“I know.”
“Then why are you decorating the tree?”
“I’m just dressing it up.”
We just had a Halloween party the other week. I dressed up like E.T. and my mother tied a little flash light on my finger so I could make it glow in the dark. We went around our village in Alabang and went treat-or-treating. Halloween is my third favorite holiday, next to Christmas and my birthday.
The phone rang and my mother stopped spraying the tree. She walked to the kitchen to answer the phone and I was left alone with the tree. The snow was like whipped cream. I had never seen real snow before and sometimes I think it looks like soap bubbles. This didn’t look like soap, it looked like cream. I stuck out my tongue and licked it…
* * *
I awoke on my bathroom floor, the taste of sick in my mouth. There was a buzzing sound in my ears, something like a throbbing, and I realized I could hear my own heart struggling to get my limbs to pull me up. Florescent lights too bright, my eyes insisted staying shut. My head was heavy as iron. I tried to kneel, holding on to the toilet rim for stability. I felt my stomach churn, vomit welling up inside me. I leaned over the toilet bowl and exploded, yellow muck and bits of beef and rice and sisig and nacho chips and salsa shooting out of my mouth and nose. Ever snort out barbeque-flavored nachos? Ain’t much fun, I guarantee.
I wanted to go back to sleep, back to a time of fake snow and genuine smiles, of safety and innocence, of feel good surprises. I probably drifted in and out of dreamless unconsciousness for the next few minutes, before I managed to crawl into the bathtub. I twisted the shower knob full blast. The cold was sweet and shocking; my body jolted and my balls shriveled. I pulled of my wet clothes and scrubbed myself clean.
I stepped on my clothes to dry my feet and walked dripping naked to my closet, forgetting that I had a towel in the bathroom. I put on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt, and returned to the bathroom sink to brush my teeth. The mirror had misted up but I didn’t bother to clear it. In retrospect, I might’ve seen a shadow drift by.
A few empty cans of beer had been carelessly left on my kitchen counter. It wasn’t a very large kitchen nor was it a very large condo (only 60 square meters which I had been renting for over two months). I crushed the cans and tossed them into the trash, shaking my head at how irresponsible my friends can be. I took two eggs from the fridge and was hunting for a bowl to scramble them in when I noticed that my front door was ajar. I shook my head again, pushed it closed, locked it.
On the floor, a few inches from the door, a shiny object caught my eye. I hunker down to inspect it, picked it up with thumb and forefinger and they tinkled: a pair of earrings that belonged to the hooker, shaped like two silver bells.
A shadow loomed over me. I looked over my shoulder and saw this dark-suited oriental man (Chinese, Japanese, Korean … who could tell?) standing above me, his hands holding what looked like a small black hood.
I leaped to my feet and sprung away from him, assumed a wrestler’s stance, my arms up in a defensive guard. He had long black hair with exotic braids, a ponytail, and a grimace not unlike Steven Seagal’s.
“Mr. Sy would like to have a word with you,” he said.
I was speechless for a beat. “Who the hell are you?” I said. “And what’s with the queer hairdo?”
The stranger smiled. “I’m Elvis,” he said.
Definitely Korean, I thought. I once met a Korean student back in high school by the name of Elvis Rhee. Claimed that Koreans usually don’t use English names until they study abroad. “Elvis” seemed so typical. On the other hand, I got a few Chinese friends with first names like Washington and Jefferson….
I launched myself at him, aiming for his legs so I could tackle him. He sidestepped, grabbed my shoulder and threw me across the room. I landed on the coffee table, snapped it in half. My elbow stung, and I felt something warm flowing down my forearm, but I was too pumped to take a closer look. I launched myself at him a second time. He drew back and delivered a neat roundhouse kick to my left cheek. It connected hard. Through the veil of stars I saw the floor rushing toward my eyes. I landed on my nose, heard something crack. I yelled every profanity I knew as tears welled up and pain slammed through my brain like a clap of thunder.
