” I say.

“Heh, yabang!”

We kid around; tease each other while going through her assignment. Her classmates pass by, look at us, then to our hands and we are given a look like we’re burning crosses. When they leave, they say something that Joyce denies, out of my earshot. Then I hear a sigh.

“Zaldy…”

“Bakit?”

“May ishe-share ako sa ‘yo.”

“Mamaya na, samahan mo muna ako sa Asturias. May bibilhin ako.”

“Ano?”

“Binder clips para dito sa thesis ko.”

We leave the pavilion and head for a bookstore outside the campus. It’s almost noon, the summer heat begins to be unbearable. When we arrive and I pick out some binder clips, she says something.

“Zaldy, alam mo ba, nagparamdam si ex kagabi. Nagtext siya sa ‘kin—”

“Wait Joyce. We’re not going to talk about your ex boyfriend. What we’re gonna talk about is how are you going to have fun with me.”

“Ha?” she says, her mouth agape. “Ok, sige.”

“Tara na, balik na tayo sa AB. Malapit na ang klase mo.”

We part ways when we arrive at the lobby. She is caught off-guard, dumbfounded by my remark. This girl, she might be thinking that I am her friend. Well, I am, but not the friend-friend sort. She is not on her toes, not calculating enough, not seeing that things are pulled taut. Is it not obvious to her yet that I like her? Does she wants me to tell her that first before we go out? It’s too conventional, which of course I am not. Actually, I planned on telling her what I feel the day I was to take her out for lunch. It seems that she has trouble sensing and confirming subtle clues about these things. Then it dawns on me that I have another problem: that she does not know how to flirt. This means that I would be having a hard time because half of the things that I would express would be meaningless to her.

□ □ □

It’s our final examination next week, and I am feeling something weird. Half of me is feeling relieved, as it would be my last exam in my stay here in the university. No more expensive tuition, cluttered boarding houses, last-minute ironing of school uniforms and unbelievable deadlines from demanding professors. But at the same time, the other half of me is missing it already. Before, I was often told that high school is the best, that college would be boring and too pedantic, but now I defer. Though I am not certain that college topped off my high school life, I’m sure that they’re at least even. High school never gave me satisfaction on my intellectual vanity—college just did that. My high school peers always thought that my line of thinking is weird, that I was being too unconventional, misshapen because I’d rather be in Book Sale alone than be with them at Penshoppe, window shopping. They still think so now, but I have my theories and paradigms to back me up, to show them that I am doing not only what I want but what I need to do, I as a denizen of the growing penumbra between mainstream and alternative. Years ago, I also told a friend of mine, while drinking brandy mixed with Sunny Orange coating our throats, in a snug condo unit, that if I’m not getting any girlfriend in college, it would probably turn out that having one in the future would be impossible too. We both had some hearty laughs about it but now that I remember it, I’m feeling a bit concerned. With the semester ending in three weeks—a week for senior students—it’s one of my top preoccupations now, and I am dubious if I could make it.

It’s The Hour of Great Mercy, and I go to the faculty to submit my thesis to one of my panelists. I see Joyce in the lobby and I invite her for a snack. She concedes, then begins to complain about her school work.

“Ang dami-dami naming ginagawa! Magkakaroon na ‘ko nung… ano’ng tawag dun? ‘Yung puting buhok?” she pulls up her hair, “Ayun, unat! Magkakaroon na ‘ko nung unat!”

“Huh? Eh uban kaya ‘yon!” I say, cackling.

“Basta ‘yun na rin ‘yon!”

This Alabang Girl needs a Filipino dictionary; this is not the first time that she said something that exhibits her being tongue-tied on the language. I almost always feel disheartened because of people like her whose tongues—and therefore mindsets—are fluent with foreign words without being on average on speaking the national language. But then again, why is she using that old-model cellphone? Well, it’s not my business anyway.

After walking idly outside while still telling me that she cannot believe the end-of-semester requirements that they must work on, she realizes that she isn’t hungry after all.

“Eh ano palang ginagawa natin dito ngayon?” I ask.

“Ewan. Ikaw kasi eh.”

“Anong ako? ‘Di sana hindi ka na lang sumama, nakakapagod maglakad, sobrang init na.”

“…”

“Ang mabuti pa ihatid mo na lang ako sa AB.”

“Ano? Ayoko nga, babae kaya ako.”

“So?” Although she is refusing, backing up her static-gender-oriented reason earlier, she is in fact walking me back to the lobby of our building. I think of cognitive dissonance. When we arrived, some of my classmates see us. I introduce her to them and even before my classmates could pull off some jokes at my expense, she excuses herself after seeing her classmates and leaves us, waving. When they are gone, Ces, a friend of mine, speaks to me about her.

