This is not a happy story. I don't think so. I sit alone on the edge of my bed thinking about the friends I used to entertain in what used to be my single room condo in Fort Lauderdale. I remember that old condo which I bought from a British lady who opted to return to her native England for good. It was a cute little nest, nestled in a quiet neighborhood, which I bought for a fraction of the price it is being sold nowadays. I loved its white tiled floor, its brightness, its many windows facing the street, its little balcony where I propped up potted ferns and what I used to call 'crawlers' -- water-lilly was the name given them in my barrio and those suckers crawled and crawled until the floor of the balcony was completely obliterated. Then one night, I just got so sick of it, afraid that I'd invite snakes and what have you so I threw away all them plants and made my balcony bare and empty. I sold the condo later to a young Cuban American couple with their little cute baby. Then I bought a townhouse in Palm Beach.
Sometimes I stop to think about my little condo. I used to entertain so many gay friends in that little crib, I've given out so many copies of my key to so many people. My place soon became a 'stop-over' destination for many people, from Miami to New York. Mario would do his laundry in my place. Kass of New Jersey treated it like a cottage. I later found he turned it into a little bordello -- and so that was the end of our friendship. Once it became the residence of one traveling PT for a month. Many others came scandalizing my old retiree neighbors. Now that I think of it, I never realized how careless and free and trusting I was then. I paid no attention to my existence because I was so immersed in my Computer Programming courses that friends paraded like winds and shadows in my condo without me noticing it.
Then the night school ended, the blinding computer programs were all submitted and accepted, got my new degree, my mother got sick, kids went to college and soon I moved out of Fort Lauderdale to Palm Beach. Fort Lauderdale got too expensive for me.
Six years later, today, I am in my room, in my townhouse, surrounded by books and computers and silence. As often is the case, I am pulled in two directions on a Saturday night like this: Should I go out and spend the night in a bar or should I stay in this house, type a blog or a piece of story? I want to write a story about Manuel tonight, it is wanting to be told. There is nothing revolutionary about his current life, nor philosophical, nor worth talking about many years from now. I would like to picture him as Manuel of old, my friend, vivacious, full of life, extremely intelligent. He called me one time and said, "Alex, I like your story about your visit in the Bahamas, thanks for empathizing with Filipinos who work in cruise ships" I giggled over this compliment, because though I presented in that story the poor plight of FIlipinos in cruise liners, I still believe their lives, his life especially, can be exciting, Oh how I envied his sexual liberties, his freedom to move around Florida when their ship docks, and explore without limits, night and day - meeting so many people, falling in and out of love, having pure fun and not worrying about bills or mortgage or taxes. Manuel is a resident of his cruise ship, no bills to worry about there. All he worries about is the boredom and the instability of job and the occasional heart breaks.
He is not tall for a Filipino but he maintains a certain personality that spells class somewhere. You can't really pinpoint it but you feel it. The way you feel a rich man no matter how he tries to pass himself for a poor person. He was a graduate of De La Salle, not because he was rich, but because he was intelligent and was awarded a scholarship there. He is not exactly thin, in fact, I'd like to say he is muscular, his face is a crossover between Asian and Latin, his voice is well modulated. He watches a lot of movies, reads a lot of books and I swear he can copy Britney Spears dance steps after she got fat. He used to be my fashion consultant, actually he forced himself to take over my wardrobe after he got so scandalized by my closet contents.He brought me to Macy's and told me point blank, "Alex you are no teen-ager anymore." And when I asked what to wear, he simply picked up a polo short, a pair of pants, went to the the changing room and voila he emerged like a fashion model. I was instantly hooked by his choice of outfits. Of course I bought the cheaper version of everything, the miser in me never stops but for one brief moment, when I was with Manuel, I felt good looking, classy and special.
Manuel is my Pinoy friend who works in cruise ships. He works in the most unholy hours, followed by unannounced days-off. Mario and I met him on our way to Phoenix restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, it's a restaurant populated by Pinoy cruise workers as it serves Pinoy fare. During those days, Mario often hanged out in my place, and we would go to the gym together, to the bars, to the movies, we used to be close 'sisters'. Since I moved away, and started working seven days a week, we pretty much reduced our get-togethers down to around twice a year and it's worse when I am fatigued, I am always ready to argue with him, almost picking up a fight with him. I have found since long ago that the best way to avoid the company of friends is when you are extremely tired. You'd always find something wrong somewhere, enough to lure you into whining and arguing and just like what I am writing now, an endless litany of misery. Try working seven days a week for six years and you'd see what I mean.
