The Guy Who Leaves

After Alanis Morissette’s “The Guy Who Leaves”

short fiction

MORNINGS DON’T COME easy for Arvin. He usually wakes up at ten, staring wide-eyed at the ceiling, mind blank. He wakes up fearing something unnamed, and goes about the day with that fear. He has no idea why he has that fear, and how and when it started. He just woke up one day with that feeling and it never went away since.

Being twenty-eight in the city and unemployed are perhaps the primary concerns on his mind these days. Maybe those trigger his inexplicable, jittery feelings inside. What doesn’t make sense to him, though, is why he doesn’t do anything to snap out of his current emotional hell. He doesn’t even bother going out to look for a job. His credit card bills are piling up on his desk and he ignores them like the pile of dirty laundry in the opposite corner of the room.

His room needs a lot of cleaning up. Especially this morning since he is expecting someone. He steps out of the bathroom, fresh from a hasty ten-minute shower, and kicks the pile of laundry out of the way. Thankfully there are still a few clean shirts left in the closet. He picks the most flattering one: a plain white T-shirt that, even with the potbelly, gives him a sexy, virile look.

M ryt outside na, he receives a text message.

He replies, Go up to the 2nd floor, 3rd door to your ryt, Hello Kitty stickr.

One thing he hates about his apartment building is that there are no room numbers. Probably because there are only around four to five rooms on every floor. But what he hates most is that the previous tenant selfishly put a Hello Kitty sticker on the door, which he had difficulty scratching out. Hello Kitty makes him writhe with disgust.

OK. M on my way up, he gets a reply.

Arvin sits in front of the mirror and considers shaving off his mustache and beard one of these days. He’s managed to grow them untouched in the last two years. He figures maybe he’ll look more credible then, and he’ll feel unencumbered, and all that feeling of fear will be gone. It also doesn’t help that his long, scraggy hair makes him look like an intravenous drug user. Maybe if he feels like it he’ll clean everything up—from his laundry to his face. Maybe he’ll look for a job then.

There’s a knock on the door. It’s him. Arvin can’t help feeling nervous in spite of himself. He opens the door.

A young, nineteen-ish stud stands outside, ineptly still. “Arvin?”

“Bert, right?” Arvin extends a hand.

“Burt, actually. Like Burt Reynolds.”

“I see.”

They shake hands and Arvin shows the young man in.

“Why don’t you take a seat?”

The young man looks around. There aren’t any chairs available. The only Monobloc chair is overflowing with dirty laundry. He remains standing close to the door. Arvin notices for the first time that the guy’s baseball shirt accentuates every right contour of his teenage physique. Quite a fine specimen. Arvin feels his cock pulsating, like an eager heartbeat.

“You can sit on the bed,” he tells the young man.

The young man nods and complies. He sits on the edge of the bed. He looks around the room, careful not to look Arvin in the eye. “You lied. That wasn’t you on G4M.”

“I knew you would say that.” Arvin gives out a laugh as he sits beside the young fellow. “That was me. Honest. I just never had the time to update my profile with a more recent pic.”

“How long ago was that then?”

“Oh….” Arvin makes mental calculations. “I don’t know. That was taken a few months after college.” He runs his hands on the young man’s back. Smooth, sinewy, tight. “So what now?”

The young fellow turns his head away but starts running his hands on Arvin’s thigh. Just to be polite. He contorts his face into that of disgust. He shouldn’t have come. He shouldn’t have been lied to. He’s better than this. He feels Arvin’s hot breathing on his ears. It takes him a lot to stop himself from recoiling. “You’ve gained quite some…” He coughs. “Weight, huh?”

“Uh-huh. Is that a problem?” Arvin nibbles on his ear as he guides the young man’s hand up to his crotch.

A phone rings.

THE TWELVE O’CLOCK sun is fiercer than usual. Burt steps into the air-conditioned restaurant palpably relieved. He dabs on beads of sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes scour the entire room. No sign of Charisse yet. He takes a seat and takes out his cellphone from his pocket.

Where r u? M here na.

Thank God for Charisse. If it weren’t for her phone call, he wouldn’t have been able to fake an emergency to whatsisname. What a fucking liar, that hippo. It would have been easier if Burt knew how to insult people to their faces, but he doesn’t. That’s not him. “You’re not my type, I’m sorry.” Saying something like that is not him at all.

Burt looks back and realizes that he’s had sex with a lot of fugly strangers just because he doesn’t have the heart to say no. He should be able to say no. Otherwise, he’ll continue getting raped, especially if Charisse stops giving him those Checkpoints.

