Trouble in The Office

The Point of No Return

(Drew is the same guy as in the previous blog entry. I just felt like changing the name.)


I looked up from where I was sitting and saw Drew strolling casually past the X-ray machine at the airport entrance. The guy was still wearing a Converse collared shirt, this time in black. On the previous day he wore red; the day before that was a dark navy blue. He probably had hundreds of those folded in his hotel room closet. I put away the pretentious book I was reading, walked toward him, and then pecked him as he offered his cheek to me.

“It’s the third time today that somebody told me I look like Ninoy,” he said.

I had to laugh. Drew did look like Ninoy Aquino – short black hair, light Chinese skin, charismatic smile, and the geeky square-framed glasses. If it wasn’t for his thick Malaysian accent, he could actually pass for the late senator’s brother.

“Do this,” I said to him. I put my hand to my chin and struck a thoughtful pose. I pulled out a five-hundred Peso bill, “That’s Ninoy.”

He chuckled, “Yah, I know.” He did the pose and we erupted in snickers. “And I just realized as I was on my here, that the airport was named after him. The driver told me that the guy was shot dead and landed on the tarmac.”

“Yup. Let’s hope that doesn’t happen to you,” I said.

We entered the waiting area after hurdling emigration forms and the ten thousand bag inspections. As we were putting on our shoes and belts (the inspectors got a good feel of our body parts), I asked him how everything went the previous night at the office party.

“Oh, it was crazy. Everybody sang. I sang, would you believe it? I guess it was okay. It was Hello by Lionel Ritchie. Jen the HR guy also sang, and he had a good voice; I was surprised. Nats sang, … not so good as it was hyped up to be. He’s probably fit as an impersonator, mimicking that local singer…”

“Regine Velasquez?”

“Am not so sure. Anyway, his voice was too thin to be good enough.”

We decided to get breakfast at Delifrance. Although all the seats were taken when we got there, Drew somehow managed to get us a nice table as I got back from the queue.

“What did you do to get us seats?” I asked.

“The guy who was sitting here was scratching his balls and so I told him that this wasn’t a good place to do that. So he left and here we have a table.” He smiled like a misbehaving schoolboy. As I sat down, a vision of a man touching his genitals flashed before my eyes. I shuddered at the thought and shook it away. Eeew. This did not sit well with my ham and cheese croissant and coffee. Then again, Drew had a nasty sense of humor. I’d never know whether he’s kidding or not.

“Is Tyrone meeting us at the Bangkok airport?” I asked.

“Yyuup. He’ll be in the same car with us on the way to the hotel. I can’t wait to see my baby…” His grin stretched deliciously across his face, and his eyes were dreamy, thinking about his boyfriend.

“I’m actually excited to meet Tyrone,” I lied.

“Really?”

“Leally.” That’s how the Thais in the office say it. It sort of became a team joke to pronounce all r’s like l’s … like Ladisson instead of Radisson, or ploduct instead of product.

Anyway, the truth was I was more terrified than excited to meet Tyrone. Terrified that he actually exists, terrified that Drew is not making all that stuff up about being gay. Drew looked and behaved like the whiniest straight guy you would ever meet in your life, but when he talked about his lover, you’re reminded of Jake Gyllenhal in Brokeback Mountain when he said, “I can’t quit you” to Heath Ledger.

We talk about his driver Oliver, whom I call Oliver Stalker because he follows Drew wherever he goes. And then he goes on about Bridget his boss, whom he calls the White Pig. He talks on about how the package he’s getting isn’t that great…

There is one thing to understand when having a conversation with this guy, and that is, it follows the Pareto Rule – 80/20. Eighty percent of the time, he does all the talking, while twenty percent is spent by you nodding your head in agreement.

When I finish my sandwich we walk the way to gate N1 boarding area. There’s still a full hour to go before the plane is ready.

We find a good seat and settle down. I raise and cross my legs on the bench to sit Indian style.

“Hey! I do that too!” he said.

“I know, you told me last week. It’s much more comfortable to sit this way.”

He removed his shiny leather shoes and sits the same way I do. Then he began to talk about his childhood and his family… There’s the Pareto Rule in full effect again.

Don’t get me wrong though. He actually makes it very interesting. If his brain were capable of understanding the mating habits of Amazon worm species, he would make it sound as if it’s the most exciting thing in the world. That is, if you could take the peppering of fucks, shits, ass, asshole, pussy, and dick, which he effortlessly manages to insert in the conversation.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I’m talking about myself again,” he said.

“You finally notice,” I replied.

“Let’s talk about you. Okay, tell me something about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” I squirmed a bit. Please don’t ask me about my non-existent love life, I thought.

“Oh-kay. Did you ever have a boyfriend?”

I tilt my head to the side, “What do you think?”

His right eyebrow rises a few millimeters above the frame of his glasses. “Of… course…”

I smile. “Good answer. Although I think you weren’t sure it was the right one, ei?”

“So, what happened?”

I hate talking about my love life. Let me correct that. I hate talking about my former love life. It’s not that it’s painful or unhealed or anything. It’s just that it’s already part of my past, buried deep in the overcrowded cemetery of my mind. Talking about it would be similar to getting a shovel and uprooting the cogon grass above the corpses.

I skip the details, and show a lack of energy for the subject. As expected, Drew makes a Kris Aquino of himself by talking about his past boyfriends. I learn that he has more than a cat has lives. There’s a bitter feeling for all the gay and straight men in the world welling up like bile in my mouth. Like a good girl I control myself and swallow.

“Okay, I’m sorry. I was talking about myself again,” he said.

Déjà vu, I thought. He apologizes by asking me about the most exciting thing that has happened to me.

Time to be brilliant, I say to myself.

“I had always… loved singing. I used to be in a choir, and I sang soprano. I was a soloist, and I sang good soprano parts. We toured and sang for a long time. But I had to leave because I didn’t like the direction the choir was going.”

“Leally? You can sing? That’s amazing! You know what, I had always envied people who can sing. That’s one thing that I cannot do. What’s your favorite song?” His eyes were sparkling for the first time today. He was actually more excited, if I may say so, than when Tyrone called a while ago to tell him he was about the board the plane in KL.

I told him it was a Spanish song called “Eres Tu”. He hasn’t heard of it, so I cleared my throat, and took a deep breath. In the softest voice that only he could hear, I sang.

“Como una promesa, eres tu, eres tu
Como una manana de verano
Como una sonrisa, eres tu, eres tu
Asi, asi, eres tu.”

It wasn’t that great a performance, compared to what I could do before in front of a thousand people. But it was the best I could manage on a very early morning with no vocal exercise. Fortunately, the song made the effect I wanted – it blew him away.

“Oh. My. God!” he says. “The hairs on my arm were standing up! I am…”

Speechless. For the first time.

But that didn’t last long. And it doesn’t matter. The few seconds that I had him there was priceless. I was at the center of his universe, and it was worth coming out of my multi-padlocked suitcase to sing for him.

The flight officers announced that it’s time to board. Drew and I talked more about our favorite sopranos, songs, collections…

There’s much to say, to listen to. We’re going to be great friends, I know that. But something in my gut was telling me that this was going to be a complicated relationship, and I’d be hurt if I don’t watch out.

C’est la vie.

Que cera, cera.

Whatever.

posted by Elyss @ 9:54 AM