Years before, tenth grade. On a rainy spring afternoon during World Cultures and History class, the teacher, Mr. Funston, an ex–pro surfer who wore ripped jeans and skinny ties, stood at the dry-erase board and wrote “PERSPECTIVAL AUTOBIOGRAPHY,” then looked back at the class. “Who can tell me what this means?” he asked. Nobody answered. “What this means,” he said, “is, ‘Who are you? What are you? Why are you?’ In other words, ‘Why do you think the way you think?’” The questions were meant to inspire, to rouse the students into believing there was something revolutionary in looking inward, in exploring your identity, but everybody knew they were Mr. Funston’s lame attempt at introducing the tenth-grade self-reflection assignment required by the school district.
“I want to understand how you came to be,” Mr. Funston said. “Why do you see the world the way you do?” He used himself as an example, explained that both his father and grandfather were champion surfers, and his own relationship to the ocean—“the swells, the waves, the calm”—helped him understand his place in the universe. “I’m a teacher who surfs and a surfer who teaches,” he said. “That’s who I am. Now, who are you?” He asked the question over and over, pointing to a different student each time.
“Who are you?”
“A Vietnamese American.”
“Who are you?”
“Native Californian.”
“Who are you?”
“A big sister.”
“Who are you?”
“An extremely bored student in your class.”
“Who are you?”
“Libertarian. Like my dad.”
Mr. Funston pointed to the back corner of the room, at Excel. Excel had barely spoken all year, in any of his classes. With Renzo gone, he didn’t really talk to anyone.
“Who are you?” Mr. Funston asked.
Excel shrugged.
Mr. Funston shook his head. “You’re gonna have to do better than that, my friend.”
Part one of the assignment was a worksheet, a fill-in-the-blank family tree that stretched back five generations. Part two was taking that information and writing a mini–family history, and explaining how your ancestry, along with other outside influences, helped you become the person you believed you were. If he filled it out honestly, Excel’s worksheet would have two names only: his own and Maxima’s. Excel never knew his grandparents’ or great-grandparents’ names, and whatever stories Maxima told about her own upbringing rarely included them. Sometimes, his entire family history seemed nonexistent, a blank that spanned generations. As if history began only with Maxima.
Lying would be easier. Two weeks later, the night before the assignment was due, he filled in the family tree blanks with names as ridiculous as his own. His grandfather was named Maximilliano, who was the son of Xerxes and Fortuna; he named his grandmother Galaxina, who became the daughter of Novacento and Castleanna. By the time he finished, the sheet looked as though he’d descended from a line of wizards and sorceresses.
Part two of the assignment would be a more involved lie, but he knew how it would go; he’d simply follow everybody else’s Filipino American story. There were plenty of Filipino kids at his school, their origins nearly identical: their fathers or grandfathers enlisted in the US Navy back when its bases were active in the Philippines, served on ships for years and years, married, then finally had their requests for transfer to America granted. There were a few whose parents were scholars or professionals—they had gone to university in the States and found ways to stay, or came as nurses and doctors, secured permanent jobs here. Excel took these details, plugged them into a rough outline, but when he finished, he felt a pang of jealousy and resentment at how easy and familiar that story was. Nothing like his own.
Who are you?
He wrote, “TNT.” Then he wrote, “TNT American.”
Who are you?
He wrote, “Dynamite,” then, “Dynamite American.” It sounded like a new identity beyond ethnicity or nationality, and he liked the sound of it, the image it conjured up: an American flag with fifty tiny sticks of dynamite, no stars.
He started the paper over.
It was past midnight now, the paper was due the next day; he had to work fast. He couldn’t get online—they didn’t have Internet hookup back then—so Excel went through Joker’s 1977 edition of the World Book Encyclopedia, looked up “dynamite,” learned it was invented in 1867 by a Swedish guy named Alfred Nobel. He went to the family tree worksheet, went four generations back before his name, erased “Felixiano” and wrote “Alfred Nobel” in his place. He read a quick summary of how Nobel invented dynamite: alone in his laboratory, tinkering with nitroglycerin, he discovered that the way to contain a substance so explosive was to encase it in some kind of absorbent material; Nobel used clay. For his essay, Excel invented a Filipina woman and named her Maria (he liked the simplicity of it, how normal it sounded), made her Nobel’s live-in maid (he thought of his auntie Queenie, how the world was full of Filipina maids, so why not?). When Nobel toils in his lab from morning to night, it’s Maria who brings him his meals, a mix of Filipino and Swedish delicacies (“lumpia and Swedish meatballs,” he wrote). Maria is loyal and dutiful, possesses a genius of her own, but given her station in life, she isn’t allowed to tap into it.
