Maximum Volume

My Life As A Bee: Michelangelo Samson-1

My Life As A Bee

Michelangelo Samson

“You were always the performer,” Auntie Fe said, her head bent into her shoulder to wipe away her tears. “We weren’t at all

surprised when you ended up in showbiz. In fact your uncle expected it. When your movie made it to the West Coast, we had a big party—oh my god—we plastered the whole storefront with

posters, Robin bending over to kiss Vina, a car exploding behind them, Eddie Garcia looking stern on one side, and you on the other with your arms crossed—it was amazing. Your uncle told

everyone who came by the store that you were his nephew. He was just so proud, you know. So proud.”

“It was a small role,” I said. They promised me a bigger one but most of it ended up on the cutting room floor.

“A movie’s a movie,” my aunt said, patting my arm, forgetting that she was wearing rubber gloves covered with soap.

I was in the kitchen helping her wash up after Uncle Bitong’s fortieth day prayers. It had been a long night with people staying well past the mass and the small dinner we prepared.

Jeslyn, Meng and Tita Susay were also there but they were busy wrapping the leftovers in foil, partitioning the platters of pancit and dinuguan that Auntie Fe had ordered into small containers to

be given to the neighbors. So I was left alone with my aunt, drying the plates that she handed over, listening to her tales of Uncle Bitong. It was clear she still missed him. His passing was so

abrupt. There was just that croak in his voice that developed one day, the one that scraped in his upper register as he launched into “Born Free” while demonstrating the features of the

minus-one machines he sold. It got so bad that he stopped doing the demos altogether, preferring to play a recorded version of himself rather than ruin what he called “the greats.” By

the time he decided to see a specialist, it was too late, his cancer had spread and there was barely enough time to put his affairs in order.

He called me a few days after he found out, his voice sounding normal save for a wheeze in his throat that whistled when he paused for breath. “We have to talk,” he said. I thought

he was calling about work. After the incident at Grilla Manila where I fought with the owner, the only job I could find was with the San Jose SaberCats as a cheer-dancer. Three days a week, I

screamed and fist-pumped to get the crowd going and sometimes ran around the arena with the SaberCats flag while the SaberKittens did their halftime dance. Uncle Bitong knew I was miserable there

but he told me I couldn’t be too choosy because of my immigration status. I guess he felt guilty telling me to take the job in San Jose. Whenever he called he always started by telling me

about new leads he heard about.

“There’s a problem,” he said.

I couldn’t hear him at first. My roommate Darius had the TV on with the volume high. Darius always kept it loud when he was lifting. It was 60 Minutes, something about honeybees,

how they were disappearing from California, their hives abandoned, the effect of pesticides or some virus.

“What was that again?” I said.

“The tests. They found out what was wrong with me. I don’t have much time left. A year maybe.”

Uncle Bitong stayed quiet, letting me absorb what he said. There was just the faint whistling in his throat on the other end. “—a hidden catastrophe—mass

extinction—” a scientist on TV said. Suddenly San Jose seemed as far away from Vallejo as the Moon from the Earth. “Are you sure?” I asked, not knowing what else to say.

“They’re very sure,” he said, “second opinion confirms it. But don’t worry. I’m going to fight this. I feel great.”

From that conversation it was a short two months of intensive chemotherapy and radiation before an infection brought the curtain down on my uncle. He had a nice memorial service. My uncle owned

a video store. That’s all he did. You couldn’t tell that though from the number of people who came to his wake. There was so much warmth, it surprised even my aunt who didn’t

expect the crowd that gathered for my uncle’s fortieth.

After Tita Susay and the girls left, I decided to stay a while longer to make sure Auntie Fe would be okay. She cut a lonely figure in the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator light. She and my

uncle had a modest house, a one-floor affair typical for that neighborhood. Now, with my uncle gone, the house felt enormous, like a newly discovered cavern that my aunt was exploring by

herself.

I drank the leftover beer and went over to the dining table where they had some framed photos—pictures of my aunt and uncle in the seventies, my uncle with a mustache and sideburns; faded

pictures of their wedding; photos of my grandmother; the Castle Street store opening, a much younger Father Filemon (the same priest who blessed my uncle’s ashes) dousing holy water on the

premises. If my uncle were still alive, he may have asked me to slow down with the alcohol seeing that I already had more than a few drinks that night. I figured since I was drinking in his honor,

it was probably okay. There was no one else there anyway, no one to scrap with.

The rest of the pictures were of me: my uncle carrying me as a baby; one of my early performances, garlands of flowers around my neck; an 8 x 10 glossy I must have sent them, hair gelled upward

in soft spikes, teeth sparkling, a dedication in the corner: “Love Lots, Jeric Tolentino.” It made me blush seeing the generic autograph signed with my screen name.

