by Noël Alumit
And it all seems so ordinary. And Normal. And it feels right.
Mrs. A raised the question of adopting.
“Yes! I want you as my brother,” Amada said.
I just smiled. I didn’t want to be adopted before. But now I kind of wonder. The Philippines, Mama, and my dad seem to be leaving me like a ship sailing away—no! more like a ship sinking, disappearing under dark water.
Dear Monty, September 2, 1982
I saw From Here to Eternity last night. You were wonderful. Every one in the movie did a great job. Frank Sinatra, Burt Lancaster, and Donna Reed acted really well. I know you were nominated for the academy award for that movie, one of four nominations you received in your career. You should have won. It was good to know that Frank Sinatra and Donna Reed won best supporting oscars for their roles.
From Here to Eternity was a difficult movie to watch. You get beat up in that movie. You played a soldier and your fellow soldiers beat you up. I hated seeing you in such pain. It reminded me of the night my parents were beat up, the night my father was taken away.
In the movie, you go AWOL. You leave the army to be in the arms of the prostitute Donna Reed. I know what it’s like to want to leave. So many times I want go away, disappear. I leave, entering a fuzzy world where you live. In that fuzzy world, I feel like I’m surrounded by gauze, everything is buffered. Everything becomes a little more bearable. I like the fuzzy world.
Dear Monty, September 14, 1982
Last Sunday, we went to church. I asked Mr. A if he had anything to put in my hair to stop it from standing straight up. Mr. A and I are about the same height, we have the same coloring, and, I think, he enjoyed showing me how to fix my hair.
He dabbed some pomade onto his palm, rubbed it into his hands, and applied it to his head. When I did the same, he told me to add a little more pomade because my hair was still messed up. I fixed it so it could look like yours, Monty. Combed back. Flat on the sides, fuller on top. My hair is probably coarser than yours, but I think I did a good job.
“I’d always wanted a son,” Mr. A said out of nowhere, “but my wife couldn’t have any more children after Amada.” Then there was a silence that lasted forever. It’s funny how saying nothing at all could say so much.
We attended Mass at Saint Basil, a huge cement church in the Mid-Wilshire area. Saint Basil looked like rows of raw crystals jutting into the air. Out front, a statue of the Virgin Mary presented itself to passing cars. Her arms were outstretched as if a person were running toward her, needing a long embrace. Our Lady of Perpetual Sorrow, a sign said beneath her.
The church was packed. The priest talked of Christ’s resurrection and our own spiritual rising. He talked of love: “Jesus died for our sins, he died because he loved us. Love is the most important element in life, we should learn to do things out of love.” Blah, blah, blah.
Something the priest talked about that got my attention was False Idols. He said Jesus is Our Savior. And praying to False Idols is a sin.
I thought about you, Monty. There’s nothing false about you. I know Jesus is a good guy, but he didn’t do for me what you did for me. I think people in this world need some kind of hope, any kind of hope to get them through the day. Some people can’t relate to that guy on the cross. He seems so far away.
I think Jesus only takes care of certain people anyway. Even though the Philippines is the most Catholic country in Asia, why is most of the country starving? Why do people disappear? I don’t think Jesus cares about Filipinos.
Dear Monty, October 9, 1982
I sometimes wonder what I’ll be when I grow up. I don’t know what I want to be yet. Maybe a journalist like J or my dad. It’s odd saying that: dad. I try not to think about him because I’ll go crazy. I don’t feel like he’s dead; then again, how would it feel to have deadness around you?
I pulled some dead skin from my thumb, a small withered piece by my nail. It lay on my desk, unattached and alone.
Amada told me to go with her. We took the bus to Mann’s Chinese Theater near La Brea.
—“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You’ll see.”
She took me to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. As soon as I entered, I knew Monty was there. I know that people leave impressions, dents of themselves in space, like a woman’s perfume when she passes. Sometimes it’s not a smell but a presence, an indelible secret kept in the walls.
We sat in the lobby. She closed her eyes. She told me to do the same thing.
“Why?”
“Because,” she said, “try to feel them.”
“Who?”
“Marilyn Monroe and Montgomery Clift. Don’t you know this hotel is famous for being haunted by dead stars? I read in a book that Marilyn Monroe’s ghost can be seen walking the halls. Montgomery Clift stayed here when he filmed that movie From Here to Eternity. Some say you could hear him blowing his bugle like he did in the movie.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. So close your eyes and listen.”
I listened, waiting for Monty’s horn. All I heard was noise, the useless sounds of people in the lobby. I wondered if Monty would come, spirit me away the way he did sometimes. I’d find myself in one of his movies. A black and white dream. I ran with him in the Nevada desert searching for horses in The Misfits. I waited for him in the rubble of war-torn Germany in The Search. I looked forward to seeing a new Monty Clift movie, because that meant there were new places he’d take me.
In the lobby of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, I heard his horn. It was real soft at first, distant; a small pin of a sound. Then it slowly grew into a low wail, swelling louder. It was real sad sounding, like no one cared about what he was doing. I heard the horn. I heard it and I cared. A melody that transported me. I found myself in the army barracks where Monty was stationed in From Here to Eternity. He was fighting. Some assholes in the army picked on him and decided to beat him up. The sound of fists hitting their target was a horrid sound. I remembered my dad.