So Manuel came into our lives and because he is gay, we instantly hit it off as the new Charles' Angels. I am not as vocal-friendly as Mario or Manuel, the two can chat forever about everything under the sun while I look away thinking about... oh I don't know... about something else, or look somewhere else. I am not exactly good in casual conversations. But during those days, I was sought for my company, maybe because I have had an open house, and anybody could invite himself or herself into my condo, and anybody could cook, shower, clean, sleep, do anything in my condo. I guess that's my value to many of my friends. I didn't care as long as none of them bothered my silent thoughts. Even in college I was the mysterious, silent, non-verbal type. I would not call myself a nerd or a geek since I am not that smart but I always had a wild imagination. I could be in AS building 4th floor forever just staring at empty spaces in front of me. That's probably why I like computer programming or running, these are good excuses to invent reality outside of reality. Many people call me absent-minded, some co-workers think I am stupid or slow or out of touch, but I am moving away from my story now.
Manuel soon found himself staying in my condo for weeks when he was off the ship. He would get in and out anytime he wanted, he'd take the bus anytime and when it's time to go home, he'd just call me to pick him up. I never asked anything in return for this except silence and cheerfulness because I can be so obnoxiously grumpy at times. He complied with my demands cheerfully until one day, he did not go to my place anymore.
"I met somebody special," he informed me, his voice full of girlish excitement and for a while there I was envious. People with social graces always find lovers so fast. I don't and I can't. I am always awkward when meeting people, my icy look and emotional coldness can be felt miles away. Even the Devil is afraid of me. The Angels don't know what to do with me. Manuel can tell me endless tales of romantic escapades, and if he were Don Juan, I am Don Quixote -- full of bravado but nothing to show for it. As we kept on talking over the phone, I learned he met Mark, an artist originally from New York, and from now on, he would be staying in Mark's place when he is off the ship. Mark owned a pad in a famous hotel in Fort Lauderdale and, you know how gays modify their descriptions just to look good with their lovers. If I would have to believe all my gay friends' descriptions of their lovers, they'd own half the American continent in terms of wealth, earned Nobel Prices in their chosen fields, and were better looking than Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise combined.
"I wish I could meet him," I said, my mind conjuring up the image of Mark as Caucasian, blonde, big, handsome and super sexy. You know, if you were like me who would probably never find a lover all his life, you'd aspire for the next best thing in the gay world: to have a gay friend with the best lover. I am a semi-fag hag accursed with one minor weakness which is the very root cause of my inability to find a lover. I am one of those few gays who go to a store excited and gung-ho about its products only to end leaving empty handed. Yes Virginia, I have a penchant for scrutinizing and criticizing and finding a weak spot all over the place. I mean, my eyes were direct products of Black Hole. They suck in everything. So if I meet someone, I surely would find a fault in him somewhere, somehow. He is bald, he sways, he talks too much, he is too fat, he is too thin, he is a bigot, he is too condescending, he is this, he is that. Oh yeah, if you'd like to see the bad spots of your lover, just hire me and I can be your star witness too.
Manuel brought Mark to my place. Seeing Mark, all my conjurations fell like trees when a meteor hit Siberia. He was blond, big -- oh I meant to say BIG. How can Manuel who was less than five foot and barely 130 pounds conduct sex with a 6 something footer weighing maybe 300 pounds? I know it is possible but I really don't want to think about it. What happened to gay sports-mindedness, gays' penchant for work-outs to glorify sculpted shape, his love for Botox and Plastic Surgery? I may sound discriminatory so sue me, but please, don't tell me being overweight is beautiful. And I am up front about it - honey, unless you have an absolute mental and physical reason to get fat, get off that lard swimming pool and reduce. And being the real friend that I am, do you think I blurted out my real disgust to Manuel? Do you think I screamed "Your lover needs to lose weight !" and walked out of the room? Of course I did not. In fact, I said, "Manuel, you lucky bitch, you got the best looking fellow here."
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