They call it Checkpoint. Before meeting up with a guy, Burt texts Charisse for her to give him a ring in twenty minutes. If he’s fugly like that Arvin guy, it’s an emergency and he has to get going. If the guy’s fuckable, then it’s something that can wait.

He leans back in his chair and rubs his growling stomach. He didn’t even have breakfast. He was in such a hurry to meet up with that Arvin hippo that he skipped breakfast.

“Hey, biatch. Wazzup?”

Burt looks up and sees Charisse grabbing the chair opposite him. Her face is glistening with midday sweat. “Hungry,” he tells her. “Wanna order na?”

Charisse nods and they stand up at the same time.

“What are you having? My treat.” Burt beams at her.

She shrugs her shoulders. “The usual.”

The place is packed. There’s a line of dozens of hungry, sun-stricken customers for every counter. Burt shakes his head and sighs. He turns to Charisse. “Hey, thanks for the Checkpoint. Really needed that.”

Charisse stands back and laughs out loud. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah, a fat slob. Messy pad. Lied with his profile picture.”

“Really now?”

“Well, it was still his picture. But from years ago. He’s gained a lot of weight since.”

“What a sad person, you are.” Charisse pokes Burt on the waist.

“What do you mean?” Burt moves forward in line.

“Just because he’s chubby you think you’re too good for him?”

Burt furrows his eyebrows. “He’s not chubby. He’s fat. And besides, it’s not about his weight. He lied to me.”

“Really now? He lied to you?”

“Jesus! Weren’t you listening? He looked nothing like in his profile picture.”

Charisse rolls her eyeballs. “Like you didn’t lie to him.”

“Why would you say I lied to him?”

“Nothing. Forget it.”

“Whatever.” Burt turns back to the line. Three more people before his turn. He starts to fidget, tapping his foot on the floor. Hungry, hungry, hungry.

Charisse starts to sing along with the music in the background.

“Jesus! I’m so sick of that song. It’s like they can’t play that enough.”

“You’re such a prima donna.” She nears her mouth to his ears. “But I don’t care what they say… I’m in love with you… They try to pull me away….”

Burt rolls his eyeballs. “What did you mean anyway when you said I lied to him too?”

“You cut me open and I keep bleeding, keep, keep bleeding love….”

“Hey, cut it out. What did you mean when I—”

Charisse sighs. “It’s just that you always tell them you’re discreet, straight-acting, when you are so not.” She pokes him on the chest.

Burt moves forward closer to the counter. He’s now next in line. “That’s not lying.”

“Sure, it’s not.” Deadpan, but effectively taunting.

“But it really isn’t! When I say I’m straight acting, that’s exactly what I am! I’m acting straight!” Burt’s indignation spills all over the counter area. Other customers turn their heads to him.

“Yeah, I know, I know.” Charisse waves the topic off. “Acting being the operative word.” She points to the counter. “Hey, it’s your turn.”

Burt sniggers at her before turning to make his order—two chicken meals, both hot and crispy, Sprite, and an extra cup of rice. The smell of fried chicken makes his stomach growl even louder. He pays then grabs the tray with their orders. He realizes that he really is that hungry because his hands are shaking.

“Hey, will you help me—” He looks around, at every customer in line, left and right. “Charisse?” He edges forward and tiptoes, his eyes searching every table.

“Hey, buddy, would you care moving over to that side?” the customer next to him says.

Burt obliges and places the tray on the closest unoccupied table. His neck cranes here and there as he scratches his head.

“TROTS! TROTS! TROTS!” Charisse bumps her way through the crowd bustling on the sidewalk, causing murmurs of protests. “Trots!”

Maybe she should just follow him quietly, like a private investigator. Heaven forbid her suspicions will actually be confirmed. For weeks now she’s been fearing Trots is seeing someone else, behind her trusting, magnanimous back. But she doesn’t really buy that whole female intuition myth.

“Hey, Trots!”

A tall, well-built guy turns around. Finally, he hears. “Hey, hon!” He beams at her.

Charisse stops, smiling, curious. She’s almost toe-to-toe with him. “I thought you have work today.”

“Well, I do.” He gives her a smack on the lips.

“I thought you have a photo shoot out of town.”

“Oh, that. Well, it got cancelled.”

Where d fuck r u? Charisse receives a message on her phone.

