Compersion, Or Why Partying Outside a Club's VIP Room Isn't So Bad

In a yacht somewhere in Subic Bay

The story goes of a guy who wanted to spend the night out with some friends at a fancy club. It’s the weekend and he just wanted to let loose. So he goes to the club, gets a table, and orders drinks. He and his friends hit the packed dance floor a few times and orders more drinks. Life’s good and they’re having fun.

But later the guy notices a room on the other side of the club behind black velvet drapes and guarded by a couple of beefy bouncers. When the curtains part each time somebody walks in—usually a well-dressed gentleman surrounded by tall, modelesque women wearing glittery, low-cut dresses—he could just make out the people partying inside. They were holding up champagne flutes and even had their own celebrity DJ blasting loud party music that was different from what he was hearing in the club’s main room. It looked like everyone in the VIP room was having more fun than he was.

Evening in a beach in Bohol

Outside the historic church of Paoay in Ilocos Norte

The guy is then filled with jealousy and rage. He wants to go inside the private room and party with the beautiful people. Why does he have to stay here in the main room where everyone else is? There’s nothing special about mingling with the hoi polloi. It’s not fair, he thinks. He wants to be a VIP, too. 

But soon he realizes how irrational he was being. He was having a perfectly good time with his friends before he became aware of the private room. He had been content and happy doing exactly what he wanted to do that night, which was to drink, dance, and spend time with his friends. But he forgot all about that and became bitter and resentful just because he saw something that he thought was better than his current situation.

Loboc River in Bohol

Hanging out with Abby at my friends' farm in Cavite

I wish I could take credit for this story and tell you that I came up with it on my own. But I actually read a version of it online a few years ago, in an essay that I can’t seem to find now. I guess that just tells you how much the story has stuck with me. 

For much of my adult life I’ve wrestled with the idea of contentment versus complacency: to choose to be happy with what I have or to search for something more. And this year, for some reason, I couldn’t stop thinking about that guy in the club. 

Often I forget how incredibly lucky I am I get to live this pretty good life because I fixate on stuff that I don’t have that seems personally out of reach, on the wildly hopeful chance that whatever it is will make me happy—or, at the very least, happier. That private room behind velvet curtains could be anything: the promise of professional advancement, a romantic interest, a better car, better skin, a roomier apartment. (Not saying all of these things apply to me; I’m just citing some specific examples). 

Working on a yacht somewhere off the coast of Cebu

Happy place in Boracay

It could also just be what others have that I might want for myself. I see people my age having get-togethers in the grassy lawn of their suburban homes; I scroll past friends showing off a brand-new business or car; or posting photos of their kids that are old enough to drive or grow a mustache; or posing before a landmark in a city that I’ve always wanted to visit. Yes, sometimes, there is a split-second of why-can’t-I-have-that envy, but—and this is true—it’s always quickly replaced by genuine happiness (for the most part). Because these are people that I know, and it gives me pleasure knowing that something gives them great joy, enough for them to want to share it with the world. 

It’s a peek behind the velvet curtains into a world that, yes, might possibly elicit feelings of resentment, but that also ultimately leads to me saying, “Wow, good for them!” This feeling apparently has a word, and it’s called compersion (look it up!).

Peace and quiet in Tagaytay

A photo break while on an ATV adventure in the shadow of the Chocolate Hills in Bohol

Like the guy in the club, eventually I reach that level of self-awareness where I know I’m being petty and unreasonable, especially to myself. Choosing to be happy for someone else’s new pair of kicks, fancy lunch, trip to the beach, quiet moments with their children or parents or significant other, or yes, chance to party inside a fancy club’s private room, is easier and much simpler than wallowing in feelings of bitterness and indignation. That’s probably my biggest reckoning this year. 

Of course, those instances of jealousy at things other people have or get to experience can’t be helped sometimes. Social media is designed to highlight—and actually encourages—"winners,” which often incites covetousness and contempt, whether we admit to it or not. But what I’ve learned this year is that you just can’t spend too much time obsessing over what you don’t have, because that way leads to anger and frustration. 

Besides, while you’re looking longingly inside the VIP room, you can’t lose sight of everyone else stuck in the line outside and can’t even get inside the fancy club in the first place. The lives of the fortunate and the “blessed” might be all over social media, but we should spare a thought for the luckless and the “cursed,” which, of course doesn't get as much screen time, so to speak.

(That said, a night at the club certainly isn't everybody's idea of having a good time. Some people just want to kick back at home, fire up Netflix, and sit back on the couch with popcorn and some Coke. And that's perfectly fine, too).

Outside an old church in Pampanga

Good memories at this resort in Boracay

And so, in the end, I'm like that guy and just choose to live in the moment. It doesn’t take me long to realize that, hey, I’m partying, too. It may not be with champagne and a superstar DJ behind velvet drapes, but the important thing is that I’m with my friends, there are drinks, and there’s definitely dancing.

