A SIMPLE GATHERING

      I sit beside my dining table, under the yellow light of my Japanese lantern, a pen in my hand, I stare at my reflection at the mirror on the wall. I talk to my reflection, Life in America is a series of mirrors, subdued and cascading, life-sized to pigmy-sized, and...who are you? I  shift my weight from my right bun to my left, there's a relief in transferring pressure from one's body part to another. Bowing my head over the blank page in front of me, I begin to write.
     My friends describe me as the epitome of a boring gay. Daily I wake up at seven, go to work in the hospital, return home, cook, do my laundry, eat, watch TV, read and write, sleep, dream and wake up to repeat the same routine...
     I hear loud knocking on my door. I stand up, unhook the door's  latch and open it. Before me they stand,  James and Dino, beaming. They are fashionably dressed, hairs well-combed, I smell their expensive colognes. James wears a thick chain of gold, gold earings dangle from Dino's brown ears.
     "You know," I tell them, "It's dangerous to wear expensive chains in Manila. I remember the time one of my classmates throat was nearly slashed  after a chain-snatcher ripped her necklace off her neck as she sat waiting inside a jeepney."
     "How morbid!" James exclaims. "Honey, we're not in Manila anymore."
     "Just a reminder," I say, sounding like a man of great wisdom.
     I scrutinize them carefully. Every gay nowadays seem to emulate a model I don't even know. He appears as a combination of many men : Antonio Sabato's underwear, Tom Cruise's windbreaker, the Sailor's tattooe, the blond-dyed hair, Michael George's earings, and now, the 70's look.
      "Hey," James says as he enters my apartment, "What's keeping you in your apartment everyday? Is there a man anywhere here?"
      "You know I don't keep any man," I say; I  re-take my seat beside my dining table. James follows and stands beside me, staring at the mirror on the wall, posing a la Greta Garbo. Dino quickly runs to the bathroom.
      "How do I look?" James asks as he pouts his lips.
      "You are beautiful Ate," I answer with a tone of  sarcasm.
      " I wonder why I sense envy in your tone." He makes a turn-around  like Nureyev. He is five feet two inches. Always buying clothes in the kid section of Fashion Mall, he likes tight-fitting Kalvins. He is forty-two years old by the way.
      Dino returns from the bathroom and joins us, zipping his pants, 'repositioning' his penis to increase its bulge. "Your bathroom," he says, "It needs cleaning."
      "I just had it cleaned!" I retort.
      He doesn't pay me any attention, just like James, he stares at the mirror on the wall, he turns sideways, still staring at the mirror. "Ah I've been working out to have rippled abdominals. Darn, how can I get rid of these stupid flanks. You're the Physical Therapist Alex, you should know." He breaths in and out, scrutinizing the  girth of his tummy.  I cannot see a need for further body-chiseling in his case, Dino is mascualr enough. He stands nearly six feet, bearing the eyes of a cat, thanks to colored contacts, his thick black hair is highlighted red. His chest is extremely thick, well proportioned to his legs. Dino is a good-looking Pinoy.
      James sits beside me, his attention is caught by the withering tulips that have been standing dried-up forever in my moss- laden vase. "Don't you get sick of these flowers?" he asks.
     Honestly, I haven't noticed them flowers for weeks. I rarely notice anything nowadays. He stares at the notebook I'm writing on. "So, what are you composing?"
     "Anything," I say.
     As if this is a cue to butt in, Dino asks, "Why aren't you dressed up Alex?
     "I can't go out tonight," I say.
     They look at each other, James eyebrows rise up, Dino releases a big sigh as his voice gains tension. "Alex, we've been through this before, haven't we?"
     "You know I'm not interested in gay bars." I say.  I cannot find anything worth my time in a gay bar. I cannot just stand in a place holding a beer in my hand, watching erotic videos, listening to rock and roll and pop and disco, as gays parade before me like beauty contestants - all staring at empty spaces, keeping straight postures, holding breaths to keep expanded chests, compressing stomachs, all for what? To appear manly - emoting, waiting for someone to strike a conversation  with them. I cannot do this until three o clock in the morning while my work awaits me at eight o clock.
