Goose

(This was featured in 2005 in Nostrils, the lampoon published by OMNIANA, the official student publication of Notre Dame of Marbel University.

This tale is homophobic and a parody of my story "Ghosts". It betrays my bigotry and megalomania. Taking aside those two mistakes, though, I hope readers find this fun to read.)

BY the time you read this, I must be dead. But still handsome. If I’m not yet dead, I’m still alive (of course). Maybe I’m in a mental asylum, visiting you. Maybe I’m in the beer kiosks at Pantua, drinking Red Horse.

I’m not sure. I don’t know. I don’t know where this life could still go. I don’t also know what is seven times eight.

All I know is that I must tell you this right now—while there’s still enough sanity left in me, while I have not yet succumbed to the claws of doom…

***

THE Wednesday night's colder than usual. Though I had draped my blanket around my shoulders, the November wind still seeps through my skin. I snuggle to a pillow for warmth—for something to soothe my weary muscles and soul.

Yes, only a few months to go before this struggle ends. After 11 years in college, I will finally graduate from engineering! At last, I can drive a tricycle.

The transcript of records i claimed from the registrar that afternoon comes into my mind. I have to check if I have taken and passed all the required subjects.

I can't believe in what I'm seeing. My hands are shaking, my body trembling. This can't be true! This is so horrible!

And then I realize that what I'm holding isn't my transcript. It's my picture for the yearbook.

Finally, I'm able to find my transcript inside my bag. I'm pleased with what I'm looking at. I passed all my subjects—after take two. Every time I take a subject for the first time, my grade would be F, INC, NC, GMA, and ABS-CBN.

As I turn to the last page, I find out that my grade in SocSoc 145 is 80!

“Impossible,” I utter in disbelief.

SocSoc 145 isArt Depreciation. I took it last semester and once only. Just like in my other classes, I always got zero in quizzes and Mr. Maravilla, my teacher, caught me cheating 145 times. Most of all, I wasn’t able to take the final exam.

This must be a joke! No. Mr. Maravilla must have committed an error—a very serious error.

I was terrified. I have to go to the faculty room. I will complain. His class record will show that I should have NOT passed that subject!

***

“I’M Sorry. You really passed my subject.”

It takes me a few seconds before the words of Mr. Maravilla sink in. You’re mistaken!

“Sir, can you check it again? You should change my grade. If you’re not going to make it INC or F, I will report you to the dean.”

The teacher becomes so afraid of my threats that he urinates in his pants. He looks again at his class record. “Anton, I gave you 100 for your painting of a smiling goose with a big, black mole in its left cheek And though you failed in midterm, you got perfect in the final exam.”

Before another protest comes out of my mouth, Mr. Maravilla says, “The only student who failed in my class because she did not take the exam was Laura Macapal-Arrovo.”

My world is shaken on the mention of that name. I'm so bewildered and confused that I don't notice Mr. Maravilla leave. With my mouth widely open, I stay standing in the same spot for eight hours. I only come back to my senses when the guard tells me that I'm the only one left in school and he's closing the gate.

WHEN I reach home, I see my mother slumped on the sofa, empty bottles of Red Horse rolling on the floor.

“Mang, I’m home,” I call out. She doesn't budge. She’s not breathing!

I rush to her side and feels her cold, lifeless body.“Maaaang, Why? Whhhhhhhhhhy?”

My loud wail awakens the neighborhood. “Whhhy? Why didn’t you left even just a drop of Red Horse for me?!”

Pak! The slap dislodges my brain for several seconds.

“Gago! I’m still alive,” my mother scolds me. “Don’t disturb my sleep again!”

Wincing in pain, I clean up her mess. My serious problem about my grade comes again to mind when I pick up an empty bottle of Red Horse.

I never miss the checking of attendance in the beer kiosks at the back of the school every afternoon. The schedule of my Art Depreciation class was 7:00-8:30 TTH at Rm. 329. So by the time I would come inside that class, I would have already downed six family-sized bottles of Red Horse with my barkada.

The only student who failed in my class was Laura, Mr. Maravilla’s words reverberate in my ears.

Laura…How could I forget her? Laura is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. She has the most kissable lips and the sweetest smile. She has a big black mole in her left cheek. And she's dead.

I'm the only person who knows Laura's dead. She fell in a deep ravine in our trip home from our exposure trip in Lake Babu.

Laura and I were the only people on top of the jeepney that our class was riding. We were kissing and fondling each other. When the vehicle sped up, Laura was thrown away.

I miss her lips and her smile. I miss the big, black mole on her left cheek. The only thing Laura left to me was her portrait that I painted.

***

“WHERE could it be?”

I'm so bothered. It's Thursday evening and I have spent the whole day looking for the portrait of Laura.

It was displayed in our gate so that everyone could marvel at its beauty. I found out that it was missing and I'm not sure since when. I have searched the whole house. I have already asked the help of the CIA, the KGB and the PCSO. Still I couldn’t find it.

“Hey, Anton,” my mother comes inside my room. “Are you looking for that picture of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek?”

I'm infuriated. “Mang, It's a portrait of a lady!”

“A lady goose?” asks the drunkard woman.