Before I could get up, he threw the hood over my head. It didn’t smell too good. The fabric had been soaked in some kind of chemical and my nose was on fire and I think I bit my lip because I could taste something metallic. He stretched the hood against my face. I reach out behind me, seeking him out, my fingers like claws. He tightened the hood’s opening around my neck and shook me violently but I was unwilling to give up easily. That’s when he struck my kidney with his knee and the force of the blow took the will out of me and I think I yelled, “Inay ko po!”
Funny how we all turn to our mothers in times of need.
The chemical was working fast. I felt the ground drop from under me and I fell into a deep euphoric bliss, into the depths of the tenth circle of hell. There should be only nine circles, I know, but the devil opened a new annex just for me.
***
The Christmas tree was pretty. It was white and sparkling and tall. I looked under it, and I was happy to see gifts of different sizes. I looked for a gift with my name on it. I saw one from Ninang Rose and a smaller one from Tito Albert. But none from my father and mother. I asked her where my gift was, and she said that Santa will be delivering it on Christmas Eve. “Really?” I said. “But how will he know what kind of gift I want?”
“Well,” she said, “why don’t you write him a letter.”
“How will I send it? Do I need to buy stamps?”
She laughed and said that stamps aren’t necessary. She told me to just write the letter and give it to her, and she’ll make sure that Santa gets it.
“What kind of paper do I use?”
“Any will do.”
I ran to my bedroom and took a sheet of pad paper that I use for school. I looked for a pencil, sharpened it, then I began to write:
Dear Santa,
How are you? How is Rudolf? I want to ask you sumthing. I want a bycycel for xmas. I am a good boy. I want to lern how to ride a bycycel and my frends say its EZ. I promise to be good always. We do not have a cheemny but you can nok on the door and I will open it 4 you. Thank you Santa. Mery xmas!!!
***
When I came to, I was cold. Not freezing cold, but basement cold. The hood was no longer over my head, but I couldn’t see anything in the dark. I tried calling out and from the way my echoes sounded I assumed I was in some kind of cellar or storage room. I was barefoot; the floor was cold and dry. I was sitting on a plastic chair with my hands tied behind me. The bonds didn’t feel too tight, and the cords felt remarkably smooth.
“Help!” I cried. “Help me! Somebody! Heeeelp!!!”
I heard footsteps. The clinking of keys. Door unlocking, opening, a human figure striding in, and the smell of cinnamon in the air. The figure flicked on a light switch, and I was blinded by a halogen bulb hanging above and to the left of my eyes.
“You feeling better, boy?” said a big gruff voice. The accent was European, almost German, but thankfully not in an “Ahh-nuld” sort of way.
A bald man moved into the light. He was huge. Maybe six-and-a-half feet tall. Built like a professional wrestler, he actually looked like Hulk Hogan without the tan. His bushy platinum blond moustache was styled just like the Hulkster so it was difficult not to make the comparison. He was wearing what appeared to be a classic three-piece suit but made of leather instead of wool. The jacket emphasized his broad shoulders, and when he reached into it to pull out a lighter, his biceps bulged from under the sleeve and it looked bigger than my thigh. He had blue eyes, or gray, and they were clear and serene.
Mustn’t show fear, I thought. Remain calm.
He stood in front of me, playing with a cigar cutter, rubbing it with gloved fingers.
“You Mr. Sy?” I said. “You don’t look Chinese.”
I get it now: “C” not “Sy.” Gimme a break, I thought. This guy can’t be serious…
I looked around for the Korean. “Where’s Elvis?” I said.
“Who?”
“You know, Elvis Presley with the ponytail? The freakzoid who broke my face.”
“Ho! Ho! You must mean my assistant! Yes, he can get a bit enthusiastic. Impressive, wasn’t he? But you must have misheard him, boy. He’s elvish, and elves don’t have names. Not the ones who work for me. Just call him Mr. Black. He’d like that.”
This wasn’t making any sense.
He lit his cigar. Although the halogen bulb worked well, I could use a little more heat. I thought he’d offer me a stick. When he didn’t, I asked him nicely. He shook his head, silently mouthed the word “no” and blew a smoke ring into the air.