     "Nampucha Alex," Dino swears, "You love doing this don't you? You trick people into coming into your place so you can tell them you changed your mind. You said you'd come along, dammit! You're such a jack ass."
     "I said I might come along," I said.
     "Oh - ooops," James jumps off his chair, whistles, and hurries to my living room. "Ay," he shouts as he passes the altar of icons displayed on my coffee table. "Alex, where did you get the statue of Virgin Mary?"
     "Manila," I say.
     "Where?" he repeats.
     "Manila!" I scream.
     "Oh how very Quiapo."
     He sits up on my sofa, stretches out his legs, picks up the remote control and begins switching channels.  Getting bored, he picks up the book Middlemarch by George Elliot left sitting on the sofa, flips its pages and closes it. "I'm so bored," he mutters. "Are you two done with your quarrel?"
     Beside my dining table, Dino takes a deep breath. I pause from  writing. Our silence is like the gnarl of two cats about to claw each other. We've always been like this since our college years.
      Since we arrived in America, we took separate ways. He insists  that Filipino gays should always band together, everyone going to where the others go.  I resent this, I value my indivduality.
      "Wala kang pakikisama," he points his finger  at me accusingly. "You don't know what you're missing without us!"
      "What is wrong with my indivualism?"
      "Then live on your own, you selfish idiot!"
      Yet no matter how much I refuse, no matter how much insults we hurl at each other, I'll still pull on my jeans and join him in the bars. Dino won't give in to my pleas that we stay longer in my apartment - all I want is a simple gathering  - as simple as the way I lived back in my old town in Pampanga. Where we used to sit, drink San Miguel beer, talk about life, then sleep happily with happy dreams.
       But it is not happening now. We order Heineken in the crowded Alibi Bar. I stay in one corner and begin drinking. I look around me and see young men coming  in, pausing, eyes jumping from person to person. Everybody seems frightened to strike a conversation with each others. Everybody is keeping the same  dance steps,  looking for old familiar faces, praying this familiar face will introduce them to a new face, praying this new face will get atttracted to them -
       It's the waiting that bothers me...it's the sitting and talking above the loud music, it's the flick and quick furtive movements of the eyes, it's the leaning of the head, the assuming of proper angle and lighting so one could see one's best feature, the best angle of one's face, one's best smile.
      "I want to talk.," I say to James and Dino.
      They cannot hear me with the loud music. "What?" they ask, moving their ears closer to my mouth.
      "I want to talk!" I yell.
      "About what?" they ask, their heads turning restlessly around the bar, looking for that familiar face. Finding none, they fix their eyes at the bar's entrance, like guards inspecting every incoming customer in the bar.
      "I..." I cannot continue, how can I say what is really in my heart? It is too long, like this story, and I no longer have the forceful lungs that can scream words. So, I just shake my head and say, "It's nothing."
      All I want is to talk about who we are and where our lives as immigrant gay workers in America are headed to. I want to talk about our lifestyle and struggles, why Matthew Shepard, for example, was killed. I want us to talk in a quiet veranda, under the moonlight, accompanied by soft music and beer. I want to talk about our families and childhoods, about making this  world a better place to live in. But I can't talk about this in Alibi Bar.
      Someone taps the shoulder of Dino. A balding gay wearing a thick mustache screams and greets him with the loudest giggle I've ever heard.  They hug. They kiss. Then the balding gay shifts his eyes at James and me. He says, "Look here, who are these two cute guys?"
      I laugh.  At forty-two and thirty-five respectively, being a Lawyer and Physical Therapist respectively, the word cute is the last word to describe James and I.
      "Who are you boy darlings. Mmm-mmmm, you're so cuuuute!"
      I smile, talk, giggle, nod my head while my eyes remain fixated on the Madonna video on the big screen with another Heineken in my hand. I don't know who you are...
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