The Pull of Gravity (7 page)

Larry glanced away for a moment. When he looked back, he had a small, sheepish grin on his face. “That’s about right.”

I stared at him. “Is there something wrong with you?”

He shook his head. “And before you ask, I’m not gay, either.”

“What am I missing? Are you scared?” There’d been guys, first-timers like Larry, who got petrified once they were faced with the abundance Angeles had to offer, but they usually got over it after a night or two.

“Not scared. It just hasn’t seemed right yet.”

Over my time working at The Lounge, I’d seen all sorts of guys, all of them, at the very least, looking for that one-night girlfriend. The later it got, the less choosy they became. But here, sitting next to me at the bar, was a first. 

“What the hell are we doing drinking beer? Cathy,” I called, “bring the Cuervo over. The 1800. Double shots for both of us. Hell, one for you, too. And when we’re done, another round.”

By the time I closed the place, Larry was all but passed out on the bar. I still had some of my senses with me—a product of drinking every night, I guess—so I made sure I got him back to his hotel room without incident.

I also made him promise that if he hadn’t hooked up with anyone before his last night in Angeles, he’d come back by The Lounge and I’d set him up with Nelly.

So I guess you could say it was all my fault.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Boracay again. In that later time, when Larry was dead and Isabel—a harder Isabel, but not hardened all the way through just yet—was asleep on the spare bed in my hotel room. My own sleep had been uneven, and I’d woken early and hungry.

The day before, I’d been informed by the concierge that a tropical storm was going to be passing nearby, and when I pulled back the curtain for a quick peek outside, I wasn’t surprised to find the sky covered in a blanket of gray clouds. The ground was still dry, but it didn’t look like it would stay that way for long. I’d seen the sky like that before. We could be in for a steady soak.

I pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, slipped on my sneakers and grabbed my cell phone. Isabel was still breathing deeply and wasn’t likely to wake up anytime soon, so I quietly let myself out.

The morning air was already warm, and before I’d even taken ten steps from the door, I could feel sweat beginning to bead on my brow. In the Philippines, there was a hot season and a rainy season, and most times it was both.

I made my way down to the poolside restaurant, and sat at a table under the awning. My hotel wasn’t quite as nice as the White Sands where Isabel had spent the previous night. There were more rooms crammed into about the same amount of space, the pool was smaller, and the restaurant wasn’t quite as good. But I hadn’t been trying to impress anyone, so it was fine for me. 

There was only one other customer for breakfast, another early bird, or perhaps a night owl who was getting a little something to eat before finally heading off to bed. Otherwise the place was deserted.

I ordered some eggs, sausage and a cup of coffee. I had a fleeting thought that I should have waited for Isabel, but I was just too damn hungry. I’d buy her breakfast when she got up.

The eggs ended up being cooked a little more than I liked, but not enough to send them back. So I dug in and ate without pause. By the time I finished, the first drops of rain had begun to fall. I got the waitress to refill my coffee, then pushed my chair out a little and leaned back so I could watch the coming storm in comfort.

If you didn’t like rain, the Philippines—or pretty much anywhere in the tropics—wasn’t the place for you. From about mid-June until October or November, the rain seemed to be a constant thing. Typhoons, tropical storms, the frequent afternoon shower all did what they could to keep everything in a perpetual state of either wet or damp. And even when it wasn’t the rainy season, the rain didn’t stop. That’s why things stay green in the tropics. There were times, even after I moved to Bangkok, when I wished for a few dry, Arizona-type months. Of course if that had ever happened, I’d have probably hated it.

The initial smattering of droplets quickly turned into an onslaught. The surface of the pool danced like it was a pot of boiling water. When I looked across toward the palm trees that signified the end of the hotel property and the beginning of the beach, it seemed like everything had gone slightly blurry. It was as if the air itself had suddenly become liquid, and if we all didn’t grow gills in a hurry, we’d be in trouble. The humidity, probably hovering around seventy-five or eighty percent when I’d sat down, had shot up to one hundred in an instant. For a while, it was coming down so hard the sound of the rain drumming against the awning and the ground made it almost impossible to hold any kind of meaningful conversation. Kind of like being in one of the bars, now that I think about it.

I hadn’t actually seen a storm come on this strong this fast in a long time. So I stayed where I was and enjoyed the show. There was something refreshing, and, on occasion, unsettling about rain. I’m not talking about the “cleansing powers” of water, the “flushing” of the skies, the “renewal” of the earth. All those were fine and very poetic, but for me, it was a lot simpler than that.