“Siya pala yung Joyce.” She says.

“Oo, siya nga”

“Saan kayo nanggaling nyan?”

“Sa labas, dapat kakain. Eh hindi pala siya gutom kaya nagpahatid na lang ako dito.”

“Ay ang kapal! Ikaw pa ang nagpahatid. Mahiya ka naman, freshman lang yun, ang bata bata—”

“Manahimik ka. Wala na akong kaso dyan, 18 na yan.”

“Kahit na.” We chuckle as we kid around with both our ages, then I tell her that I’ll just drop by the faculty room to submit my thesis. When I arrive, Ma’am Gamo is there and she asks me something appalling.

“Hoy Zaldy! Nanliligaw ka ba sa presidente ng 1jrn2?”

“Po? Sinong president?” I deny, smiling nervously, my face admitting it.

“Kunwari pa ‘to, eh ‘di si Joyce!”

“Hindi naman. Bakit po ba?”

“Eh tuwing magkaklase ako sa kanila eh ikaw ang tinatanong sa akin ng buong section, tapos hinahanap ka daw ni Joyce. Ikaw ha, kaya pala kahit na tapos na ang Bilibid nakikita ko pa kayong magkasama.” I tell her it’s nothing, barely managing to hide my grin. I bid farewell to my professor and leave the faculty room, still chuckling. Now even their whole class knows the score, but she doesn’t seem to acknowledge it. The issue, I hope, would be an edge, would be a background to amplify even more that which is already obvious. Social proof!

Later, when evening arrived, I and my classmates went out drinking in one of the drinking potholes around the university. Everyone seems to miss each other already, drinking every other night after school, taking advantage of the fact that we all have only a few requirements left before the final examination. When we finished, we got out to the street to hail a cab for our other classmates. Then I and some of the ones left started walking towards Ces’ apartment. When we were at the front of the campus’ gate, we saw a group of students in uniform—Joyce and her friends. I introduce them to my classmates. One of them, Jen, looks at me and says something totally unexpected.

“Kuya Zaldy, kailangang lumabas na kayo ni Joyce!”

“Ha? At bakit naman?” I ask

“Eh tingnan mo nga, ang lungkot lungkot niya oh.”

“Ganun ba? Sige.” I look at Joyce, broken, haggard from all the school work she has been doing and whatever that reason that made her lonely tonight. She is lost in thought, her eyes heavy and flushed—she appears to have been crying a while ago. She is staggering, her feet dragging something heavy at every step. Her classmates hail her a jeepney and we bid farewell after she boards on it. I head my way back to my boarding house.

I want to know what happened, the cause of her teary eyes earlier. Is it about the person she wanted to talk about with me before? It might, it is. Her feet appears to be so heavy, every step filled with weary hesitation, as if they were chained to something that prevents her to walk, to move forward. I’m perplexed, at a loss for an explanation. Another piece of the puzzle appears before me, only to discover that it doesn’t match anything, the piece being another riddle itself. I know that this is not the time to be perturbed about what she thinks but I can’t help but worry, worry that this is another obstacle, that this would be both our preoccupation for a while that we would try to put aside—a stone that stubbed our toes that we would both try not tripping over again.

Painful to be Private Preoccupations [Part V]

V.

I am staring at the monitor for almost half an hour already, trying to edit a poem even though it became obvious to me a while ago that it would be futile to do so, because at the moment, I am preoccupied with something. Joyce would be arriving soon here in the office to conduct an interview with me regarding the community service projects in Bilibid. At first, she wants to have it on the phone, but I wouldn’t have that because I have no phone in my boarding house. Besides, it’s another chance for us to be able to know each other more, a possible entry for me to ask her out.

A knock on the door, here she is.

“Sorry late ako.”

“Anong petsa na?”

“Eh kasi…”

“Hindi, joke lang. Ayos lang yun.” I motion for her to sit down. She sits on the chair in front of me, the punching bag. I begin to be a little thoughtful of my words, trying to make them more memorable. I am energetic but not too eager, not maintaining eye contact too long. I cross my legs. How? The manly way or the womanly-elder man’s way? If I do the latter, would she think I’m gay?

We go quickly over the technical aspects of the programs, and then she asks me to tell more about of the projects and events spearheaded by Sociology. She is surprised that such programs do exist in the faculty. She begins to tilt her head, an indication of interest—and attraction!—and so I make big gestures pointing to this and that, using my hands as parentheses to emphasize ideas. She begins to smile while nodding, and as I look into her pupils I see them dilate, and I see not only a dating possibility but something more. This is not a mere interview any longer but a merging of souls, friendship transcending into—

“Patingin ng mga pictures ng immersions nyo!”

