Kristynelle Lonzaga is my oldest, bestest friend.
Katuwaan lang. Or sabi nga ni wheresmycow: For shits and giggles.
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That's what her testimonial in Friendster declares, in alternating capital and low case letters. I didn't have the heart to delete it, or tell her It's Madeline now, not Madz, not Madel or to tell her that we're only friends because I got the mumps right before the music exams in Grade 3 and she was the only one without a singing partner so I was forced to perform “Mister Disco” in front of a snickering class that learned early on what sarcasm was. Since then she attached herself to me like bubblegum in a nest of hair. She called me at home, asking if she could come over and play with the dolls or something. There's no other way to get rid of it unless you cut off all your hair or douse it with gasoline and strike a match. It doesn't really matter to her that we haven't really seen each other face to face since grade school graduation sixteen years ago. But Kristynelle has always been a fragile girl, given to fainting spells and was always on the verge of getting pneumonia. She was the only kid in school allowed by the nuns to wear a hooded jacket-her ears get cold, too-- over her uniform of pleated blue skirt and a slim tie that she always chewed the ends of.
Whether I liked it or not, I got bulletins informing me what she's been up to: Kristynelle went snorkeling in Puerto Galera, see her almost drowning underwater, yet trying to smile beneath the diving mask, choking a brilliant blue starfish; Kristynelle got fired resigned from her job as a bank teller in Pasay; Kristynelle's despedida in Music 21 showed her hitting the high notes by bending over backwards, her face contorted, sha-ba-da, Mister Disco, Mister Disco man; Kristynelle got engaged to Lawrence; Kristynelle saying I do in a motif of hot pink and morning grass; Kristynelle migrated to Fresno, California, United States of America.
I thought that finally I was rid of her. Several thousand miles, a newlywed life. Surely she would be too busy sweeping sand off her porch to continue to haunt my inbox or want to rekindle ties that should have been severed long ago. But what I failed to understand was that Kristynelle picked me to be her best friend. As far as she's concerned, we're best friends for life, whether I confirmed or agreed with her declaration, it doesn't matter.
One night I received a phone call. The strains of The Carpenters “Close to You” filled my apartment. Why do birds suddenly appear at 2 AM. I buried it under every time you are near the pillows and rang again and again. Wa-ah-ha-ah- close to Four missed calls. It was two in the freaking morning. But I felt the phone vibrating, Just like me they long to be insistent, the blue lights escaping the pillow's edge. “Who is this?”
“Madz,” the voice cheerfully said. “Kamusta ka na?” Who else can be this cheerful.
“Kristynelle, it's the middle of the night, I'm sleepy.”
“But we have a lot of catching up to do. I got married.”
“I know. Saw it on Friendster.” There was a persistent buzz, a low one, although Kristynelle's voice came through clear enough. But it is nighttime, and sounds are louder at night. “How are things in California?”
“I'm in Nevada. I moved here a month ago with my new husband.”
“Saw that in Friendster. But I thought you said California.”
“Fresno's in Nevada pala. Forgot to change that.”
“Hey, I really have to go. Got work early tomorrow.”
“Really? I still can't get the hang of this time zone thing. How many hours forward nga in the Philippines?”
“I don't know. Can you call me tomorrow?”
“You can't open the fire exits pala in Nevada, no?” Kristynelle said. “I was waiting for my husband to come home from his shift at the hospital and I was bored at the apartment. I wanted to smoke so I pushed the fire exit door to smoke there, like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, you know that movie?”
I have a vague remembrance of the scene, Audrey Hepburn whispering through “Moon River.” Now where did I see that video? Friendster, perhaps, on somebody's page. “Yeah, I do.”
“I just missed everyone and wanted to go all senti on the fire exit. Like Audrey, you know. Then all the alarms sounded. It's like a hundred jet planes landing in my eardrums. Then the police came. The firemen came. You can get arrested pala for opening the fire exit when there's no real fire.”
“Well, we do learn new things everyday,” I said. I was almost fully awake by then, thinking of all the red and blue whirring lights from the tops of the police cars, Kristynelle with her cigarette perched on the steel staircase, looking out at the desert. “I didn't know you smoked.”
“I just started a few weeks ago. My husband's always out and I have nothing to do.”
“So what are you doing now? Is your husband at work?”
“I think so,” she said. “Madz, I have a favor to ask of you. I have to go soon. Can you open my Friendster for me? I just need to leave a message for Lawrence.”
It seemed like an odd request to make at 2.30AM, I in my apartment in Marikina, she in Nevada.
“Okay. What's the message.”
“Tell him to fetch me at the Fresno Central Police Station. They arrested me for opening the fire exits and I only have one phone call. I don't remember his phone number, and yours is the only one I remember by heart.”