Moonlight over Boracay

See you next year, from Abby and me

Run and Find or Sit and Wait

First time in Boracay since 2015

The trip to Boracay finally happened a few weeks ago after months of planning and waiting. I was originally supposed to go last April with, er, someone, but certain status changes, not to mention adjustments in quarantine pronouncements, pushed it back to July. The original plan morphed into a work-from-beach situation with my friend Tanya. I also managed to convince Pedi and Arnie to come and hang out there with me for a few days. 

I’ve lost count how many times I’ve been to the island over the years. More than once I’ve said that a trip there is always a good idea. This time was different, though, for a few reasons. I was there for 10 days, which is probably the longest I’ve ever traveled anywhere here in the country (overseas trips are another matter); I was actually working for a huge chunk of the time I was there, which is only possible because of the extraordinary circumstances we’re in now; and, perhaps most importantly, I’ve come to a fairly interesting realization about why I travel relative to the reasons of other people.

Me, Tanya, Arnie, and Pedi on Puka Beach

See, to me, going to a new place has always been about enriching my own personal experiences. Specifically, a vacation to the beach like this one was always about rest and relaxation; a chance to leave the stresses of work and the city for a few days and think about little else but where to have dinner that night or what drinks to order from the bartender as you lie back on the lounge chair, plant your feet on the sand, and gaze out into the ocean.

That—or some variation of it—is probably the default response for a lot of people when asked why they go to the beach. But on this trip, as I spent it both with friends I’ve known for years and newer ones that I’ve essentially only just met, I understood that some people take these trips as an opportunity to expand their social circles, establish connections with a few people with similar motivations, and possibly consummate those relationships through physical interactions of the carnal kind. 

In short, to hook up. 

Me and Tanya hanging out at Movenpick

What's better than reading a book at the beach?

Not that there’s anything wrong with that, as Seinfeld would say. I’ve absolutely no judgments about those who choose to spend their vacation this way. In fact, if anything, I’ve started to think that maybe these people have the right idea. I realize that’s not exactly kosher these days when a deadly virus is flying around looking for a host to attach itself to, but it’s the idea at least, that’s got me thinking.

It’s not as if the thought hadn’t entered my mind, and, to go even further, not like I hadn’t dipped my toes in these waters in the past. But the point is that any attempt to go out there and hook up with someone when I travel was always a distant second to the other, more wholesome aspects of travel itself. 

Pedi, me, Tanya, and Jelo after a dip in the ocean at Station Zero

Which is perhaps why I’ve been having these thoughts now. I’ve been traveling a lot since my late 20s and maybe I should be making up for lost time. Maybe there’s nothing wrong with actively pursuing new relationships when I’m out there instead of staying passive. Maybe there’s value in looking for something else beyond the expected and the mundane when I travel. 

Alone again, naturally

On the other hand, maybe the reason I don’t do as my other friends do is that I’m just not built that way. You can run and find or you can sit and wait, but you can’t do both. And maybe I’m just more of the latter. It’s tough to force yourself to do anything if you’re just not into it. And maybe that’s okay, too. 

Anyway, Boracay was fun and I’d definitely do this kind of trip again.

Will see you again soon

Unending Quest

Sunset in San Juan, La Union

In 2005, I wrote a personal essay that got published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer’s Youngblood section. I wasn’t yet a full-time writer or editor, so it was a pretty big deal back then, seeing your name in a newspaper read by thousands of people. 

It wasn’t actually the first time I got published on Youngblood. A few years earlier, the PDI ran an essay I did about my tummy, specifically, how concerned I was about developing a pot belly like my dad's. (Who knows what was going on in the editor’s head). The internet wasn’t a thing yet, though, and I never saved a clipping of that essay, so I guess that’s lost to history.  

Thankfully, I saved this one in my old blog. For some reason I suddenly thought about it today and have decided to publish it here. It’s interesting to look back at the stuff I wrote when I was still pretty much a kid who had no clue about life, especially now that I’m a full-fledged adult who, well, probably still has no clue. 

Anyway I’m reposting it here, complete with the preface I wrote in the old blog entry, in case the old blog gets taken down (you never know with the internet when things can get wiped out of existence). 

I did some very minor edits in the original essay because, well, I’m an editor and if you can’t edit yourself, then you have no business editing other people. And I just added some photos because, well, I wanted to. Otherwise, it's pretty much the same thing that was published in PDI.

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Just the stirring in my soul

I wrote this essay more than two months ago, soon after some personal, erm, "distractions." It came out in the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer today. I originally entitled it "Quarter-life Crisis," but the editors changed it, apparently because that phrase has been used to death by countless souls like me determined to put a label on what we're going through.

Might as well post it here.

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Abby living her best life in Elyu

Unending Quest

Posted 00:59am (Mla time) Mar 31, 2005
By Paul John Caña
Inquirer News Service

WHO was it that said youth is wasted on the young? It's hard to disagree with him.

