The wise cat said, “All of your close guy friends are immune to your anger.” Then he said that even if I were “dishing my anger all out” at any of them, they all just deflect it in their own ways.
I said to the cat, “Yeah, that’s why they’re my friends.”
The Leprechaun smiles “There’s nothing to forgive”
Look at the Leprechaun, he said, referring to my recent surprise birthday gathering. I had ranted at the Leprechaun, drunk, about having these two girls he was acquainted with on our table, drinking our booze, in my party and I didn’t know them. [We called one of them the Globe-Girl because she was in that Globe commercial and the other was just the “other chit”. And the Globe Girl would keep on egging everybody to toast “Haaaaaappyyyyyyy Bertdaaaaaaaaay!”]
My hand would clench around my glass that night, imagining how to make it probable to slam it inside her mouth whole and make it shatter the moment it’s all inside in one move. I would open my mouth to snap at her every time she toasted but the cat would say, “Beh.”
I would smile instead, a wide smile with teeth clenched and behind the teeth say, “Putang ina mo” and then down my drink, ordered another until every sound was just a buzz.
Sober, I would have done what I wanted to do.
Tipsy, I’m nice.
Drunk, I’m all honest.
I remember our friends asking when the intruders finally left, “Who were those?”
“Precisely,” I said. Then I lashed at the Leprechaun, “Putang feeling close. What the fuck were you thinking? What in god’s fuck happened to your brain?”
And other friends were there, of course, and it would have been embarrassing for him, of course, to be needled that way by a drunken hormonal porcupine. Any other person would be humiliated or scurry away or most definitely cry. If you were a spectator, you would wince and wish that you were not there.
This is why I prefer to only drink and get drunk with friends so that we can all be ourselves. Then again, social drinking cannot be avoided and in social drinking, I make sure I’m tipsy. Tipsy, it’s easy to pretend that I’m not bored or irritated by inane chatter.
But the Leprechaun only smiled and tried to explain with every snap, snipe and thrust that I gave him. When angry, I fence with words and it would be fencing with foil, then epee, then saber and sometimes I even reach for Conan the Barbarian’s sword and be transformed into the Highlander.
I apologized to the Lepechaun two days later, thinking I was too exacting, asking, “Forgive me?”
He said, smiling, “There is nothing to forgive.”
Basher sighs “Oh well”
Nothing would unsettle Basher’s coolness. Since 1999, I could keep on insulting him when I dislike something he had said or done. He would just look at me, a look that says, “Is that all that wit can do?” And then he would simply sigh, “Oh well.”
Then of course he would sigh something like, “Okay. I’m getting a hard-on.”
Or he would say something (like in the early morning of July 7 this year, two or so hours before my flight to Boracay), “Sheathe your claws. It takes two to tango, three to cha-cha, and four to samba. Comprendes?”
Chastised, I replied, “Right” and then silently added testa di merda.
Oh well, cool, cold, Basher, my first Man-of-Honor.
I had replied to Adam once, “Tangna, wag ka ngang mag ‘oh well’ sa kin kasi naiisip ko kapatid mo kausap ko.”
Adam replied, “Oh well. Ma ‘oh well’ kaming mag-utol eh.”
And I had laughed.
The Old Man laughs “Silly”
Then there’s the old man. When I’m angry at something he has done, he just laughs it off and tells me, “Okay.” I end up laughing too.
I rarely get angry at him. After all, we just laugh at what really would anger us because that’s what we do: one laughs when the other would say, “This unconditional love thing sucks. Still so bloody smitten. Shit.”
And the other would say “Of course” and the other laughs, calling each other “Silly”.
Scoobs shakes his head “Dude”
Scoobs and I would talk in our mother language. And perhaps because he uses this language that he gets to touch me when I’m that angry.
There was one night years ago that I swam drunk with friends in Alexandra and the guard had berated us for being “too noisy.” Then he argued with us. I got out of the pool, in my underwear, and stalked towards him. The cat had tried to stop me but then again you don’t touch me when I’m angry.
Scoobs had bodily snatched and carried me away and then dumped me inside the car. Of course I was almost shouting the whole time at the guard, at him, at the whole world--- shouting about that anger and this anger and just anger.
I had screamed, “He called me a fucking liar! Nobody calls me a fucking liar!” I had shouted some other things as I would try to get out of the car while he would pull my hand from the door and I would slap his hand away. Hard.
Until I said, “Touch me gain and I will break your throat.”
Scoobs said, “Dude, pundo.”
And the anger just stopped and left me.
Then he shook his head, “Dude”.
Then he hugged me while I remained unmoving, clenching my hands together on my lap.
He asked, “Okay nay ka?”
I nodded then whispered, “Don’t tell Ahmedalla about this, ok?”
He had laughed…
Like when he told me last Saturday just minutes before arriving at his birthday party, “By the way, I got married last August.”
I said, “Putang ina mo. Dude, uuwi na ko.” What I was really saying, and we both knew it, was “Well, getting married was stupid.”