One day, Nobel asks Maria to take a walk with him, to keep him company as he thinks through his experiments out loud. How to contain and stabilize such an explosive substance? Maybe it’s impossible? Walking along the edge of the river, Maria notices a pretty blue stone, bends down to pick it up. That’s when she notices the peculiar texture of the almost claylike dirt coating her fingers. “What about this?” she says. “Could something like this work for your invention?” Nobel dismisses the suggestion at first, but, out of options, he collects a sample and brings it to his lab. For several days they test its reaction with the nitroglycerin, holding dangerous test explosions in a nearby cornfield, and one day, after forming the clay into a stick that he soaks in nitroglycerin and rigs with a fuse, it goes exactly as planned: Nobel strikes a match and lights the stick, throws it across the river, and BOOM—dynamite is born!
That night, they celebrate with a feast—more lumpia and meatballs, too much wine. It’s not long before a kiss; not much longer before sex (in the actual essay, Excel wrote, “they got drunk and made forbidden love”). But their affair is short lived; trouble back in the Philippines requires Maria to return. Their breakup is painful, but Nobel knows he must see his invention through. Had he known Maria was carrying his child—Excel’s great-great-great grandfather—he would have abandoned his work, sacrificed his place in history to be with his true love.
The story played out vividly in his mind, but the version in the essay was one long summary. In the final paragraph, he tried to make it real. He wrote:
There are letters documenting this. Unfortunately, they’ve gone missing. But I have seen them. My ancestor, Alfred Nobel, my great-great-great-great grandfather, is the person who influences me. His invention of dynamite, a.k.a. TNT, is the reason I exist today, and is an important part of my heritage, of who I am, and who I will one day become. The end.
Mr. Funston returned the essays the following week; as he handed them back, Excel could see all the crossed-out lines, the margin notes in red ink, and he hoped for at least a C, though prepared himself for worse. He received his paper last, no grade indicated, just two red words near the bottom of the last page: “SEE ME.”
The bell rang and the class emptied out; Excel stayed in his seat, the essay on the desk. Mr. Funston brought a chair over, turned it around and sat backward on it, as if trying to assume the coolest, most chill sitting position possible, which made Excel 100 percent positive that Mr. Funston knew his essay was four pages of pure bullshit.
“Now, your essay has some issues,” Mr. Funston started, then with red pen in hand, pointed out run-on sentences, misspellings, tense shifts. “But your actual story”—he leaned in—“is tight. Off the charts. Incredible.�
�� He called the essay a remarkable autobiographical sketch, a perfect example of why he was a history major in college. “The past is always changing, it’s alive,” he said. “Just when you think the facts have presented themselves, along comes a new truth.”
Mr. Funston picked up the paper, drew big red circles around the Nobel sections. He leaned in closer. “Listen,” he said, his voice suspiciously low, “I know it’s a personal story, but have you ever thought of going public? I don’t always talk about it, but I’m actually a writer, and I could write an article on this . . .” He said he’d written short journalism pieces in the past, dabbled in nonfiction, and was confident he had the chops to turn Excel’s story into something truly special. “I’d need to verify sources, of course, interview your mother, your grandparents too . . .” Excel imagined Mr. Funston rewriting the story, releasing it to the world; reporters would come knocking, historians would call to verify, challenge, and finally dismantle an entire family history, then demand to know the real one. He pictured Maxima at home, organizing her bottles of nail polish by color and shade at the kitchen table (she was selling makeup door-to-door back then) when someone would come knocking—the police, Immigration, border patrol, Mr. Funston himself.
He wondered if Mr. Funston was testing him, egging him on to admit he’d made the whole thing up.
“No thank you,” Excel said.