“You must have been, I don’t know, five in this one?” my aunt said, coming up from behind. She was pointing to one picture where I was beaming in a barong, my hair plastered

with sweat, the knees of my black pants flaked with mud. “This was taken at a Santacruzan a few years before your uncle and I left for America. You were one of the pages chosen to line the

road and sway from side to side as the reynas walked by. I remember that when the Reyna Elena arrived—I forget who she was but she was a real beauty—you stopped swaying and started

shaking, one hand on your chest, your chest heaving like a little bird about to burst into song. And then you dropped to the ground spinning on your back. People thought you were having an

epileptic seizure. But that wasn’t it. You were dancing! Caught up in the moment and the beat of the marching band. Your Imang Rosing grabbed your uncle by the arm and told him to stop you

from making a fool of yourself. I can’t forget what he said: huwag nating pigilan, ang galing ng bata. And he was right. You did have talent. Even then, we knew you were born for that

life.”

“I never heard that story before,” I said.

“Really? Your grandmother never told you?”

“I think I would remember a story like that,” I said.

Auntie Fe laughed at that. She had been in such a dark mood lately, it was good to see her happy for a change.

“Do you miss it?” she asked when her laughter subsided.

“Miss what?” I asked, although I knew what she meant.

“All of it,” she said, gesturing toward the pictures, “the lights, the crowds.”

“It had to end some time,” I said, thinking of my first manager Ruby Quintos. Backstage, before every performance she used to tell us—sandali lang to, mga boys—a reminder

that fame was fleeting. I was too full of myself then to understand. When Ate Rubes found me, she knew I wasn’t ready for prime time, that there were things I needed to work on, my thick

accent, for instance, that branded me as a country bumpkin. So she put me in a band—The Funks, the Philippines’ answer to the Backstreet Boys—where, along with four other

strangers, I could get some exposure and work on my shortcomings. It was meant to be temporary, just something to get us started, but then our first single—“Girl Ikaw Na

Nga”—unexpectedly went platinum, and things escalated from there. A train of hits followed—then concerts, albums, the works. All that success should have made us happy. What it

did was turn us against each other. I started believing my own press, that I was ready to go solo, forgetting that I was once the boy Ate Rubes discovered waiting tables, barely able to string one

English sentence together. Maybe if I stayed with her, my life would have turned out differently.

“Don’t give up,” my aunt said, seeing my expression change. “You’re still young. Life is about second chances. Look at us. We all started over when we got here. You

can start over too. You made some mistakes. They told you to do things and you did them. One day, they’ll forget all that. When they do, you can go back to doing what you love.”

I let my aunt talk. She was just trying to be nice. I heard that phrase—don’t give up—so many times before, it had lost its savor, like meat that had been chewed over and spat

out. That’s what everyone said back when it happened, don’t give up, things will blow over, that all I needed to do was lie low. How could I have known that by disappearing to the

States for a while, the Mayor would call me in contempt and have a warrant issued for my arrest? He had so much to worry about running a city of four million and he spent his time targeting someone

like me, a pop singer trying to make it in the movies.

“You embarrassed him,” my Uncle Bitong said to explain why the Mayor did what he did. My uncle gave me the news about the arrest order in the same dining room where my aunt and I

were now. “We just have to wait it out,” my uncle said then.

Five years later, the order still stood, outlasting my uncle and the Mayor himself who lost his post in the next election. The Mayor killed my career with that arrest order. People in the

business are funny that way. They can tolerate anything—drugs, guns, sleaze—as long as you don’t get caught. Once the real world pops your bubble, you’re untouchable.

At last my aunt noticed she was talking to herself. She searched my face for traces of offence. A crease appeared between her brows and into it poured the sadness that had been her food for

months. I knew what she was thinking; her dead husband would have known what to say to a brittle soul like me. I could have soothed her unease, taken the burden off her. That would have been the

right thing to do. Instead, I just kept on drinking. When I finished my beer I said I had to get going, that I had a long day ahead of me. I told my aunt if she needed me, I was only a phone call

away. She said yes, she would call if there was anything. Auntie Fe waited patiently by the door while I put on my jacket. We hugged. “Take care, Jeric,” she said, “we love

you.” She said we as if my uncle were still there standing with her. As I stepped out, I touched her hand to my forehead and was surprised by how cold it was and how light.

Halftime at the HP Pavilion. The score was Arizona Rattlers: 20 – San Jose SaberCats: 3. Kevin, our cheer coordinator, was shouting himself hoarse trying to inspire us.

“We’re getting crushed out there, people!” he cried. “Let’s f*****g rock this place! Let’s give them a show they won’t forget!” Then he started

clapping his hands raw. He and Sabra, the team mascot, ran at each other for a chest-bump of epic proportions. Sabra landed awkwardly and then started rolling on the ground, groaning from his

cartoon mouth.

“Give him some air,” someone said.

Soon they had the head off, and we could see the man inside the Sabra costume grimacing in pain. “I felt something pop,” the man said, holding his right knee. It took some effort to

get the Sabra costume off him so Kevin could take a closer look. The team doctor was summoned. From the way the man was howling when the doctor tried to bend his leg, we knew the injury was

serious. The doctor had the man stretchered back to the locker rooms so they could take him to a hospital for treatment.

Kevin was pacing the dugout, looking at the parts of Sabra scattered on the floor, like a statue that had fallen and broken into pieces. It was minutes to the halftime show.