Hell, he got married. And the only way he could have gotten married was if he didn’t tell me about it. That’s how he would make me deal with things: he does it, did it, and there’s nothing I could do about it because it’s done.
That’s the way I would make him deal with things I have done, too.
That night, I adored his baby and I had exclaimed, “Two and a half months? Laki mo baby, para kang bente-uno na ah. Yun mata kay Mommy but the rest kay Daddy. Guapo! Then I silently said the words of protection for children that I was taught in our native language.
I had joked (in our native language, making his relatives laugh in surprise, reminding them that I too speak our language) while talking to the baby that I would take the boy when I leave, “Bitbitun tay ka nganud. Kuunun tay ka. Uno, igin? Ki ninang na sanay ka? Payaba ko yan.”
Scoobs said, “Kaya ikaw rin mag-baby na.”
I said, “Sabi ko nga eh. Naku, buntisan na ito kasi tumatanda na rin ang lola mo,” making everyone laugh.
I was also careful not to encroach on the wife’s territory, listening to her tell me how being married to my friend was like. She said that she would sometimes scream at him to talk to me about how the woman’s mind works, “You’re not getting me! Talk to *** about this and maybe you’ll get it!”
I thought--- Yeah BUT I will always be on his side.
Then she was asking him to stop drinking already because he was already drunk. He just kept on nodding and drinking. I saw how the wife was worried and angry: the kind of worry-angry that leads to an argument the next day.
Sitting beside him, I had whispered to Scoobs, “Noy, tama na.”
He nodded, placed his glass on the table and nodded off. His wife was still talking to me when he placed his head on my left shoulder and the next thing we knew, he placed his head on my lap, sleeping and cuddling like a baby, almost toppling me off my chair.
I shrugged at his wife, barely able to cradle him, imploring, “Pasensya na ha? Baby damulag ko kasi ito. Nonoy ko.”
Hours before he passed out, I had asked him, “Is Ahmedalla coming to the baptism?”
He said, “Yep.”
I asked, “He knows that I’m coming?”
He said, “Yep.”
I said, “Well, we’ll see…Pero putang ina tanggalin mo yan beer belly mo na yan ha? Kadiri, dude. Yuck. ”
My first Nonoy, my damulag baby, is now married, has a baby, and a budding beer belly.
Shit.
Queen Ahmedalla talks “shoot”
That’s his solution to any problem: shoot.
Then he slides.
I once needed to staple printed copies of the story that I was supposed to submit in a workshop one afternoon. I had asked him if he had a stapler.
He said (while talking to Scoobs), “Diyan sa bag ko.”
What I found was not a stapler.
About four years ago in my brother’s birthday party, he arrived and my brother’s brothers all went quiet, hankering for a testosterone-match, then went back to talking and drinking. His brothers and my brother’s brothers were all involved in a testosterone-feud at that time. I led him inside the apartment and he talked to Ma the whole night.
More guests arrived and Dad said, “Parang kukulangin ng chairs sa labas.”
Queen Ahmedalla answered, “Madali lang po yan Tito. Magbawas tayo ng tao.”
Dad laughed; I didn’t. I slapped Queen Ahmedalla’s arm. Hard.
I’m trying to remember when I have ever really been angry at him. Now and then, it seemed, until that Valentine’s week two years ago.
I had screamed at him through a text message, “You lied to me!”
He said he didn’t know what I was talking about.
And I had enough.
Then he had enough.
So I said, “Deal.”
That’s how he and I dealt with things: we say “Deal” or “I’ve had enough of your shit.”
I haven’t spoken or seen him since. On December 15, he and I will meet once more on Leonida’s baptism. In Scoobs’s son’s baptism, the unholy triangle will become one once more.
I wonder what Queen Ahmedalla would say to me but then again I’m older and I stopped being scared shitless of him that Valentine’s week two years ago.
Easy makes me laugh with “I got yo back, sister”
Several Sundays ago, I got involved in a he-said/he-said argument regarding what I had written in my previous space.
I had objected to the he-said/he-said term “allow” i.e. “How come she is allowed to say those things in her blog?”
I told Easy about it, “Puñeta, ‘allow’ me?! Tangna, di ako manok or tuta nila ah. Tangna, mapapaaway talaga ko diyan.”
Easy laughed, “Di ka kasi kilala nun eh. Sige, awayin mo, ako bahala sa yo, sister.”
I had laughed, feeling loved by my friend.
Chinggoy says “Usap tayo”
I cried last Friday night, “You’re not my best friend anymore. You’re some woman’s boyfriend now.”
He said, soothing and trying not to laugh, “No, no, my friend. I will always be here for you.”
Then he hugged me and I cuddled close to him. Then I cheered up once more and I showed him the rolls and rolls of film that I had just had developed.
Then he paused at certain pictures, took them, looked at them and then looked at me.
“No,” I said, laughing, “It’s not what you think.”
Still looking at me, he shook his head and reached for his phone.
I laughed, “Hoy, ano ka ba. Tulog na yun!”