I heard his horn. He blew it when Frank Sinatra died. I remember how sad he felt. I remember the tears that streamed down his face knowing someone that mattered in his life would never come back. I remember him blowing that bugle, blowing wind from deep inside his gut, blowing everything he’d had, everything that mattered, into that piece of twisted metal. He was serenading the dead. That’s what I heard at the Roosevelt Hotel: a sad sweet blare.
Before I knew it, tears were coming down my face. I wondered if people who mattered in my life would ever come back. I heard a soft sad sound of my own coming from me; it was more like a hum. Like an airplane far, far away. Or a bee buzzing around my head at night while I slept. I could feel it waking me and I thought about my mom and my dad. I thought about them blowing horns, blowing somewhere, calling me. Calling me.
I didn’t know how to respond. Like somebody threw me a life preserver and I tried to grab for it, but the only thing I caught was water. I slipped and slid. All the time there was something floating above me that could carry me to safety.
I had to open my eyes. I had to. I couldn’t take the different sounds coming at me. Drowning me out. I rubbed my eyes. There he was. There was Monty. I saw him enter the elevator. The sliding doors closed and he was gone.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Broken Girl
Dear Monty, February 20, 1983
Amada was brilliant in The Glass Menagerie. She appeared on the stage, and I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Although the character was supposed to be plain, it was clear that she was a lovely girl. Her hair was pulled back, revealing her full heart shaped face, and under the lights, her skin glowed.
I tried to get Mr. and Mrs. A to come, but they wouldn’t.
“Fuck ’em,” Amada said. She sounded tough, but I know she was hurt.
Amada was barely making it through the 10th grade. I had to help her a lot in order for her to get her homework done. When Mr. and Mrs. A saw her report card filled with C’s and D’s, they just about tore h
er head off.
Mr. A said, “Why can’t you do better in school?”
Mrs. A said, “Amada, you’re a bright girl, try harder.”
“She is not a bright girl; she is a stupid, stupid, stupid girl,” Mr. A chimed in.
I saw Amada’s face tense up, but she kept still. I bet she let her mind wander when her parents yelled and nagged at her like that.
Then Mr. A shoved my report card in front of her. My report card was so close to her face, she could have kissed it. Amada maintained that stillness like a trapped animal that knew its only course of survival was not to run, but to remain motionless, hoping the predator will simply pass it by.
“Amada,” Mrs. A began, “maybe you can be more like Bob. Just a little bit.”
“I would be happy,” Mr. A said, “if you worked a fraction as hard as Bob.”
I felt like shit. I hated when they fought. I hated that Mr. and Mrs. A used me like a weapon to get back at their own child. I loved Amada and her parents. Mr. and Mrs. A were wonderful people and it amazed me that they couldn’t see how beautiful their daughter was.
They didn’t know how good they had it, they didn’t. They had each other, they’ve always had each other. Instead they chose to have this ridiculous war of wills.
Mr. A asked Amada if she had anything to say for herself. Amada didn’t say anything for a long time. Finally she said, “I want to be an actress.”
Mr. and Mrs. A looked at her, perplexed.
Amada said, “I was just cast in a play at school.”
I was surprised. It was news to me. I said, “That’s really great.”
Amada looked at me and smiled. Her eyes watered. Amada waited for her parents to say something. So did I. They didn’t. They were as quiet as a heart attack in your sleep. Without saying a word, they disapproved.
Amada ran to her room. I followed her. She slammed the door. I could hear her throwing her pillows and stuffed animals against the wall.
I gave a gentle knock and asked if I could come in. She said, Yes. I walked in on her choking Winnie the Pooh, her hands throttling the poor bear.
“Why can’t they be happy for me,” she said. “It took all my nerve to audition for The Glass Menagerie. I got the lead. THE GODDAMN LEAD. I’m going to play Laura, Bob. I was really happy to get the part of Laura. She’s broken. She’s this broken girl. She has these delicate glass figurines, the only things more delicate than she is. She wants to be happy, but doesn’t know how. She lives with this awful family. She’s trying to hang on the best way she knows how…I auditioned and I got her. Laura. The lead. The broken girl…” She let go of Winnie and started pulverizing Snoopy.
After beating up all her stuffed animals, she lay on her bed. I sat beside her, stroking her hair. She fell asleep, her head melting into her pillow.
I left her bedroom and heard Mr. and Mrs. A talking.
“How can you make a living as an actress?” Mrs. A said.
“Yes, and those kind of people do drugs,” Mr. A said. “She should become something else. A teacher, something professional.”
I descended the stairwell, staring at Mr. and Mrs. A. in the living room.
“You should give her some credit,” I whispered to them.
“What? What are you saying?” Mr. A said.
“I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but I think Amada is right.”
In the movie The Misfits, Monty protected Marilyn, loved her. Fighting for people you love is paramount. I learned that from Monty. If Marilyn Monroe were being hurt, he would have fought for her. I knew he would have.
“She really wants to be an actress, she really wants to do this,” I said.