Mr. Funston blinked.
“The story is a secret,” Excel said. “I was never actually supposed to tell anyone. But the assignment inspired me. Thanks for giving me the chance to let it all out. To express myself.”
Mr. Funston gave a slow nod, like he was in disbelief that a student, who sat in anonymity in the corner every day for nearly a year, would pass up such an opportunity. “Well,” he sighed, “it’s your story, I guess.”
Excel thanked him again, got up from his desk, stuffed his things into his backpack. Then he asked, “What did I get?”
Mr. Funston looked confused.
“On the paper. What grade did I get?”
“Your grade. Right.” Mr. Funston skimmed the pages quickly, giving it one more read. He uncapped his pen, wrote a clear and red C− next to Excel’s name, underlined it twice, reminding Excel of the grammatical and mechanical errors (“Edit, edit, edit!” he said). “The larger issue is some of the content. No verifiable sources, obviously, and there’s a glaring factual error. TNT and dynamite aren’t the same thing.” TNT, he explained, was a chemical compound, explosive when mixed with other substances, but not nearly as powerful as dynamite itself. “Get your facts straight,” Mr. Funston said.
He wished Excel a good weekend then got up, started wiping the dry-erase board, and on his seat was Mr. Funston’s wallet, which had a tendency to slip through the ripped back pocket of his jeans. Excel reached down and took the cash from the wallet, set it back on the chair, walked out of the classroom, and counted $97. Mr. Funston made no mention about the stolen cash the following Monday, or the day after, or ever, but Excel became hyperaware of occasional glances from his teacher, and tried interpreting them: maybe Mr. Funston was just in frustrated awe that one of his very own students was a descendant of Alfred Nobel and yet couldn’t tell anyone about it. Or, more likely, he understood that the whole essay was a lie, that Excel had no real life to write about, and so out of pity, let the lie slip by with a below-average but still-passing grade.
With Jerry, Excel will get the story right.
21
To Jerry Borger, Maxima is Perfecta Santos and Excel is Perfecto Santos, a single mother and her fourteen-year-old son living in Olongapo City, just outside the former US naval base, in a simple but clean one-room apartment with an outdoor kitchen and bathroom shared by an entire floor. Perfecta is a widow—her husband took two bullets in the chest in a karaoke incident (“Trust me,” Maxima said, “it happens”), only months after Perfecto was born. It’s been just the two of them ever since, and she has raised Perfecto to be a responsible and respectful boy, hardworking and studious, who always earns high marks in school. Though they are poor—Perfecta’s job selling plastic sandals at the market doesn’t earn much; neither do Perfecto’s constant part-time jobs—they are happy, and Perfecta still allows herself to dream that one day she’ll meet a good and honest man, someone who will love her as well as her son and, most important, allow himself to be loved.
Maxima’s movies, Excel thinks, are much more realistic.
Over the next two days, she talks online to Jerry three times. Everything goes well, so well, in fact, that Jerry is willing, even eager, to meet Perfecto the next time he and Maxima talk.
“Tomorrow,” Maxima tells Excel, “we begin.”
He’s anxious that night, anxious when he wakes the next morning. Perfecto, he reminds himself, I’m Perfecto, and he imagines the life Maxima created for Perfecto and Perfecta, tries thinking of it as a memory, not just a story to memorize. At work, he’s Peter the Greeter again, but so distracted that he sometimes forgets to greet customers properly, just hands them menus and shows them to their table. “The mission,” Gunter says, after catching Excel’s mistake. “You didn’t ask if they choose to accept this mission of delicious pizzas, beverages, and desserts. This ain’t Pizza Hut, genius. Get it right.” Excel nods and makes deliberate eye contact with him, holds his stare for a moment. If everything works out with Jerry, if he can do as Maxima says and not screw this up, the time will come soon when he’ll never have to look at Gunter’s face again.
He’s back home by early evening. When he enters the apartment, he finds Maxima at the kitchen table, head bowed and hands clasped, whispering an orasyon. He’s not sure she knows he’s there, so he stands motionless in the kitchen doorway, waits until she lifts her head and opens her eyes. “You’re here,” she says.
“Everything okay?”