“Do you know why you’re here?” he said.
“I can guess.”
“No, you can’t,” he said. “You can’t guess. None of you can. Don’t try to get cocky with me, boy, or I’ll have Mr. Black break your legs.”
I didn’t know what to say to that.
“Ho! Ho! I was just kidding, boy! Mr. Black doesn’t do legs! Fingers are his specialty…” He brandished his cigar cutter, menacingly, in the light.
My hands instinctively clench, out of anger and fear. Show no fear.
“Ho! Ho! Got you again, didn’t I?” He took the cigar from his mouth and brought it toward my face. I winced, expecting him to extinguish it on my broken nose. But wait. It wasn’t broken. My nose, that is. I felt the cigar butt against my lips. There was a kindly twinkle in his eye.
“Here, take it,” he said. “It’ll kill you but given the circumstances, does it matter?”
I sucked it in, blessed unfiltered sin flowing into my mouth. Then the smoke went too far, entered my lungs and I gagged and he pulled it out and laughed. I felt violated.
“You like girls, boy?”
I continue coughing.
“I said … DO YOU LIKE GIRLS?!” His fist struck the side of my nose, breaking it again.
The scene went white, and the thunder came clapping once more. “Fer chrissakes, whadya wan wit’ meee!” I screamed at him.
Without blinking he said, “I asked you a simple question, boy. I’m waiting for your answer. You want me to repeat the question?”
I nod.
He stuck me again.
“Yes!” I yelled. “Yes! I like girls!”
“Oh. Sorry. I thought you nodded because we didn’t hear me properly the first time. You should show your elders some respect. Next time, say ‘yes’ if you mean yes.” He chewed his cigar. “Understand?”
“Yes.” I started to cry.
“Good. Let’s talk about girls. You said you like girls.”
“Yes.”
“You like sleeping with girls?”
“Yes.”
“Have you actually slept with a girl?”
I hesitated for a second, was about to shake my head but I saw him raise his fist, so I said, “Yes.”
The blow landed anyway.
“Yes! I sleep with girls! I have slept with girls! I like sleeping with girls! What else dya wanna hear from me?”
“The truth.”
“Last night! Maybe two nights ago, I don’t remember. But it was my birthday. My twenty-first birthday. They gave me a girl. I slept with her. That’s the honest truth, man!”
He looked me in the eye. The twinkle was gone. “You didn’t sleep with her,” he said.
I didn’t understand what he wanted to hear. I didn’t know whether to say yes or no.
“You had sex with her,” he said. “But you didn’t sleep with her.”
I nodded weakly. “We had sex,” I said.
The blow fell again, this time on my other cheek. “Don’t drag her into this!” he boomed. “You were the one who had sex, boy. The girl was the one who was asleep.” He jabbed my brow with a thick finger. “Face the facts, boy.” He leaned closer. “You raped her.”
“H-how would you know … you her uncle, her father? I didn’t hurt her, honest. I was just for fun. Wait! Please don’t hit me! Please!”
He hit me. The stars came brighter than ever. As I spun from Capricorn to Andromeda, I made two awful discoveries. First, I realized what he said was true. I had my way with the girl while she was drunk or drugged. It didn’t matter whether or not she was a hooker. Second, my nose kept mysteriously healing itself seconds after the last blow was given. That’s why each strike felt as fresh as the first time, every nerve awake to raw pain.
I recovered eventually, and Mr. C had pulled a chair in front of me at sat down. I thought about measuring my next words carefully, perhaps not saying anything anymore, but the only thing that came out of me was defiance. “How did you know? You like to watch? Were you watching me screw?” I didn’t care anymore. Let the blows rain down.
But he merely patted me on the cheek, which had already mended itself, good as new.
“I got me a list,” he said with a wink. “I check it twice. First to find out those who’ve been naughty; second to find out those who’ve been nice. And you, boy, have been very, very naughty.”
“But,” I said, struggling to find logic in this mess, “it’s the middle of July; it’s too early for Christmas…”
He stared at me, his blue-gray eyes peering from beneath the deep shadows of his brow. “That’s exactly why I’m here, boy. What do you think I do during the rest of the year?”