I turned 25 a few weeks ago and, for the life of me, I don't know what to answer if I'm asked what the biggest achievement of my life is so far. I suppose I can say that I graduated from college a couple of years earlier than most people and I now work in the news department of one of the biggest media companies in the country, and, yes, I write articles from time to time for a top music magazine. But somehow, I have never really felt that these qualify as a “huge” accomplishment. To put it another way, I can't really say I'm living my life “to the fullest,” whatever that means.

I would love to say that at this point I'm close to finding out what it is I am meant to do—and to be—for the rest of my life. But the truth is, I'm not. (Or maybe I am, but I'm not ready to acknowledge it yet and let it course through my veins.)

Whether or not they care to admit it, I believe most people my age have no idea either. Many of us wander aimlessly about in the vast wasteland after college (for those of us lucky enough to even get to college), living on our never-high-enough salaries from our never-good-enough jobs. I'm sure there is a tiny percentage of young people out there who seem to have it all: a clear understanding of their place in the world and all the material blessings needed to achieve their goals. But for the rest of us, the search for meaning and purpose continues.

In the movie Dead Poets Society, maverick English professor John Keating (played by Robin Williams) implores his students: Carpe diem. That oft-repeated phrase and cursory advice given to young people by their elders, who most likely had never been able to “seize the day” themselves and merely want to impart stock wisdom on impressionable minds, is also one of the easiest to digest and to dismiss. All too often, young people live as though they would be young forever and procrastination becomes a habit. Before we know it, our 20s have passed us by and we tell ourselves, “Hey, this isn't so bad. I could do a lot worse with my life.” Thus, the dream of finally doing what we want to do (as opposed to doing what essentially amounts to a “meantime” thing) remains just that—a dream.

The problem sometimes isn't so much our willingness to finally start living the lives we want as trying to find the balance between what is attainable and what is simply beyond our capabilities.

In the same movie, a fellow professor, quoting Tennyson, tells Keating: “Show me the heart unfettered by foolish dreams, and I'll show you a happy man.” To which Keating replies, “But it is only in their dreams can men be truly free. T'was always thus and always thus will be.”

The kind of person we are, and possibly, who and what we turn out to be, depends on which of these two concepts more closely defines our attitude toward our deepest aspirations. Realists, by nature, are confident of their own abilities and very much aware of their limitations. These people are only as ambitious as they are pragmatic and so they are rarely ever disappointed.

On the other hand, those who subscribe to the Keating school of thought are bound only by their imagination and limited only by what they dare to dream. They are undaunted by the possibility of failure and are not afraid to take on any challenge. Life is the canvas on which they can paint any picture.

Whichever way we lean, the bottom line is that we all are working toward the same goal: happiness and personal satisfaction. But it doesn't have to end there. In fact, I don't think our struggle to find happiness should ever end, even after we get whatever it is we want in life. Personal fulfillment (of whatever kind) should be an unending quest. I've never believed that “people should be satisfied with what they have.” That's like saying those who have nothing should just abandon the desire to improve their lives and simply accept their fate. Similarly, it shouldn't keep people who have achieved what may seem to be enough for others from setting new goals and continuing to work on improving themselves. Contentment should never be confused with complacency.

Balicasag Island in Bohol

At this point in my life, while I may not be 100-percent certain of what I really want to do, what my purpose in life is and what I hope to achieve, it helps to be aware of that fact rather than blindly trudging on, without giving any thought to workable objectives and visible goals. At the very least, I'm trying to iron out the kinks in my life and starting to establish closer personal relationships with the people who mean much to me. I would like to think I have learned from the mistakes of the past, but as with many others, I anticipate making more of them in the days ahead. I have also noticed that I'm becoming much more vocal about my feelings, my need to let out how I feel taking precedence over my concern over how others will react. I realize that this can be a bad thing, but hey, carpe diem, right?

Paul John Caña, 25, works as a newsdesk administrator in one of the country's top broadcast networks.

Beef Or Chicken

San Juan, La Union

The problem with being an overthinker is that, sometimes, you start second-guessing even the feelings that you’re supposed to be having given a certain situation. When you lose something or someone, the knee-jerk reaction is perhaps one of sadness, rage or self-pity, or any combination of the three. But then you start weighing your predicament against what others are experiencing and you tell yourself to be grateful that things aren’t much worse. Then of course you go back to indulging your initial emotions because, damn it, you’re allowed to feel bad, and what others are going through shouldn’t impact how you feel about what happens in your own life. And then you feel guilty again because, let’s face it, it's really not that bad and you should learn to stay positive and appreciate what you have. And on and on the cycle goes.   

Some people say the initial hours and days after a sudden and significant life event are the worst because the battle scars are still fresh, but I’d argue that it’s after a certain period of time passes—when you’re far enough removed from the event itself and start viewing the situation a bit more critically—that’s more frustrating and exhausting.   