“I asked Joker for help,” she says, “to watch over us when we talk to Jerry.”
“Are you worried?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just a little different this time. You’ve never met the men. You’ve never seen me work.”
“I’ve watched your movies.” He tries to sound reassuring. “I’ve seen you act.”
“Not like this.” She gets up from the table, leaves the room. “This is a different thing.”
TIME, MAXIMA WARNS EXCEL, GETS MESSY WHEN TALKING TO THE men. “They think I’m in the Philippines, fifteen hours ahead of California. If they think they’re talking to us at eight p.m. Philippines time, we need to talk to them at five a.m. our time. And Jerry, who’s in New Hampshire, will be talking at eight a.m. his time. Understand?”
Excel looks at the alarm clock next to Maxima’s bed, repeats the logistics in his head. It all sounds like nonsensical time travel, a loopy sci-fi paradox. “So Jerry will be thinking we’re twelve hours ahead of him,” Excel says, “but really, we’re three hours behind?”
“Exactly.”
Maxima will start the conversation at five a.m., but Excel is ready at four. He hasn’t slept, has spent most of the night reviewing Jerry’s file, practicing a Filipino accent based on a classmate from seventh grade, a newly arrived Filipino kid who overenunciated every word. Now, in the last minutes before meeting Jerry, he’s staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, doing what he can to make himself look fourteen years old, the age of Perfecto. The Target shirt helps—a men’s small is still too big on Excel, which makes him look even younger. But his face. It’s still bruised around the eyes and nose from Gunter’s fist, and he worries that the time in Hello City has aged him. He shuts his eyes and massages, squeezes, and pinches his forehead, cheeks, and chin (what this does, he has no idea), then takes a step back and opens them.
Fourteen, he thinks. Easily.
He hears Maxima get up from her chair. She opens her door and motions for Excel to enter, brings him in front of the computer. “Jerry,” she says, “my son, Perfecto.”
Excel sets a chair next to Maxima, sits. They squeeze together, fitting themselves with
in the camera’s view. Jerry’s head fills most of Maxima’s screen, and though Excel saw a picture ahead of time—in it, he’s wearing a baseball cap and a Hawaiian shirt—he looks different from what he’d expected. He has a pale and squarish face, graying hair with little left on top, small eyes with slightly droopy brows. Excel can imagine him behind a bank teller’s window, delivering mail, or on a real estate agent’s flyer—a face familiar and entirely forgettable.
“Sir Jerry,” Excel says. “Hello!” He says it more emphatically than he’d meant to, brings it down a notch. “Hello, sir.”
“Hello, Perfecto.” Jerry gives a big wave on-screen. “How are you?”
“I am very fine, sir. And yourself, sir?”
“Can’t complain, can’t complain. Always a good day when I get to see your mother’s pretty face.”
Excel doesn’t have a follow-up line; moments pass awkwardly, and Maxima pinches him in the middle of his back. “Oh yes, sir. She is very pretty, sir.” He smiles, tries not to look at himself in the tiny window at the bottom corner of the screen.
“You know,” Jerry says, “we don’t have to be so formal. No need to call me sir. Jerry is just fine. You can even call me JJ. That’s what they called me back in school.”
“I will call you ‘Jerry.’ Thank you, sir.”
Excel asks Jerry what kind of work he does (“Civil engineer, a builder of bridges,” Jerry says); Jerry asks about Excel’s classes (at fourteen, Excel might be studying geometry, so he mentions how he has trouble remembering the point-slope formula). They share their favorite foods, books, and music, and Excel thinks back to Jerry’s fact sheet, then says his favorite film is Forrest Gump (“Mine too!” Jerry says). When Jerry says he has a passion for building ships in a bottle, Excel tells him that he’s always wanted to learn how to build one.
“Well, how fortuitous,” Jerry says, big smile on his face.
“Talaga,” Maxima says, “fortuitous.”
Maxima tells Jerry it’s getting late, that Perfecto must return to his chores and then his studies. Excel says good-bye, then fakes a coughing fit, not so extreme that he looks like he’s in pain, but just enough to make clear that he’s not feeling well—a sign for Jerry that, despite their names, their lives are far from perfect.
The Son of Good Fortune Page 16