“Engage in kidnapping and assault?” I said.
“Of naughty children,” he added. “I check my list twice, remember?”
I bristled at the word. “I am not a child,” I said.
“Boy, when you reach my age, believe me, everyone’s a child.” He puffed at his cigar. “December is a busy month for us,” he continued, “production at full capacity. Christmas Eve is when I make the deliveries. The rest of the month, we manufacture the toys. That’s also when the letters come. It helps that there aren’t as many children who believe in me nowadays. Also, the naughty always outnumber the nice. The less houses we need to visit, the better.”
I was starting to feel cold again.
“By January, after Epiphany, we start a new cycle.”
“Cycle?” I repeated.
“Recruitment,” he said. “Eleven months of recruitment. With fifty percent attrition due to death and starvation, it’s a miracle we’re still in operation.” He placed his large hand on my shoulder. “How’s your memory?”
“What?”
“Your memory,” he said. “Think backwards. Was there a time you believed in me?”
I thought about whipped cream. I thought about snow. “I was six.”
“Indeed you were. Do you remember what you asked for?” The twinkle in his eyes had returned, and the air was thick with the smell of cinnamon.
“A bicycle,” I said.
“That’s right,” he said, “a silver-colored bicycle. Exquisite craftsmanship, I recall.”
“It was you.”
“Did you think your parents bought it for you?”
I did. I assumed they read my letter and bought me the bike. My mother never sent it but kept it in a scrapbook which she showed me when I was a bit older. “They didn’t buy it?” I said.
“My people contacted them a week after you wrote the letter. They told them that their names had been selected at a raffle and the prize was a brand new bicycle. Kiddie-sized. Your parents took full credit, did they?”
They didn’t. They never talked about it. I had just assumed. “Please don’t drag my folks into this,” I pleaded. “They’re innocent.”
“Indeed they are,” he said. “It’s you I want.”
“Why me?”
“You wrote the letter.”
He pulled out a pair of glasses an
d put them on; then he reached into his jacket and brought out a folded, yellowed piece of pad paper. He unfolded it, scanned the letter, and read aloud. “I promise to be good always. Your own words, boy. Your own hand.”
“I was six years old!”
“The letter was a contract. You made a request, we delivered the goods, you accepted it. You promised to be good.”
“You expect every kid to be good forever?”
“Not every kid,” he said. “Only those who wrote me letters, only those who once believed in me, only those who accepted my gift, and only those who broke their promises, who didn’t meet their end of the bargain. Kids like you.” He refolded the letter and tucked it into his jacket.
“I just turned twenty-one…”
“Oh, yes, that. As kids grow older, yes, they become nasty. That’s part of life, isn’t it? But I expect them to lead relatively righteous lives at least until they reach adulthood.” He puffed his cigar, licked his lips. “Rape, by my definition, isn’t particularly righteous. If you had stolen a cookie from the cookie jar, I’d have turned a blind eye. But this…”
“I told you, I had already turned twenty-one by the time I screwed her!”
He delivered a right cross, broke my jaw. I fell to the floor, nearly passed out, hands still tied behind my back. He waited for my jaw to heal. Then he kicked me, cutting my lip. He waited for that to heal, too.
“There are twenty-four hours in a day, boy. You might have been twenty-one in your city, but in my time zone, you were still twenty.”
I lay on the floor, stared at his shoes. A cigar dropped near my nose, and he extinguished it with a twist of his toe. Then he snapped his fingers, and my hands were suddenly free as if there had never been any rope in the first place. I was too exhausted to stand.
Then two figures came in: Mr. Black and a girl. “Take him to the factory,” Santa told them. “We could use him in our pogo stick division.”
Mr. Black still wore that weird ponytail. The girl still had the face of an angel and the body of a whore. She smelled like cinnamon. They all did, come to think of it.
They each held one of my arms and pulled me up. My feet dragged as they carried me out the door.
The God Equation and Other Stories Page 5