You see, most of the important points in my life began with rain. At least that’s what I had come to believe. It rained on the day I enlisted in the Navy, it rained on the day Maureen asked me to move out, it rained on the day I boarded the plane for the Philippines, and I think it rained on the day I arrived in Bangkok. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had rained on the day I was born, but my mother had never told me and it was too late to ask.

It even rained on the night Larry and Isabel met.

•    •    •

After our night of talking and drinking, I didn’t think I’d see Larry again. I thought he, like most tourists, had probably met up with some girl who had caught his eye at another bar and finally lost his Angeles cherry.

So when he walked in on that Saturday night, it caught me a little off guard. I had to take a moment to recall his name, remembering it just as he walked up to say hi.

“Is it raining?” I asked.

His head and the shoulders of his avocado green golf shirt were drenched.

“Pouring,” he said. Then as if to explain his condition, he added, “I left my umbrella in my room.”

“Cathy,” I said, glancing at my number one bartender. “A towel and a beer for my friend, Mr. Adams, please.”

“Here.” She tossed one of the largest bar towels we had in my direction.

I caught it more with my shoulder than anything else, then handed it to Larry. It wasn’t exactly something you’d want to use after a hot shower, but he put it to good use removing the excess water from his hair.

“Two beers,” Cathy said. She set a bottle on the bar. “A San Miguel for Mr. Adams, and something special for you, Doc.” She set a Gordon Biersch Märzen next to the San Miguel.

My eyes widened. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

She smiled coyly. “I can be nice. Sometimes.” She walked off like she had something else to do.

I had thought I drank the last bottle in my supply months ago. In fact, I was sure of it. The ever-resourceful Cathy had apparently used one of her own connections to smuggle some in for me.

Larry motioned to my bottle. “You like that stuff?”

“Best beer ever made.”

I picked up my bottle and drank just enough to get the taste again. I let it roll over my tongue like it was a hundred-year-old scotch that had been opened for the first time. Stupid, really, but damn, did it taste good.

When I set the bottle back down, I noticed Larry looking at me. “It’s just a beer,” he said.

“I know,” I told him. “But I can’t get it here. I have to rely on friends to bring some when they come for a visit.”

Larry shook his head, an amused laugh escaping his lips.

It was pretty quiet in The Lounge, the girls outnumbering the customers by almost three to one. The rain wasn’t helping but it was still early. I wasn’t too worried. Saturday nights always had a way of turning out fine.

“Aren’t you headed home soon?” I asked Larry.

“I fly out on Monday.”

I took another sip of my beer. “Lose your cherry yet?”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“Nope.”

Just then a group of five guys came through the door, and the noise level instantly increased. They all looked to be in their twenties, were in good shape and sported close-cropped hair. Marines, I guessed, probably on leave from one of the U.S. bases in Korea. And, from the looks of things, The Lounge wasn’t their first stop of the night. They’d all definitely been drinking, and one of them was having a hard time walking a straight line. Which, to the more business-minded papasan, meant they were probably primed to ring the bell.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I said to Larry, then got up and crossed the room to greet our new guests.

“Welcome to The Lounge, fellas,” I said once I reached them.

Several of the girls were already moving toward them, sensing potential bar fines, or at least a few drinks.

“We’ve got room right up next to the stage or booths along the wall. Your choice,” I told them.

“What do you guys think?” one of them asked. “The booths or the stage?”

“The booths,” another one said.

The others voiced their agreement so I led them over to an empty section. They weren’t really booths, more like a long padded bench that ran along the wall facing the stage. Small, circular tables to put drinks on were placed every seven feet. I got the Marines set up right in the center with the best view of the dancers.

Before they even sat down, two of the guys had already been claimed by a couple of the girls. Since the U.S. military had pulled out of the Philippines years earlier, there was a definite shortage of young, well-built male customers on Fields. So it was like a special treat for the girls. I didn’t have to read their minds to know that, if given the choice, most of them would have gone home with their catch that night for free, just for the change.

Drinks were ordered, and it looked like everyone was settled in. “You guys have a good night,” I said, intending to go back to my place at the bar.

“You American?” one of the more drunk guys asked. He was a big one, at least six foot three and two hundred thirty or two hundred forty pounds, all of it muscle.

“You betcha,” I said.

“You serve?” he asked.

“Navy,” I told him. “Twenty years.”