In my case, after said episodes, it’s almost frightening how much I vacillate between giving in to surface emotions and acting like it’s NBD. One minute I keep replaying specific sequences in my head and wondering where I went wrong, then I talk myself out of it and convince myself that obsessing over things doesn’t lead anywhere. I’m like that guy who can’t decide between the beef or chicken at a restaurant and end up not being completely satisfied with whatever's served on my plate.  

I get it. There is so much suffering and strife in the world right now. People are literally dying and the incompetence of this government seems to be limitless. If you’re not hooked up to a ventilator or worrying about where your next meal is coming from, you’re already ahead of lots of other people. And that’s great. Consider yourself lucky.  

But I don’t want to brush aside other issues people are going through. It’s true that there are those who sometimes invent problems or imagine personal crises when, overall, things aren’t so bad. But there are also those who just aren’t equipped to handle difficulties the way others can. And so something that might seem especially serious to someone—like a quarrel with a co-worker, or a car breaking down, or a romantic split—can be trivial to somebody else.   

Right now, I am extremely grateful that I have a roof over my head, food on my table, and a job that I love. For a lot of people, I’ve hit the essentials trifecta. But I hope that doesn’t mean my license to experience pain and suffering has been revoked. I can still have issues, and while I might drive myself crazy while I figure things out, these emotional upheavals are significant because they’re mine and they’re happening to me.   

At least one good thing about experiencing these things at my age is that the rate of recovery seems to be much faster. In the past, I was ill-equipped to process and took longer to bounce back from personal, erm, calamities. But now it seems all it takes is a quiet weekend to get myself sorted. I guess it helps that—yet again—I can’t escape the reality that the world is facing much bigger problems right now. (Which sort of contradicts what I said one paragraph earlier, but it’s 12:47 a.m. while I’m writing this and I don’t know anymore).    

TL;DR: The pandemic is still raging, the country is a hot mess, I’m going through some personal issues, but overall, I’m fine. And I realize how incredibly lucky I am I get to say that.

Cynicism Is Overrated

Sometimes when I’m scrolling through my Twitter or Facebook feed, I often catch myself rolling my eyes at a well-meaning post or scoffing at some piece of good news. When that happens, I immediately think about Conan O’Brien, and his farewell monologue on the Tonight Show. 

Fans of the comedian and late night show host will know and understand this reference, but for those who don’t, here’s the gist: Conan succeeded Jay Leno as the host of America’s beloved late night variety and talk show, but after a few months, network executives wanted to move him to a later time slot in order to make room for Leno, who they were bringing back to host a new show. Rather than give in, Conan chose to step down, letting go of the hosting gig that he’d been dreaming of since he started his career as a comedian. 

Somewhere in Bay, Laguna

But rather than becoming sad and bitter, Conan took the high road and left the show with his integrity and dignity intact. On his last night as Tonight Show host, he delivered a moving speech that I still think about to this day. 

After thanking his home network of NBC—the same network that gave him the shaft and chose Leno over him—Conan urged his viewers and fans not to give in to cynicism.

“To all the people watching, I can never thank you enough for your kindness to me and I’ll think about it for the rest of my life,” he said. “All I ask of you is one thing: please don’t be cynical. I hate cynicism—it’s my least favorite quality and it doesn’t lead anywhere. Nobody in life gets exactly what they thought they were going to get. But if you work really hard and you’re kind, amazing things will happen.”

Abby

As I grow older, I'm beginning to understand why so many old people are bitter, angry, and resentful—it’s just so much easier than choosing to be optimistic, forward-thinking, and grateful. I think I’ve done a good job of maintaining a sense of positivity throughout my life, even though I’ll be the first to admit I went through my own period of self-doubt and distrust of everything and everyone (who doesn’t?). 

This year, especially, has given people more reason to become embittered and to lash out at things. We’ve been on some form of lockdown more days and months this year than we weren’t, government ineptitude has reached new lows (which would be laughable if it wasn’t so damn tragic), and law enforcement has become ridiculous to the point that it’s actually scary. I rarely ever say anything on social media about my own misgivings and fears about what’s happening in this country (virtue signaling just isn’t my thing), but believe me when I say I’m aware and I’m furious. 

The Honda Civic Type R in UP Diliman

So I totally understand when people use snark and sarcasm, even more than they usually do. I get why people mock sincere expressions of affection or attempts to do good, as if there’s some sinister reason for all this altruism. I understand the popularity of scornful, derisive memes, and cutting, biting remarks on the comments section of every other news item. These days where the bad and the depressing often seemingly outnumber the good and the affirmative, cynicism has become almost like a universal language. 

And it’s not even just about what we see and hear in the news. It’s also within our own pockets of reality, like when you apply for internet connection and it takes months but you don’t hear from them until you call them out publicly. Or when you make an unwise financial decision and you can’t do anything to make it right until it’s too late. Or when you put your faith on someone and they turn out to be a disappointment. Get screwed over enough times and pretty soon, you’re speaking the same language—cynical-ese.

