by Noël Alumit
She pointed to shapes on the blackboard, saying stuff like, “OK, class, this is a rectangle. As you can see, it has four sides.” Duh.
All of a sudden, Director Man yelled, “CUT!”
We all froze because the scene was going pretty well. We wondered what went wrong.
“You, in the back,” he said, pointing to Amada. We all turned around and Amada was crying, black mascara streaming from her eyes, her face looked like the back of a zebra.
“What the hell are you doing?” Director Man said.
“I’m crying.”
“I can see that, but why?”
“Well, I was getting into my part.”
“What part? You’re a student. A regular student.”
“I know. I’m playing a regular student who was just dumped by her boyfriend who she really loves. We made a pact to get married after we graduated, but he falls for a girl who works at this liquor store near his house. I’m stunned, because the girl’s not that pretty. I find out through a letter he puts in my folder. I discover the letter just now and fall apart.”
Director Man rolled his eyes, and told Amada to sit in another part of the room.
“But nobody can see me.”
“Exactly.”
We finally got the scene done.
•
In the final week of shooting Blood Prom at Hell High, we shot exteriors. We walked around, trying to make it look like a regular school day. Some of the actors had major attitude, strutting around like they were gods. I hoped Monty wasn’t like that. Although I’d read he was rather arrogant.
Amada had calmed down and was willing to be a regular student just passing by. Director Man didn’t like that Amada did a cartwheel down the hall in a real important scene. He wouldn’t buy her explanation of being a cheerleader training for an upcoming football game.
“You pull another stunt like that, and you’re fired,” Director Man said.
Amada said she wouldn’t do anything like that again.
“He is such a creep,” she said. “I refuse to do what he says.”
“You have to. Or you’re canned,” I said.
“Oh, I won’t do anything big. But I’ll still act.”
So in all the scenes, Amada had this real stern look on her face, like she was concentrating. Fortunately, it wasn’t distracting or anything. She was flattered that she was chosen to be a dead body in the gym.
“See. My acting paid off,” she said.
“Make sure there’s lots of blood on her,” Director Man said. “And attach that hatchet to her head real good.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The No-Name Place
Dear Monty, September 2, 1983
I caught one of your films. Suddenly Last Summer was a real weird ass movie. Elizabeth Taylor and Katharine Hepburn were in it. Elizabeth Taylor had gone crazy after seeing her cousin Sebastian killed. Sebastian’s mother, Katharine Hepburn, wanted to give her a lobotomy, erasing Elizabeth Taylor’s memory of the incident. It turned out that Sebastian was gay and was murdered by the guys he lusted after. He died in the most horrible way: he was eaten, cannibalized.
You played the doctor, the guy who was supposed to perform the lobotomy. You tried to make everyone in the movie happy: caring for Elizabeth Taylor and delicately dealing with Katharine Hepburn.
The movie made me real uncomfortable because of all the crazy people in it. It was cool you were there to help them.
I understood why I had dreams of Monty telling me not to reveal anything about my parents to the Arangans. I understood in August of 1983. The television was on at full blast. Mr. and Mrs. A sat in front of the television, enchanted with the glowing blue light. Mrs. A was crying, wiping snot from her nose. Mr. A shook his head in disbelief.
“What are you watching?” I spoke in Tagalog, speaking casually. Mrs. A corrected my pronunciation and told me to sit. I sat behind them. On Channel Seven there was a story about a Filipino Senator named Benigno Aquino, he was a political prisoner who was in exile in America. He returned to the Philippines and his welcome home gift was a bullet. With one shot, Mr. Aquino disappeared from the earth. I didn’t realize how big the story was until I saw it on all the other channels, too.
“My God. My God. What’s going to happen now?” Mrs. A said.
“We have to wait and see,” Mr. A said. “Tanga. Why did he go back?”
“How will this affect business?” Mrs. A asked.
“I don’t know. This may freeze money coming into the offices. But I have other clients. It’ll be OK.”
“But Marcos will be watched heavily now.”