“It’s dumb,” Mr. A said.
“It’s not dumb, sir. Dreams are never, ever dumb.”
“Don’t lecture us about dreams,” he said, looking at his wife. She looked at me. “Dreams can ruin your life,” he continued. “Dreams can take hold of you and never let you go, destroying any happiness you plan. Don’t talk to us about dreams.”
Mrs. A pulled herself up, wrapping her arm around her husband. I watched them ascend the staircase, leaning on each other.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blood Prom at Hell High
Dear Monty, May 22, 1983
I went to the library to read up on the Philippines. I found a stack of Amnesty International reports there. The reports talked of human rights violations from all over the world. In all of them, the Philippines has violations up the ass.
The reports said over 50,000 people have been “detained.” Some simply disappeared. In 1975, delegates from Amnesty International visited the Philippines and interviewed a bunch of people who were detained. A lot of them talked of how they were tortured.
There was this interesting article about how the Marcoses are rich, stealing from the people. And how they hide it by having it laundered out of the Philippines and put into other countries. The Marcos family has people—“cronies” they were called—all over the world to exchange money for them.
I also researched where I can stay or cheap ways of eating when I return to the Philippines. If I’m going to look for Mama, I’ll probably need to stay a few months. Mr. Boyd gave me some hints on what I’d have to do. I’ll have to ask people in places where they were last seen. I need to spend time in Manila and Baguio City. I can stay in hostels or crummy hotels. I have to eat as inexpensively as possible. I calculated it all. With airfare and all, I’ll need about 3,000 dollars. I have about 315 bucks now. I need to make more money. If you have any ideas, Monty, please let me know. I put a blotch on page 168 of all the books I came across.
Outside of school there was a flyer on a telephone pole. It said, Extras Needed for Movie To Be Shot On Campus, Extras Must Be Able To Pass For Students.
“Let’s do it,” Amada cried. “That’s what we can do this summer, make movies.”
“What’s an extra?” I asked.
“Those are people who you see in movies who just sit there or stand there or walk by to make it look real. They’re nobodies. They sort of take up space while the real action takes place.”
“I don’t know if I want to be an extra.”
“It pays.”
She said the magic words. Amada called the number on the flyer. We were supposed to report to such-n-such place at such-n-such time.
It was for a movie called Blood Prom at Hell High. It was about a bunch of kids who get massacred just before they graduated.
On the first day of shooting, people were all over, milling around like a crowd at a car wreck. Amada meandered, looking at the actors get made up or the crew place props. And cameras, lots of cameras. I understood why Monty did movies. There was so much happening.
Being an extra, though, meant having to wait around while the next shot was being set up. I read during that time, placing a blotch on page 168 of Montgomery Clift, a biography by Patricia Bosworth.
I breezed through Monty by Robert La Guardia. It was different from Patricia Bosworth’s book, Montgomery Clift. La Guardia’s book was more personal, Bosworth’s book was more factual. Both agree on one thing: Montgomery Clift was attracted to men. I found relief in knowing that.
Amada had been prying about my sexuality. I had tried to evade the subject. Frankly, I didn’t know myself. One night after shooting, Amada and I sat on the damp grass in the backyard.
“Do you think Anne Chang is pretty?” Amada asked.
“She’s all right,” I said.
“How about Lizzy Nguyen?”
“I don’t know.”
“Deanna Yamashiro?”
Amada got into one of her moods, asking me how she compared to other girls.
“Amada,” I said, “you’re the best-looking one in class, the most talented. You make all the other girls look like nothing.”
She smiled and said, “Anne Chang gets a lot of dates, being a cheerleader and shit.”
“I guess.”
We both listened to the crickets, making that sad
sound they sometimes make, a distant and constant chirp. It was calm, but a breeze made the night a little chilly.
“I think Anne Chang likes you,” she said.
“Really?”
“Do you like her?”
“I never really thought about it.”
“It’s OK if you don’t like her,” she said. “It’s OK if you don’t like Anne or any other girl, Bob. I don’t care. I really don’t.”
We were quiet for a very long time.
“Is it that obvious?” I said.
“Does it matter?”
“I guess not.” For some reason, I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.
The crickets stopped their mournful symphony. Amada moved closer to me, her body shielding me from the evening’s chill.
•
In most of the shots, we sat in a classroom with a bunch of other kids. I thought it funny that Amada and I spent that summer vacation back in school.
“You’re just suppose to sit!” Director Man said to Amada.
“I was,” Amada said.
“Noooooo. You’re blowing kisses at someone across the room. Act the way you usually do in class.”
“But that is the way I usually act in class.”
“Well, stop it.”
They tried the scene again. We watched the teacher. She was a lead actor. The camera moved around us.
The lead actor was a glamorous woman. I’d seen her in commercials, telling us to drink this soda or buy that car. She was supposed to be teaching us Algebra. I knew in real life that she could barely count to ten.
In all my years in school, I’d never seen a teacher look like her. Her hair was teased and sprayed, looking like a poodle in shock. She had so much makeup on you could have thrown a stone at her and it would have stuck on her face, imbedded in all that goo.