Out for a quick bike ride

But, as I’ve learned in the past, it helps to be aware of something rather than blindly trudging on and having somebody else call you out on it. When I find myself sounding too snarky and sarcastic—heck, as soon as I start getting these ideas in my head—I stop. Not to the point of being ignorant or naïve (you need to keep a smidgen of critical thought, after all), but just enough to realize that these are all nonconstructive, and, as Conan said, “doesn’t lead anywhere.” 

At this age, and after the year we’ve been through, what I’ve come to realize is that it’s pointless to engage in arguments with people who immediately place themselves above everybody else by the mere fact that they’re voicing their opinions; there’s an automatic assumption that they are correct and the other side is wrong. Because, when you think about it, the most cynical among us are those who think of themselves smarter, more eloquent, simply better than everybody else. 

And that’s definitely not me. Not for as long as I can help it. 

Watch Conan’s commencement speech to the 2011 graduating class of Dartmouth here 

Casual Affairs - A Novella by Paul John Caña (Prologue)

In 2014, I attended a four-week writing workshop facilitated by Jessica Zafra. The "final" was to come up with our own novel, or at least, a solid idea for one. It took me a few months, but I eventually finished mine, one of only a handful in the class to turn in something. It's not actually a full novel, so I'm calling it a novella. I've since read and re-read it a few times over the years and still think it's not completely horrible. 

I posted the prologue for that novella once before, but the URL has since disappeared off the face of the internet. So here it is again, for my enjoyment and yours, if you care to take the time to read it. Maybe someday I'll have the courage to post the full thing, or even get it published. Who knows?

===========================================================================

CASUAL AFFAIRS

By Paul John Caña

“What is friendship? The hangover’s faction

The gratis talk of outrage

Exchange by vanity, inaction

Or bitter shame of patronage” 

- Alexander Pushkin

  

“When people show you who they are, believe them.”

- Maya Angelou

PROLOGUE

The affair had been going on for six months. The woman's name was Sarah. From the earliest emails, I gathered she was an old high school classmate of Joey. Sandwiched between an advertisement for penile implants and an announcement of winning an online lottery, I found the first message, with the subject line titled simply, “Hey.” 

“Joey Aguila?” I read. “From Concepcion High School? This is Sarah De Guzman. Can't believe I'd find you here on LinkNet after all these years. If you're the Joey Aguila I know, drop me a line. I'll know it's you if you can tell me the name of that old store right outside our campus where we used to buy hopia and Coke. If not, don't bother replying, and sorry to waste your time. Sarah.” There was a smiley at the end of the message, rather, a winking smiley: ;)

Apparently, it didn't take long for Joey to respond. The next message, “Re: Hey,” carried Joey's enthusiastic reply. 

“Are you kidding? How can I forget Tingting's Sari-Sari store?” The usual niceties followed: “How are you?” What are you doing now?” Is that you in your profile photo? I thought it was Anne Curtis!” Joey went on to describe an extremely condensed version of his life in three sentences: the job (“I'm Senior Development Manager at a financial consultancy company in Makati”), the wife (“Been married for six years!”), the kids (“Hector's four, Cassandra is two”). At the top of the thread was Sarah's response, expressing her “delight” at having found a “dear friend” on the social networking website. The next few emails, all carrying the subject title “Re: Hey,” were pretty banal: they covered old classmates, current preoccupations, job complaints. And then there was the inevitable invitation to meet face to face.

“How about lunch?” Sarah wrote. “Your office isn't that far away from mine. Call or text me anytime.” She ended with her mobile phone number. 

I had to scan through dozens of other messages before I found the next message from Sarah, about three weeks after the last one. There was no subject title.

“Just wanted to say thanks again for dinner last night,” she wrote. “It was great. And the other thing, too.” There was the winking smiley again. “Hope there wasn't any trouble afterwards. It was pretty late. Next time, dinner's on me.” And yet another winking smiley. I clicked on the Sent Messages folder, scanned through the dates and found what I was looking for. 

“I'll hold you to that,” Joey wrote. “Nah, my wife's used to me coming home really late. I could've been out all night and she wouldn't have said anything. She doesn't say much to me these days. We're pretty much all talked out at this point. But I don't want to bore you with all of that. I'll see you soon. Love, Joey.”

The last message from Sarah was dated only about two weeks before the accident. “Joey, I am forwarding our e-tickets to Tagbilaran. I can't wait for this trip.  Only three weeks to go. Finally, just the two of us. Love, Sarah.”