He thought about it for a second, then nodded. “That’s okay. At least you weren’t a grunt.”

“I’d join the Coast Guard first,” I said.

They all laughed at that.

“Yeah,” one of them said. “Army’s where you go if you can’t get in anywhere else.”

More laughter. It was an act I’d learned how to turn on whenever I needed to. The Good Sailor. Mr. Military. I knew the language. I’d heard it for twenty years. I guess it was another way for me to be the perfect host.

When I finally got back to the bar, I found that Larry was no longer alone. Nelly had shown up and was squeezed between the barstools, rubbing up against his leg.

“I see you found a little company,” I said.

“I thought you sent her over.” He sounded slightly annoyed, but there was a smile on his face.

I shook my head. “Not me.”

I had completely forgotten that Nelly had caught his attention that first night. Now I realized that maybe she was the reason he had come back. I had told him, after all, that if he didn’t find anyone else, I’d try to hook him up with her before he left town.

Cathy approached us from the other side of the bar. “You want to buy her a drink?” she asked Larry.

Nelly looked at Larry, smiling expectantly.

“Okay,” he said, looking back at Nelly. “One drink. But this doesn’t mean anything.”

Nelly shrieked a little louder than necessary, then threw her arms around Larry’s neck and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

Some girls had a natural way of making a guy feel like she liked them, while others couldn’t hide the fact they were acting. Nelly, unfortunately, fell in the latter category. And while some guys either didn’t care or didn’t notice if a girl was faking it, Larry wasn’t one of them.

Nelly had flipped his off switch without even knowing it. I could see it in his eyes. He had seemed to be enjoying her company, and even though he’d said he’d buy only one drink, I could tell that one drink could have led to two, and then to who knows what? But when Nelly’s act became obvious, it was like he could barely stomach the fact she was standing next to him.

I wanted to ask him why he had even come to Angeles. I wanted to know what could have triggered the desire in him.  Had he expected something different? He said he had been having a great time, but was that true? Maybe Aunt Marla would have been able to figure him out, but to me, he didn’t fit into any of the stereotypes of the guys who came to Fields.

Usually I wouldn’t have even cared. The mystery would have remained a mystery, and I would have forgotten everything by the time I woke up the next afternoon. But the truth was, I liked the guy. There was something about him that made me feel comfortable. He didn’t want anything from me, and I didn’t want anything from him. I guess that’s how friendships are born. Real ones, anyway.

So I did something I had never done since working at The Lounge. When Nelly finished her drink, and before she could start angling for a new one, I said, “Why don’t you go dance for a while?”

My suggestion—command, actually—surprised her so much, she didn’t even react at first. Cathy was a few feet away trying not to laugh. She was a smart one and had picked up the same vibe I had. Nelly, on the other hand, was having a hard time processing it.

“Go on,” I said. “Larry and I need to talk.”

If I had been anyone but the papasan, she wouldn’t have left.

“Okay,” she said. She looked at Larry. “I’ll be back.”

He smiled but said nothing.

Her own smile faltered. That was the moment she realized she’d lost him. As she turned to leave, I could see her scanning the room looking for someone else to nuzzle up to.

“Thanks,” Larry said once she was gone.

“No problem.”

“How’d you know?”

“I’m not a papasan for nothing.”

He shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t think that’s it.”

I heard the sound of a bottle being set on the bar behind me. I turned. Cathy was standing there, another bottle of Märzan sitting in front of her.

“How many more you got back there?” I asked, surprised.

She looked at me for what seemed like an entire minute, the right corner of her mouth creeping upward into a crooked smile. I thought for a moment that she might actually tell me, but instead she said nothing.

Larry raised his San Miguel. “Cheers.”

“Cheers,” I echoed, picking up my own bottle.

As I took a drink, I could feel Cathy still looking at me. She turned away as I glanced over, but not before I saw her look of mischief become one of resignation. This wasn’t the first time I’d noticed something similar.

I’d been single for a while by then, but the pain of Maureen was still with me. I guess I just didn’t want to believe anyone would actually be interested in me. Experience had taught me all my relationships ended, and usually with pain. I wasn’t ready to experience the pain again. 

Around midnight, just after the dancers did their thing to “Love Shack,” one of the girls screamed. It wasn’t one of those mock screams you heard all the time in a place like The Lounge, the ones that came with guys and girls and sexual teasing. This was one of those that signaled anger and infuriation.