“So what are you doing out here then? Isn’t this too far from your office?” Charisse tries hard not to sound too inquisitive. They had a fight once when she asked who he was texting with. They were watching a movie but all he did was text and giggle. It was the worst fight they ever had. He told her that if she thought he was cheating on her, then perhaps they should break up. Charisse didn’t want to break up.

“Just out for lunch.”

Pls come back. I orderd for 2, u mothrfckr! She receives another message.

She pulls out a Kleenex from her pocket and wipes her face. “Well, I’m just about to have lunch with Burt at KFC. Wanna join us?”

“Of course,” he says. “Kind of a given, isn’t it?” He puts his arm around her waist and they walk side by side. Even with the heat of the sun, Trots smells pleasant, almost an unintentional seduction.

Charisse inhales deeply and leans her head on Trots’s shoulder as they go along.

“Where the fuck were you?” Burt says as he sees Charisse making her way to the table. Then he sees Trots ambling in her wake. “Oh….”

“Sorry. Saw him walking by outside so I ran after him.”

“Hi, Burt.” Trots pats him on the shoulder.

“Hi.” Burt nods at him.

Charisse sits across Burt and drags her food towards her. Trots excuses himself to order.

“Wow.” Burt shakes his head.

“What?” Charisse sits up, cocking her head.

“What a sad person, you are.”

“What do you mean?”

“You see him walking by and you run after him like a dried-up nympho.”

A burst of laughter. “You’re crazy!”

“And you pride yourself for being a feminist?”

“Cut it,” Charisse mumbles through the food in her mouth. “It’s just that I haven’t seen him in a long time, you know.” She takes a sip from her glass of Sprite.

Burt knots his brow. “How long?”

Charisse hesitates for a moment. Then, “A week.”

A burst of laughter. “You’re miserable. Don’t deny you aren’t what you are now—a slave. You’re his love-slave. Better get out of it now before it’s too late.”

Charisse smirks but doesn’t throw back a reply. She shifts her focus on her food. Suddenly she’s lost appetite, but she hides it by raking large spoonfuls of rice and gravy. Maybe Burt is right. Perhaps she’s become this blinded slave for Trots’s affection. Or maybe she just likes the idea of being with someone like Trots, a handsome, put-together member of the working class. Maybe she needs someone like Trots, big, awful mess like her….

“Burt….” she starts, heaving deeply.

“What?”

“I’m quitting school.”

Burt puts his spoon down. “Huh?”

Charisse looks down and fidgets with her skirt. “I flunked Math 54 again.”

“Hey, why so glum?” Trots sweeps in with a tray of food.

Charisse looks up at Burt and signals for him to stay quiet.

“Charisse is horny and she wants to have sex with you in the bathroom.” Burt winks at her.

Trots laughs out loud. “Is there anything else on your mind, Burt, other than sex?”

It’s almost one. In a few minutes Burt will have to head out for class. Trots will have to report back for work. Charisse looks into her future and thinks the only part of day she’ll be looking forward to from hereon are lunch breaks. She’ll have nothing else in between but long stretches of idle time. She jolts when she feels Trots placing his arm around her. She hasn’t noticed but she’s been quiet while her boyfriend and her best friend were exchanging anecdotes about school and work.

“Anything the matter, hon?”

She looks up at Trots, that handsome face she doesn’t want to get rid of. How will he ever look at her when he finds out she’s finally hit rock bottom at school? She forces a smile and shakes her head no. She steals a glance at Burt. Her friend has that worried look in his face which she wishes would go away.

“I wish I could stay long but I have to get going.” Trots gives Charisse a kiss on the forehead. “You take care now, OK?”

Charisse nods.

“See ya, Burt,” Trots waves at Burt as he exits.

For a long moment there is silence. Then the penny drops.

“Wasn’t this your third time to take Math 54?”

Charisse can’t believe Burt is bringing it up. “I’m stupid, I know. And you’re this consistent dean’s lister. You don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“I don’t mean that. It’s just that, shouldn’t you have taken the hint long ago that you shouldn’t have taken this major?”

Charisse runs her fingers through her hair and stops at the tip. She pulls it in front of her and squints at it. “Do you think I’d look better if I cropped my hair short?”

Burt rolls his eyes. “So I’m guessing you’re skipping Automata Theory today?”

Knee-jerk laughter. “Flunked that, too. My test score average is so low I’d still flunk even if I aced the finals.”

“Well, I still have a class to go to. What do you plan on doing this afternoon?”

“Get a haircut.”

Burt stands up and pats her on the shoulder. “OK, then. Why don’t we get drunk tonight?”