“I have other clients!” Mr. A said firmly.
The world stopped. Mr. and Mrs. A looked different to me.
“I have other clients. This shouldn’t hurt us.”
“How will what hurt?” I asked.
Mr. and Mrs. A exchanged glances.
“Nothing, Bob,” Mrs. A said. She turned off the TV and went into the kitchen. I heard her turn on the stove. Mr. A went into the backyard and sat on some lawn furniture, twitching and ticking faster than usual.
Later, I asked Amada why they were worried.
“You don’t know?” she said.
“Nope.”
“Well, they don’t know that I know this. But one summer I worked for my dad. I went through all these files. They looked kind of funny. I may not know much about accounting, but I know when something is funny. Like these dollars coming through Hawaii. I did a paper trail, turns out it’s Marcos money. Isn’t that a blast? It’s kind of cool. Sort of like something out of a James Bond movie or something.”
I stared at the ceiling. If you stare long enough, the surface can start forming shapes, faces. I saw Monty’s face on the ceiling, looking down at me, frowning almost.
“Something wrong?”
“No, nothing.” I went back into the living room and flipped on the boob tube.
•
I went fuzzy. My body was on earth, but my mind lingered elsewhere, hearing voices far, far away. That was the first time I went away.
This is what I remember. It was during breakfast. I couldn’t look at Mr. and Mrs. A. I simply couldn’t.
“How’s school?” Mr. A asked.
“Bob, are you OK?” Mrs. A offered.
I mumbled something and left. I went to the bathroom and tried to throw up. Nothing came out. I wanted to go somewhere. Anywhere. As long as it was away from them and out of the house. I decided to go to the school library.
“Hey, wait up, Bobster,” Amada said. But I didn’t wait up. I sped out, down the street, around the block, into the schoolyard, up some stairs, into the library. I found the most secluded part, away from the librarian. I gathered as many books as possible. I didn’t care what they were, any subject, any author, any title. I laid them in front of me. I took the first book, a mystery. I leafed through it. Page 168. I blotched it. Another book. Blotched it. Blotch blotch blotch. I blotched for hours. Book after book. I didn’t bother making any of my classes.
Amada came in at lunch.
“What’s up?” she said. She said something else, too, but I didn’t hear. I just concentrated on my blotching.
I also concentrated on Montgomery Clift sitting at a table at the other end of the library…looking at me. Our eyes met. His eyes were blue, so blue. I could tell from the way he looked at me that he loved me. He loved me the way he loved Elizabeth Taylor in Suddenly Last Summer. She was going through a hellish time, locked up in some insane asylum. He was there for her. He told her to trust him. He promised to help her, to heal her. He promised. I could have stared into his face forever, but Amada touched me, pulling me away.
“Bob,” she said, “did you hear me?”
“Get the fuck away from me!” I yelled. Everyone turned toward me.
I ran out, finding myself on some street. I wandered…I found a bookstore on Vermont Avenue. Again I grabbed some books and continued blotching. I tried not to look conspicuous, preten
ding to be interested in buying something.
A salesman eyed me. I thought he was going to tell me to quit blotching. Instead, he said, “You have ten minutes to make your purchases before we close.” They closed at nine. I had been there for seven hours!
I was the last one to leave. I thought about going home, but didn’t. I thought about the small library in the Arangans’ home, and all the books lying on the shelves. But I had already blotched them the first week I was there.
I was on some residential street. All the homes were dead quiet, no one in them. It was a great neighborhood: immaculate lawns skirting elegant two-story houses, expensive cars in the carports.
I tried the back doors of a few of the houses—they were locked. I tried to push open some windows—they were sealed. I came across a shingled home, with arching windows. One window was open. Jackpot! I climbed inside. Even in the dark, I could see it was a fancy schmancy place, with deeply cushioned sofas and chairs, neat artwork—paintings and shit—on the walls or sculptured stuff on podiums.