Oso answered his call and Chinggoy said, “Pare ko, usap tayo.”
I laughed harder unable to hear the mumbled conversation. Every now and then I would reach for Chnggoy’s phone but then again he’s a pistolero, too.
I could only say “It’s nothing!” as I laughed at the absurdity of it all.
Then Chinggoy said, “Kausapin ka raw.”
I said, “Bat mo kasi tinawagan? Tulog na yan eh. Naku, bagong gising. Naku Chinggoy, gulo ito.”
“Hello,” I said, bracing for a scream.
He screamed, “Putang ina pag balik ko diyan sa Sunday putang inang tatapusin ko na yan!”
I said, almost laughing, “Wala ‘to. Nagbibiro lang si Chinggoy.”
He screamed again, “Putang ina wag kang tumawa ha! Putang ina sinabi ko na nga ba! Di ka nakikinig kasi sa kin eh!”
I said, “Sinisigawan mo ko? Minumura mo ko?”
He sighed, “‘Di po. Kausapin ko si Chinggoy.”
Which means they would talk about whatever the hell is bugging their asses without me, but I dutifully passed the phone to Chinggoy.
As Chinggoy spoke in mumbles, I remembered last year when Oso and I argued. I ended up pounding the dashboard of his car with my open palm in my exasperation as I logically argued my points--- how the Leprechaun was offensive because he sets out to be offensive.
“If you had snapped at his heckling, then you would be weak in his book. That means you can’t take what’s being dished out and you can’t dish it out without hitting the person. That takes control and you don’t have it yet. That’s how we all are,” I had said.
Then Oso, offended, had ended up wrecking his dashboard as he tried to argue his points.
“See?” I said, “When you’re angry, you hit with your fists. If you can do that, then you can definitely do that to me when you’re angry at me.”
Then I started wrecking the dashboard too, breaking the skin of my own fist: See? It’s so easy, just like that. You’re angry and yes you hurt someone and you feel good but you’re really just hurting yourself.
Then I got out of his car and walked away, my right fist bleeding.
He has learned not to use his fists in anger. He still screams though, now and then, which is really good for the lungs but bad for the smoking-throat. He’s scarier when he laughs at someone’s bullshit because that means he’s plotting. And now he doesn’t unload his unfocused anger at me.
When I ask him, “Why are you so angry? Tell me.”
He says, “I don’t want to bombard you.”
He has learned that other people’s unfocused anger comes in vibrations that would overwhelm me, almost choking me. Sometimes he finally relents when I insist and then the angry words would come, more focused in each telling. He would apologize again with “Sorry for bombarding you.”
And I would only say, “Gusto ko yan na sinsabi mo sa kin ng ganyan. Mas okay na nilalabas mo sa kuwento. Mahirap kaya magkwento ng maayos pag galit. And kaysa inupakan mo boss mo, di ba? Tapos mapapasugod ako.”
Then he would laugh.
I also like it when he argues with me when he’s really angry; it makes his devious brain work faster as he looks for the weaknesses and cracks in a person’s perception or argument, until this act becomes more creative and instinctive. It also helps him discern what’s really wrong and how to go about setting it right. I laugh and say “Bravo!” when he coolly stumps me.
I like it best when I’m just so angry and he’s the one reasoning why I shouldn’t be angry. “Cool ka lang,” he would say and then hug me.
But he’s still very much capable of maiming someone and even I am wary; it’s comforting.
I quietly told Chinggoy after his phone call, “It was nothing.”
He replied, “Yeah, you said ‘off-limits’ di ba? Pero my friend, y’know me, bigay ng isang bala. Yun sunod, sa kanya na. ”
Chinggoy, my last Man-of-Honor, one of the most humble and most lethal men I’ve ever met.
I smiled, “He’s kind to me, best friend. So, off-limits. Besides, it was nothing; ask the cat. Oh, and I hope this woman doesn’t hurt you.”
And the cat stays the coolest
“Beh?” I had asked.
He excused himself from his conversation and sat beside me and Chinggoy.
“Chinggoy’s upset about the pictures,” I said.
He shrugged, “It just looks like he’s touching her butt but it’s not.”
I said to Chinggoy, “See? He has no problem with it which means you guys shouldn’t have a problem with it.”
The cat asked, “Bakit? Anong problema?”
I answered, “Chinggoy told Oso.”
He laughed “Hay, naku” and then he walked back to his own seat.
I said to Chinggoy, shaking my head at him “Ikaw naman kasi eh. Bat mo pa sinabi?”
“Ako na bahala, my friend,” Chinggoy said.
Then I looked at the cat and Chinggoy looked too, “Never mess with him though. I only saw him angry once. Once. Seven years ago. That was that.”
Seven years ago, I had left him for another boy.
That’s the only thing that made him angry.
It took him four years before he stopped being angry.
He hasn’t been angry ever since.
Then I said, “You know, you are all scary when you are angry. But then again, that cat is the scariest. And he never gets angry at me.”
And I am not afraid of any of you.
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