I leaned back on my chair as I read the last message. I stared at the wall past the laptop, trying to come to grips with everything I had just learned. Joey and I have been friends since freshman year in university. I had never heard him speak about this Sarah before, not since we became friends and certainly not after they had reconnected six months ago. I felt hurt that he chose to keep that secret from me, and wondered what else about him I didn't know. And then I felt guilty. I violated my friend's privacy and discovered something about him that would forever haunt me. I listened to the steady tic-toc of the clock on my desk and regarded the pile of books that lay next to the open laptop. Although I was looking, I wasn't really seeing anything. My mind had filled with images of my friend and his wife and kids, and then of this mysterious woman. I wasn't sure what to make of the information, and was even less sure if I should share it with anyone.

*****

The casket was the wrong color. That was the first thing I noticed as soon as I stepped into the viewing room. Joey hated white. I couldn't remember ever seeing him wear it. Said it was too easily dirtied. And yet there he was about to spend eternity in a blinding white box. He would've loved the irony, if it had happened to somebody else. I surveyed the room. People were milling about, conversing in hushed tones. I saw Renee sitting on one of the front pews and went over to her. She was dressed in a black roundneck t-shirt and black jeans. Her long dark hair was pulled back in a ponytail, with wisps escaping on the sides. As she turned her head I caught her eyes: they were swollen and dark, like somebody punched her. She saw me and attempted a smile. She stood up and we hugged. For a while we didn't say anything. It felt like hours. I felt a lump in my throat but shrugged it off and gently let Renee go.

“Hey,” I said. “Uh...” I had no idea what to say next.

“I'm fine,” she said, sensing my uncertainty. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.” I reached out again and found her shoulder. There were a dozen things I could have said. I could've made a joke about how Joey always said he'd done everything—like go parasailing, get married or buy a car—before me, so it was typical of him to be, well, himself. I could've asked about the kids, though I could see little Cassie asleep in the arms of an older woman, probably an aunt or something. Or I could've made up some meaningless drivel about how things happen for a reason and that God takes the good ones first or some shit like that that people often spew on occasions like this. In the end I just went with what I really wanted to say to Renee.

“If you need anything, just let me know.”

“Thanks,” she said. “I appreciate that.”

Just then a group of people in suits and ties came in. Renee and I both looked and I nodded to her that it was okay. She gave me that smile again as she went over to the new arrivals.

I stood rooted at the spot, unsure of what to do next. I didn't see anyone else I knew, and I wasn't sure I wanted to go over to the casket. The viewing area was tiny; it was one of about twenty rooms at the funerary place along Araneta Avenue. Renee had said they were hoping to transfer to a bigger room as soon as one was available. Too many dead people, I thought as I finally moved and made my way towards the back. An assortment of cookies and nuts in plastic wrappers, styrofoam and plastic cups, and sandwiches wrapped in napkins were spread on a small table. A water dispenser stood next to it. I stared at the dirty orange rag that lay on the floor, soaked from the liquid that missed the cups. I started to pick up a small pack of nuts when I heard somebody call my name.

“I thought that was you,” a female voice said. I turned around and recognized Lisa, whom everybody called Lee. She was with someone, a guy who looked vaguely familiar. I decided he was probably the boyfriend. I gave Lee a hug.

“I don’t think you’ve ever met David,” she said. 

“Hey, nice to meet you,” I said and shook his hand. “When did you guys arrive in Manila?” 

“This morning,” Lee answered. “I'm still a bit dazed.” 

“Yeah I know what you mean.”

Lee didn't look that much different from when Joey and I first met her our senior year in college. We both tried to date her but it became obvious rather quickly that she was much too good for us. We all liked the same things: greasy, smoky bars with bands that played good music, cheap beer and cheaper smokes; we became fast friends. 

“How's Renee doing?” she asked as we squeezed ourselves into a corner.

“Seems to be holding up.” I glanced over at Renee talking to the suits across the room.

“Excuse me, I'm just gonna go outside for a smoke,” David said. He moved towards the door.

“How are you doing?” I said to Lee, emphasizing the “you.”

“Oh you know me. Same old, same old.” She gave me a shrug and a forced, forlorn smile, like one a talent show runner-up gave to her parents when she broke the news that she didn't win. “Thanks for asking.” I decided against pursuing it. Lee would have probably opened up and told me about it, but at that moment, I didn't think I could handle any form of stress heavier than soggy peanuts. I put the pack I was holding back on the table. Lee and I moved on to the small talk, which was surprisingly breezy. She was based in Singapore and Joey and I hadn't seen her in over five years. We did the usual roll call of old classmates, where they were and what they were doing. It felt good just to talk to her, and for a while, I forgot about our friend lying in a nice suit in a white box at the front of the room. 

*****

I wasn't exactly sure what made me do it. Renee might have mentioned something about looking for important messages in Joey's e-mail, and I kind of figured I was trying to help her. In the end, and I hated to admit it, I was probably just bored. I was in my condo one night a few days after the accident, looking in my hard drive through old photographs of Joey and our college barkada.

I knew Joey's email addresses, of course. He had two, the first was for work, and the second was a web-based address he's had since college. I typed in the URL for the web-based email. 