I walked through the house, careful not to trip or make noise. I didn’t want to wake anyone. Whoever was sleeping probably had a crappy day. I wanted to blotch their books and leave. I saw a large book on a coffee table. I made my way to it. It was a pretty book, the kind you’d expect on a coffee table. The book showcased the art of Andy Warhol. I looked for page 168. Damn! It only had 142 pages. I put the book back.
I wandered throughout the home some more. I almost gave up when I noticed a room, off to my left, a den of some kind. There, suspended on the wall, were two shelves holding thick books. I stood on a chair to get them. All of the books were on design and architecture. The first one said All About Foundation, another read, The Perfect Home for You, and another, A Different Look for Your Living Room. I pulled the pen from my shirt pocket and blotched.
When I marked the last book, I placed it on the shelf. The book was a boulder, sizing in at about 962 pages. I guess the shelf was flimsy because it crashed to the floor. Lights came on from upstairs. I raced through the house looking for that open window, but I couldn’t find it. Turning left, then right. I felt like a mouse in a maze. I heard footsteps.
I panicked. I found the living room. The Andy Warhol book was my marker. I found the open window and jumped out. I ran down the street as fast as I could, curving down this avenue, up that boulevard.
I found myself in familiar territory with my high school in front of me. I didn’t know what time it was, but it was late. I slept in the school parking lot. That way I could be the first one into the library and I’d have first pick of the books. I had been blotching books there since I began school but I knew there were whole sections that I hadn’t gotten to yet.
I found some bushes to lie by. I pulled my body into the fetal position then slept. A huge screen of black covered my eyes. I woke, dusted myself, tasted the thick foam on my tongue.
I headed to the library. Amada came my way. Her lips were tight and her eyes squinty. I turned around and ran. I heard her yelling after me, but I kept running.
Then I walked. I walked for hours. I walked into Downtown. I came across a huge yellow art deco building. The sign on it said the Los Angeles Public Library. It was huge with dozens of rooms. And all of those rooms had books. Hundreds of thousands of them. I blotched encyclopedias on the first floor. I kept going until the library closed. I slept in the park nearby. I returned the next day. I had been doing this for a couple of days, sleeping in the park, waking up to blotch.
I walked in one morning, and a librarian stopped me.
“Look, son,” the Library Lady said, a small black woman with pencils sticking out of her hair, “for the last three days, you’ve been coming back here to look at books. It’s a good thing someone your age likes books so much, but every time I see you, you look a mess. Worse than the day before. Your hair’s all wild and to smell you is like breathing in the dead. I don’t want you back in here until you’ve cleaned up some. Y’hear?”
I nodded and walked away, stopping for a pee in the restroom. I looked in the mirror. In the Mirror World, I saw what I was: a nobody, a messy nobody. Library Lady was right, breathing in the dead. The Mirror World did not lie. This was my life. My father was taken away, my mother disappeared. The Arangans, the family I’d learned to cherish, wishing to be their adopted son, were Marcos cronies. The color gray became a feeling, a thick wool blanket that enveloped me.
I made my way back to the bookstore on Vermont and blotched some more. Kids from school trickled in with that what-do-we-do-with-the-rest-of-the-day look. I glanced at the clock. It was three-thirty. School was over. I decided to go back to the school library.
I had slept on asphalt the night before so my back was a little sore. My hand was cramped from holding that black pen. I heard a voice behind me, “Where the hell have you been? Mom and Dad have been going crazy.”
It was Amada.
I just looked at her. I walked away from her, unable to speak. She followed me and said: “What’s the matter, Bob?”
I walked out of the library, down the stairs, without saying a word. I walked to some place I had no name for—The No-Name Place. Beckoning me…beckoning…The No-Name Place, The No-Name Place.
I felt Amada’s hand rest on my shoulder. I stopped. She came around and faced me. “Bob,” she said, “talk to me.” Talk to me talk to me talk to me. It sounded like an echo in a tunnel. Help me, Amada, I wanted to say. But I couldn’t speak. My voice was gone. She placed her palm against my cheek, her soft skin slightly jarred me. “You don’t look good,” she said. “Come on, let’s go.”