Charisse nods. She plays with her food for a while, stabbing the chicken with her fork. Burt has already stepped out of the restaurant into the vast sunlight. “Sure, let’s get drunk,” she says under her breath.

A GRUNT, THEN the eventual moan. Trots closes his eyes, exhausted, then yawns, running his hands on his sweaty belly. Randy dismounts from him and collapses on the bed.

“My…” Randy sighs. “That was something else.”

Trots doesn’t answer. He raises his head from the pillow and looks down as he pulls the condom off his turgid penis. He props himself up on one elbow and throws the cum-filled rubber into the nearby trashcan.

“You’re still hard.” Randy reaches down to Trots’s penis and wraps his hand around it.

“Leave it.” Trots jerks away, then lies back still, his head resting on his hands. He stares at the ceiling, into the blankness before it.

Randy rests his head on Trots’s chest. “What are you thinking?”

No answer. Trots heaves deep and closes his eyes. He used to have everything figured out before. Like in high school, he told everyone he wanted to be a big-time journalist. And sure enough, he’s working his way now to becoming an editor. The feature he wrote about the oil industry placed him on the map of Philippine journalism. Hell, even the President has heard of his name.

Things weren’t supposed to turn out this way.

“Hey, what’s bothering you?”

Trots reaches down to Randy’s anal sphincter and plays with it with his finger.

Randy giggles. “You want to fuck again?”

“No, I just want to play with it.” He fingers in circular motion then pushes in and out.

Another fit of giggles. “Suit yourself then.”

A few moments later, Trots feels Randy’s breathing beginning to slow down. “I love her, you know.”

“Who?” Half-asleep.

“Charisse. My girlfriend.”

Randy rolls on his side of the bed and stretches. He’s sleepy. “Of course,” he manages to say through his yawn.

“We’ve been together for two years now. This must be love, right?”

Smirk. Randy can’t believe what he’s hearing. “You want me to convince you?” He pulls the blanket up to his neck.

“No, no. It’s not that.”

“What is it then?” Randy raises his hand up to underneath his head. He and Trots are now in the same supine position.

“I’m so fucked.”

Randy laughs. “We’ve been doing this for months and now you’re worried?”

“No, it’s not that.”

“What is it then?”

Trots doesn’t answer. Deafening silence. Then the penny drops.

“I think I’m falling for him,” Trots says through a coarse, halted voice.

Randy sits up. “Falling for what?” He cranes his neck and looks down at Trots. “Who?”

“Burt. Her best friend. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

Taunting laughter, like it’s the funniest joke ever. “Seriously?” Randy furrows his brow but Trots doesn’t see it. Trots has his eyes sealed shut.

“It’s like he’s everywhere. He’s there when I wake up, he’s there while I’m at work. It’s like I miss him everyday. He’s every-fucking-where! His boyish grin, his lean physique, the effeminate way that he talks….”

Randy squeezes Trots’s thigh. “That really is so fucked, man.” He titters as he pushes himself up. “Hey, I gotta go to the bathroom.”

Trots nods, still with his eyes closed. But the image of Burt is there. The way he laughed at his jokes earlier at lunch. His smooth, fair skin. His ruddy cheeks, especially when he’s been under the sun for so long. It took a lot for Trots to help himself from grabbing Burt from across the table to kiss him hard and deep.

He opens his eyes wide, pulling himself out of his reverie.

“Hey, I gotta go,” he calls out to Randy as he jolts up.

No response. But he can hear water tapping from the bathroom.

“Hey, Randy!” Trots walks down to the bathroom door and knocks.

“What?”

“I gotta go. I’ll probably just get back to work.”

“OK.”

Trots wearily dresses up. He’s not sure if he really wants to get back to work. It’s already three in the afternoon. He’s run out of alibis.

Damn Burt.

RANDY TURNS THE faucet off and listens to any sign of movement from outside the bathroom. He must have left already. He pushes the door ajar and peeks. He’s gone.

He goes back to the sink and washes his face. Hiccup. He shakes his head in front of the mirror, criticizing his own reflection. “You pathetic schmuck,” he tells himself. And there it comes again, the waterworks.

“Stop it… stop it…”

Try as he might, he can’t. The tears refuse to stop streaming down. He fumbles as he gets dressed. Then he starts gasping for air. It’s becoming too strong for him to contain.

“Fuck you, Trots. Fuck you!”

Randy runs straight outside to the door across the hallway. He pounds on the door. “Arvin, are you there?” He wipes his tears with his palm then blows snot into his shirt. “Arvin!”