USERNAME:

PASSWORD:

I stared at the screen. I moved the mouse and placed the cursor above the space for username. I clicked the mouse and typed in Joey’s.

What am I doing?! I asked myself. I was hacking into my dead friend's email address and I couldn't think of a reason why. I was acutely aware that this was a gross violation of privacy, but I tried to rationalize it by telling myself Joey was dead and that he'd hardly mind if I took a peek into his private email. When people died 20, 30 years ago, the letters they left behind were tangible. More sensitive correspondence was folded and locked away in some secret drawer or old shoebox hidden under the bed or on the top cabinet of the closet. These days, handwritten letters are a rarity. I couldn't remember the last time I got anything in the mail, other than bills. Then I wondered how many people die everyday and how much of their lives they put online. 

The cursor kept blinking. PASSWORD.

I thought about Joey. The first time we met was during registration, when we were in line for a class we both wanted to take. I was the clueless boy from Cavite and he was the self-assured, city-bred know-it-all. He was tall and gangly to my short and pudgy. Over the years we eventually evened out; I hit my growth spurt later that year, and thanks to swimming and athletics, lost the baby fat I'd had all throughout high school, while he put on a few pounds of muscle working out and playing basketball for the university varsity team. He and Renee met during one of their games. They've been inseparable ever since. The marriage came a couple of years after graduation. I was his best man.

“Dude when are you gonna stop screwing around and just settle down already?” he would tell me not a few times during our regular drinking sessions. “People crack jokes about being married but I don't get it. I love being married.  I love my wife. I love our kids. I love my life. You should start thinking about getting in on it, too.”

“Not everyone's as damn lucky as you, asshole,” I would shoot back.

Joey would just shrug his shoulders and take another swig from his beer bottle. “What can I say? Fate smiles upon Joey Aguila.”

*****

The call came past eleven o'clock one Tuesday night. I was just settling into bed and had the TV on to one of those late night American talk shows. The monologue was just starting and the host was cracking a joke about some aging Hollywood actress when my mobile phone beeped. It was Renee.

“Hey, what's up?” I said.

There was silence on the other end, then I could hear a faint whimpering. “It's...It's Joey. We're at the hospital.”

I sat up and turned the TV off. The neighbor's dog was barking loudly again and I willed it to burst into flames. “What's wrong? Tell me what happened.”

“We don't know yet.” I could hear the strain in Renee's voice and could feel her trying very hard to rein in her emotions.  “He...he was driving and got into an...an accident.”

“Okay hang on. I'll be right there.” I asked her which hospital then hung up. 

As I changed into jeans and the first t-shirt I could get my hands on, I was strangely calm. It couldn't be that bad, I kept telling myself. He probably had a bit too much to drink, although in all the years Joey and I have communed over beers, I've never known him to have any problems driving afterwards. I grabbed my keys and headed downstairs, locked the door of my unit behind me and half-ran to the elevator. I pressed the down button and waited. He probably has a sprained leg or a banged-up head or something, I thought. I'd punch him in the side and kid him for being distracted by that sexy new billboard of that actress in her underwear on EDSA. We'll have a good laugh about it after. The elevator came and it was empty. I pressed B2 and spent the next 30 seconds wondering what sort of condition Joey was in.

When the elevator doors parted I walked the short distance to where my car was parked, jumped into it and drove off. Traffic was light and I was in the hospital in less than 30 minutes. Renee was sitting by herself in the emergency room waiting area. She was in a red button-up blouse, jeans and flip flops. Busy nurses and doctors with their stethoscopes and charts walked past her. She remained motionless in her seat, arms crossed on her chest, eyes staring straight ahead. I walked up to her and it took her a moment to recognize me. She got up to hug me and I felt her shaking. 

“He...he's gone.”

*****

I tried the most likely possibilities for Joey's password. His birthday, the names of his kids, his wife's name, his favorite NBA team, even the word “password.” I tapped my finger on the mouse, wrinkled my eyebrows and pursed my lips. This is crazy, I thought. 

After a few more tries, I noticed the question just underneath the PASSWORD line on the screen. “Forgot your password?” it said in red letters, like an assistant whose offer of help I kept ignoring. I clicked on it and it took me to a page with a password recovery question. “Who do I miss most?” I couldn't help but grin.

Joey was an only child and was therefore a bit of a brat. He always insisted on getting his way every time, all the time. We'd meet for drinks at this out-of-the-way place because, according to him, the “beer was ice cold and the waitresses were red hot.” He'd talk to me about issues in his office and complain about how everyone, most of all his bosses, was a complete idiot. He'd always have somebody do everything for him—an assistant at the office, the help at home, anyone he could pay off to do the simplest and most menial tasks. Despite this occasional tendency to place his needs and wants above everybody else's, I've always known him to be empathetic and generous. He volunteered once a month to a group that organizes feeding programs in depressed communities, he subsidized the tuition of the family laundrywoman's daughter who goes to a college in Ilocos Norte, and I knew for a fact he spoiled his wife and children rotten. My friend was a pretty solid, upstanding, sensitive guy. And I missed him. 