Her question confirms my worst fear. Yes, my “painting of a smiling goose with a big, black mole in its left cheek” that I passed to Mr. Maravilla is no other than my portrait of Laura.

When we went to Lake Babu, Laura was wearing a long, white dress and her long, black, hair was tucked under a white hat. She posed, smiling very sweetly, in the deepest part of the lake as I painted her. I was on a boat and she was submerged in the water from the neck down. It took me the whole day to paint her because she kept on waggling in the water.

By the time I have finished, all the tilapias in Lake Babu were trapped inside Laura’s dress. Our classmates were so thankful to us because they had tons and tons of fish to bring home.When I proudly showed my painting to them, all our classmates exclaimed in unison, “Wow, what a beautiful goose! It is smiling and it has a big, black mole on its left cheek.”

But I didn’t believe them. Laura told me that our classmates just didn’t know how to appreciate the artwork of a genius.

“You’ll no longer find that picture,” the voice of my drunkard mother pulls me back to the present. “I saw a young man stole it last night.”

“What?! What did he look like?”

“It was dark. All I remember is that he has this big, black mole in the face.”

“Now, who’s going to help me?” I lay down on my bed as my drunken mother leaves.

My Shangshang D500 phone rings. I pick and answer it. “Hello.”

“Hello, Garci,” came a presidential voice from the other line. “Don’t come out just yet.”

I'm taken a back. “Ma’am, my name is not Garci. This is Anton.”

“Oooops, no?” My youngest son wants to talk to you, no?” the voice said. “And yes, no? Your name is Anton. Your voice sounds like Garci’s. I had a lapse of judgment. I. Am. Sorry.”

Another voice comes in the line. “Why do you still want to keep that portrait, Anton? Do you still want to remember Laura—and your deep, dark secret?”

I'm taken by surprise. Who is this person? His voice sounds too familiar. How did he know that Laura’s portrait’s gone and I’m looking for it?

But I decide to deny. “What are you talking about?”

“You killed her!”

I'm stunned. I'm supposed to be the only person who knows Laura is dead.

"But I didn’t kill her!" I shouted back at the caller. “That’s not true. It was an accident!”

The voice lets out a maniacal laugh. “You pushed her from the top of the jeepney! Because you found out her secret!”

“Noo.”

I don't want to remember that incident but it's coming back to my mind.

When we were going home from the trip, the jeepney was already full of tilapia so Laura and I had no choice but sit on top of the vehicle. As the jeepney was running in the winding road amid lush scenery, I wasn’t able to control the urge to kiss Laura’s pouting lips.

Soon after, we were sucking each other’s esophagus. I was carried away. My hands found their way inside her wet, white dress.

My right hand cupped something soft below her shoulders. It was too soft that it made me wonder what it was.

I grabbed it and found out that it was a piece of foam!

I was about to ask her about that piece of foam when I began to realize that something, no, many things are wrong with her.

I looked closely under her neck. She had an Adam’s apple! I looked at her legs and saw that her hair there is longer and curlier than mine.

And then everything became clear to me. I only noticed it that time because the effects of alcohol in my eyes had faded. I was so busy painting her and I forgot to have a shot of Red Horse.So that explained why our classmates looked as if they wanted to vomit whenever they see us holding each other’s hands, hugging, and…kissing.

Laura was a man!Laura was gay!

“You fooled me,” I shouted at Laura.

She began to cry. His/her/its tears suddenly flowed like a fountain that all the tilapias inside the vehicle became bulad.

By that time, the fishermen in Lake Babu had found out that we took all the tilapias in the lake with us. They were madly running after us.The driver stepped hard on the accelerator.

Because Laura was so busy wiping his/her/its tears, she fell from the jeepney and flew away.

Nobody knew except me what happened to Laura. It was already dark when we reached the city and our classmates were so busy quarrelling over the salted tilapias so no one noticed Laura’s absence.

“It was not my fault,” I defend myself to the caller. “You seem to know everything. Do you know who stole Laura’s portrait?”

The line went dead. After a minute, I received a text message: I tuk d portrt. If u want 2 knw hu I am, mit me at Rm. 329. Tek ker. Tsup3x.

***

"TWENTY. Twenty more steps and I will know the truth,” I whisper to myself while standing in the second floor of SL-CR Building.

“A few minutes from now—7:45 pm, Thursday, Rm. 329—I will meet the person who stole the portrait of Laura a.k.a. the portrait of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek.

So many questions are running inside my head. Did Laura really fall in a 1000m-high ravine as I thought? Could Laura be still alive? Could she be the one who took the final exam in SocSoc 145 for me? Did he decide to act and dress like a real man once and for all? Could she be the one who called me? 7 x 8 = 78? Did Garci hide inside Imang's back?

Would these things happen to me if I wasn’t addicted to Red Horse?

I start climbing the left stairs to the third floor. Eighteen…nineteen…seventeen…twenty. I was surprised that there are indeed twenty steps. But I'm more surprised as I look at the old, familiar hallway. Hanging at the closed door of Rm. 329 is the portrait of Laura a.k.a. the portrait of a smiling goose with a big, black mole on its left cheek.

Slowly, I turn the knob and push the door open. I stop, look and listen. And then my eyes widen in horror.