She put her arm into mine, and guided me home. Home wasn’t the right word. Rather, she guided me back to the place where I lived.
I entered the house, and I heard Mrs. A talking on the phone. “I don’t want to see your parents,” I whispered to Amada.
“Why? They’re worried sick.”
“I just can’t see them. I can’t.”
She took me to my room and put me in my bed. I dozed off. I dreamt about my parents stuck in some prison somewhere, locked up with all those crazy people like the ones in Suddenly Last Summer. I dreamt of my father alone in a cell, deprived of light, food, and human contact. I dreamt of him hurt, wounded, huddled in a corner, lost. I dreamt of my mother sick and exhausted, rocking herself to sleep, surrounded by lost souls. I dreamt of her weeping and wailing, screaming and vomiting.
Montgomery Clift was in my dream, too. He had his hands out to me. I almost touched them, then I woke up.
•
I woke up in the morning with Mrs. A sitting at my bed, her hand caressing my forehead. I said, “Go away.”
“Bob, I’m worried—”
“Go away.”
“Eat something. Amada is bringing up some food—”
“Disappear. Just disappear.”
“Bob, tell me—”
Amada entered with a tray of milk and cereal. I said, “Amada, please tell your mom to leave.” They looked at each other. Mrs. A departed with her hand covering her eyes. Amada sat by me.
“OK, mister. What the fuck happened to you? You zoned out or something.”
“I needed to think.”
“My parents almost called the police. They almost called your case manager, too, but were afraid they’d take you away from us.”
“It’s because of your parents that I’m in this mess.” Maybe it was the way Amada poured my cereal or maybe it was the way dimples appeared on her face like stars when she grinned, but I decided to tell her all about my folks.
“No fucking waaaaay!” she said. “What are you gonna do?”
“Get out of here. I can’t stay.”
“Don’t be stupid. Where are you gonna go?”
“I don’t know, but I can’t stay here. I can’t stay in this house.”
“Bob, I know you’re upset. But stay. You can hate my parents all you want. Hell, I do. You gotta be smart. Here, you get a bed, food, and a little spending cas
h. I can’t stand my parents, but I’m not stupid enough to run off.”
“You ran off to San Francisco.”
“Exactly. I lived on the streets for a few days, begged for money. Despite what you think, being homeless is not a pleasant experience.”
“I can’t stay. I’ll find another foster home to—”
“Look,” she said, placing her hands on mine. “You being here is the only thing keeping me sane. If you leave, I don’t know what I’d do. I can’t be in this house alone with them. If you leave, I’ll run away and never come back.”
I knew she meant it. Life is so bizarre. There I was alone without my parents and there Amada was alone with hers.
“Hang out with me,” she said. “We can hate my parents together. In the meantime, pocket the dough they give you. Use some of the money they got from Marcos to help you.”
“Then we can’t tell them about my parents. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“I’m going back to the Philippines. I’ve got almost seven hundred dollars saved up. I’ll find my folks someday.”
“I know you will. Save the money. If you run away, you’ll end up spending it on food and places to stay. Then you’ll never be able to find them.”
She had a point.
•
Mrs. A tried to talk to me one morning, cornering me in the kitchen before I went to school. Mr. A sat at the table drinking his coffee.
“You’ve been upset with us lately. Why?” said Mrs. A.
I remained quiet, unable to look at her. She was a beautiful woman, but she repulsed me.
“You still haven’t told us why you ran off. Did we do something wrong?”
“Leave him alone,” said Mr. A, “nothing to worry about. He’s just doing what he wants. You don’t know boys. You were out with friends, weren’t you? I used to stay out all night, days at a time, when I was his age. Just leave him alone.”
“Well, okay, then,” she said. “Is it a girl? Were you with a girl?” I wanted to tell her, No, I’m not fucking my brains out. “Please be careful,” she said. “You’re too young to get married and we’re too young to be grandparents.”