— We go to the computer and I show her the pictures, and I wonder if this would increase my chances with her.

“Wow… may ganoon pala sa AB.” She says, eyes widened.

I check the time and tell her that her class would be starting soon. She gets up and fixes her things, thanking me. Then I get an idea.

“Ano ‘to, TY?” I say, grinning.

“Ha? Ay token! Eh kasi wala akong…”

“Ok lang yun.”

“Teka, ano bang gusto mong—”

“Wag mo nang alalahanin, kontakin na lang kita pag nakaisip na ‘ko. Tara, hatid na kita sa taas.” I open the door and start walking with her while chatting idly. As we reach her room, her classmates looked puzzled, seeing us together, walking side by side. I open the door for her.

“Salamat ulit ha.”

“Wala yun. Yung token ha.”

“Oo ba, bye.”

“Bye.”

I walk back to the office, smiling to myself. Now I have to think where we would go out as her “token” for the interview.

□ □ □

Today is Luncheon Meat Day, and as the name implies, I would be eating that canned food for lunch and supper. It’s almost a week after I went to the grocery store to buy a 10-day supply of instant food for me to eat while saving for this day. It’s like the first two years of my college life: eating instant food for weeks, even months, usually sardines, even tuna was too expensive for me then. When I get a little lucky, I’d cook and store adobo way back then, eat two or three morsels per meal for one whole week—even when it’s sourness would be too inedible for human consumption. When I’m short of luck and allowance, usually because of voluminous and expensive readings, I’d resort to eating fishballs, adidas or betamax during dinner, my plate overflowing with the sauce, would keep some for breakfast the next day and hope that days like this wouldn’t come again while knowing all too well that that’s not the case. I don’t know how I survived, how I don’t have stress-caused nodules on my chest anymore like the ones I had two years ago, must be a trick I somehow pulled—a jump from the stratosphere, the hiding of Eiffel tower.

Hours later, I’m at The Flame office, playing a computer game, while waiting for 1jrn2 to be dismissed. Today I would be taking Joyce out to lunch, even though it’s almost 3:00 pm, as I know she haven’t eaten yet because of her class schedule. I am determined to give her a new experience this day, would be dining in a restaurant she haven’t dined in yet, absolutely no fast food but a healthy meal. When its five minutes away till her dismissal, I go to the restroom to wash my face. When I returned to the office, our literary editor, Ron, is grinning, hands on his lap, and begins to tell me something. This is gonna be good.

“Uy, may naghahanap sa ‘yo kani-kanina lang ah. Yung freshman yata ‘yun.”

She’s already looking for me, I knew it! I’ve seen this coming, the eagle has lan—

“Marami daw siyang gagawin eh. Pasensya na daw, hindi daw siya pwede ngayon.”

I sit, slumped on a chair in front of the computer. I send her a text message asking where she is.

“’Yun na ba ‘yun?” Ron asks.

“Ha?”

“Yung freshman na dinidiskartehan mo raw, siya ba yung pumunta dito?”

“Ah oo, si Joyce. Bakit?”

“Hindi naman pala maganda eh.”

“Ano?”

I can’t believe his comment. I look at Ron with disbelief, then scorn. I want to pop his skull like a water balloon. And that FHM calendar! I’m leaving anyway. I stand up; go to the lobby not knowing what to do. I scan the place while pretending not to look for her. It’s stupid, really. Ron already told me that she was too busy, and I am here, still looking for her, assuming that she is still here in the building, perhaps idling in the corridors. Busy people have things to do, busy people are on the move. But still I am here, doing this, because I am a stupid person who does stupid things. She is not replying yet.

I return to the Flame office, where some of my friends have arrived, playing cards. I sit again on a chair. I sigh, feel my head getting heavy so I massage my temple with my fingers. As expected, Ron already briefed them about what happened. They begin to tease me, and we all have a few hearty laughs about it. Then they ask me what I would do now. I kid around, telling them that the question must be posed on Joyce, as she is the one compelled to do something now. After someone suggests that we eat merienda at Asturias, we all go outside.

I don’t know what this means. It’s the first time someone I asked out canceled it the last minute, and to be honest, I’m quite surprised, caught unarmed, not anticipating this. I’m thinking what prompted her to do so, what kind of activity she is doing right now that she cannot be bothered with anything. I must find a way to ask her out again, while not implying that I must, so that she would not think that I am needy, since I am not. We arrive at a burger stand in Asturias; I open my wallet and look at my savings. I order a footlong sandwich and a fruit shake—it’s the first time in a week that I am to eat something that’s not out from a can.