The door creaks open. Arvin stands right in front of him with a probing expression. “What’s the matter?”

He tries to come up with words, but he’s sobbing so hard it’s become impossible to speak. “It’s… it’s…” He steps right in and heads toward the bed.

Arvin closes the door and turns to him. “Is it Trots again?”

Randy nods as he lowers himself to sit, covering his face with his hands.

“You’re so funny.”

Randy looks up to see Arvin smiling. “You look different,” he manages to say.

Arvin’s smile grows wider. “Do I?”

Randy cocks his head as he wipes his face with his hands. “You shaved?”

Arvin bursts out laughing. “Yeah, well…” He sits beside his friend. “You want some beer?”

“That would help a lot, thanks.”

Arvin goes to his mini-fridge and takes out two bottles of Red Horse. He unscrews the crown using his teeth. “Here.” He hands Randy a bottle.

“Thanks.” Randy chugs—huge, tidal chugs.

“So what did the asshole do this time?” Arvin sits beside Randy.

“The worst thing he could ever do to me.”

Arvin lights a cigarette and hands Randy a stick.

“He’s falling for a boy, Arv. Some college boy.”

This catches Arvin off-guard. “Oh.” He puts his bottle down and squeezes Randy’s shoulder. “Oh, well. They always go for the younger ones, you know?”

“I know. Where does this leave us?”

Arvin shrugs.

“I never asked for him to break up with his girlfriend. And I gave everything. I tried to be very good to him, you know? I even… I even bottomed for him.”

Arvin tilts his head back and laughs. “That’s a pity. But I warned you from the very beginning, Rand. I told you you’re not cut out to be a fuck buddy. You’re too soft.”

“Perhaps.” He places a cigarette between his lips and signals Arvin for the lighter. He stares at his friend for a long time. “You know what? You look really cute without that pretentious beard-and-mustache combo you had….”

“Maybe.” Arvin blows smoke right into Randy’s face and laughs.

Randy gives Arvin a friendly punch on the arm. “Asshole.” Then he places his bottle on the floor and lies on the bed, waving his cigarette up in the air. “I never should’ve chosen a straight guy for a fuck buddy. Hurts too much once they decide to go gay.”

“You’re so naïve. Trots isn’t straight.” Arvin lies on the bed as well.

“OK. Bi.”

Arvin laughs. “Jesus. He’s not bi, either.”

Randy slaps Arvin’s tummy with the back of his hand. “He is bi. He has a girlfriend.”

“Well, they never stay bi for long. They always go gay.”

This causes Randy to smile. “Maybe.” He stares blankly ahead. His eyes follow the haze of cigarette smoke floating above them. “We were young once, right?”

“We’re not that old, Randy. We’re not even in our thirties yet.”

“What I mean is, when you were in college, do you recall having a twenty-eight-year old falling for you or something? Right now I can’t imagine myself falling for a much younger kid, like someone in his teens.”

Arvin doesn’t answer. He blows circular smoke up into the air and his gaze follows them until they disappear.

“Oh, right. You were crush ng bayan before, heartthrob of class 2001.” Arvin snickers. “How could I forget?”

“Erick was twenty-eight when he died, if that answers your question….”

Randy stiffens. “Oh. I’m sorry, Arv.”

Arvin shrugs.

“You still can’t let go, huh?”

Arvin shakes his head.

“That was years ago.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Randy rolls on his side and watches Arvin, whose sudden gloom has fallen over both of them like a blanket. “I don’t care what they say,” he sings softly. “I’m in love with you… They try to pull me away… But they don’t know the truth….”

A smile creases Arvin’s face. “I’m so sick and tired of that song. Cut it out.” He slaps Randy’s arm with the back of his hand.

Randy laughs. “My heart’s crippled by the vein that I keep on closing….”

“I said cut it out.” Arvin nudges Randy’s leg with his foot.

“You cut me open and I keep bleeding, I keep, keep bleeding love….”

Arvin resigns to silence and ignores Randy’s off-key singing. He wants to tell his friend he shouldn’t let that Trots guy step foot in his room again. Trots is way too awful a name for a person, anyway. It means diarrhea, for Christ’s sake. But for now Arvin chooses to remain quiet and closes his eyes, aware of Randy’s knee against his, and Randy’s hot breath blowing into his neck while he sings. None of them moves until they both doze off into a deep sleep.

It’s almost four. The sun is still hours away from setting.

THE END