I was counting on this goody-goody side of Joey when I started typing a response to the password recovery question. We've been friends for almost 15 years and I thought I had a pretty good idea of who he was and what he was like. The answer came to me instantly.

BADGER.

It was the name of the golden retriever he had when he was a kid. He told me about it in one of our usual night outs laced with alcohol. “Badger because she was a bad girl,” Joey explained. There were no siblings to play with when he was growing up, so Badger filled that role in Joey's life. She died of old age right around the time her owner graduated from high school. Somehow, I never forgot the name, partly because I, too, had always wanted but never had a pet dog, but mostly because it was one of those rare times when Joey got all quiet when he was talking about it. “We never had another dog after Badger died,” he said. “She was pretty special.” 

“Change your password now?”

I typed in the most generic password I could think of.

“Password1234”

“Your password has been changed.”

I went back to the email home screen and clicked on Inbox. I felt curious, exhilarated, shameful, and disgusted all at once. What had come over me that I would hack into my best friend's email so soon after he died? I attempted to conjure thoughts and words to justify my actions. While none, I felt, sufficed, I was already scrolling down the messages. Soon, the guilt began to occupy a lesser place in my conscience, and in its place were the beginnings of an appetite to learn more about my departed friend.

*****

I noticed a policeman talking to one of the doctors. I turned to Renee; little puddles were starting to form in her eyelids, threatening to escape and fall down her cheeks any second. The shaking had stopped, but she still seemed fragile. She hadn't uttered a single word after telling me Joey was gone. I didn't want to leave her but I wanted to know what happened. 

As I stood up and walked over to the officer, my mind suddenly flashed to images of Joey and Renee, and how I always thought of them as the perfect couple. They weren't overly affectionate towards each other in public, but they laughed at each other's jokes, used pet names when they thought nobody could hear them and were excellent parents to their kids. Renee used to come with us for drinks, but hung out with us less when Hector and Cassie came along. She was a beautiful woman and I always kidded Joey that he must have done something so spectacularly good to have gotten her to agree to be his wife. Joey always just smiled and said, “Yeah, I guess I got lucky.”

The policeman had one arm on his chest and one hand softly pinching his lips as he listened intently to the doctor. When I got to him, I heard the doctor say something about taking painkillers and getting some sleep. I was confused until I realized the policeman must have been asking about a personal medical issue.

“You think maybe it has something to do with this weird weather we've been having?” he asked the doctor. 

“Pardon me?” the doc said, his tone the equivalent of a raised eyebrow.

“You know. It rained for an hour this afternoon, but the sun was still shining. The ground was wet but it was still hot and humid. Nanay always said when that happens a pair of tikbalangs was getting married.” 

“And you think their marriage has something to do with your headaches?”

“Er, not exactly, but I've never had a headache this intense before.”

“That sounds like a migraine. Like I said, try a couple of Ibuprofens and a good night's sleep.”

At that point the doctor noticed my presence and gestured to me to the policeman. “I think he wants to talk to you. If there's nothing else, please excuse me, I have patients to see.” He didn't wait for an answer and walked away.

Officer Migraine turned to me, his hand moving from pinching his lip to scratching his chin. I introduced myself. “Sir do you know what happened to my friend Joey Aguila? He's the husband of that lady over there.” I pointed to Renee.

“Oh yeah. Accident happened this afternoon, around 5:30 PM. Head-on collision over at Commonwealth.” 

Commonwealth? I asked myself. Joey's office is in Makati. What was he doing in Quezon City on a work day? I kept my thoughts to myself and instead asked the cop why it took so long to bring Joey to the hospital. “His wife was notified at almost 11 p.m.,” I said. 

“I don't know. Probably took a while to find an “in case of emergency” contact number. He didn't have a wallet on him. Didn't find any identification in the car. We had to trace the owner through the license plate.” 

I looked over at Renee and saw that she hadn't moved. She was still staring straight ahead, as if in a trance, transfixed on a spot on the wall opposite her. 

“And you said it was a head-on collision?” I asked.

“Yeah. This truck was doing about 80 kilometers per hour, apparently lost control, swerved to the other side and went straight for the car your friend was driving.” He made a dramatic action with his hands: fist to palm in one quick punch. “It was pretty bad.” 

I couldn't take my eyes of Renee. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the wall.

“And my friend? Joey?” I paused and swallowed the growing lump in my throat. “Did...ah...did he...I mean...Was it...” I trailed off.

“Like I said, it was pretty bad,” he said matter-of-factly. “The front of the truck smashed through and flattened the front of your friend's car.” He looked at me looking at Renee looking at the wall. “Sorry, but your friend was killed instantly.”