.............................................................................................................................................................................
That's what her testimonial in Friendster declares, in alternating capital and low case letters. I didn't have the heart to delete it, or tell her It's Madeline now, not Madz, not Madel or to tell her that we're only friends because I got the mumps right before the music exams in Grade 3 and she was the only one without a singing partner so I was forced to perform “Mister Disco” in front of a snickering class that learned early on what sarcasm was. Since then she attached herself to me like bubblegum in a nest of hair. She called me at home, asking if she could come over and play with the dolls or something. There's no other way to get rid of it unless you cut off all your hair or douse it with gasoline and strike a match. It doesn't really matter to her that we haven't really seen each other face to face since grade school graduation sixteen years ago. But Kristynelle has always been a fragile girl, given to fainting spells and was always on the verge of getting pneumonia. She was the only kid in school allowed by the nuns to wear a hooded jacket-her ears get cold, too-- over her uniform of pleated blue skirt and a slim tie that she always chewed the ends of.
Whether I liked it or not, I got bulletins informing me what she's been up to: Kristynelle went snorkeling in Puerto Galera, see her almost drowning underwater, yet trying to smile beneath the diving mask, choking a brilliant blue starfish; Kristynelle got fired resigned from her job as a bank teller in Pasay; Kristynelle's despedida in Music 21 showed her hitting the high notes by bending over backwards, her face contorted, sha-ba-da, Mister Disco, Mister Disco man; Kristynelle got engaged to Lawrence; Kristynelle saying I do in a motif of hot pink and morning grass; Kristynelle migrated to Fresno, California, United States of America.
I thought that finally I was rid of her. Several thousand miles, a newlywed life. Surely she would be too busy sweeping sand off her porch to continue to haunt my inbox or want to rekindle ties that should have been severed long ago. But what I failed to understand was that Kristynelle picked me to be her best friend. As far as she's concerned, we're best friends for life, whether I confirmed or agreed with her declaration, it doesn't matter.
One night I received a phone call. The strains of The Carpenters “Close to You” filled my apartment. Why do birds suddenly appear at 2 AM. I buried it under every time you are near the pillows and rang again and again. Wa-ah-ha-ah- close to Four missed calls. It was two in the freaking morning. But I felt the phone vibrating, Just like me they long to be insistent, the blue lights escaping the pillow's edge. “Who is this?”
“Madz,” the voice cheerfully said. “Kamusta ka na?” Who else can be this cheerful.
“Kristynelle, it's the middle of the night, I'm sleepy.”
“But we have a lot of catching up to do. I got married.”
“I know. Saw it on Friendster.” There was a persistent buzz, a low one, although Kristynelle's voice came through clear enough. But it is nighttime, and sounds are louder at night. “How are things in California?”
“I'm in Nevada. I moved here a month ago with my new husband.”
“Saw that in Friendster. But I thought you said California.”
“Fresno's in Nevada pala. Forgot to change that.”
“Hey, I really have to go. Got work early tomorrow.”
“Really? I still can't get the hang of this time zone thing. How many hours forward nga in the Philippines?”
“I don't know. Can you call me tomorrow?”
“You can't open the fire exits pala in Nevada, no?” Kristynelle said. “I was waiting for my husband to come home from his shift at the hospital and I was bored at the apartment. I wanted to smoke so I pushed the fire exit door to smoke there, like Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, you know that movie?”
I have a vague remembrance of the scene, Audrey Hepburn whispering through “Moon River.” Now where did I see that video? Friendster, perhaps, on somebody's page. “Yeah, I do.”
“I just missed everyone and wanted to go all senti on the fire exit. Like Audrey, you know. Then all the alarms sounded. It's like a hundred jet planes landing in my eardrums. Then the police came. The firemen came. You can get arrested pala for opening the fire exit when there's no real fire.”
“Well, we do learn new things everyday,” I said. I was almost fully awake by then, thinking of all the red and blue whirring lights from the tops of the police cars, Kristynelle with her cigarette perched on the steel staircase, looking out at the desert. “I didn't know you smoked.”
“I just started a few weeks ago. My husband's always out and I have nothing to do.”
“So what are you doing now? Is your husband at work?”
“I think so,” she said. “Madz, I have a favor to ask of you. I have to go soon. Can you open my Friendster for me? I just need to leave a message for Lawrence.”
It seemed like an odd request to make at 2.30AM, I in my apartment in Marikina, she in Nevada.
“Okay. What's the message.”
“Tell him to fetch me at the Fresno Central Police Station. They arrested me for opening the fire exits and I only have one phone call. I don't remember his phone number, and yours is the only one I remember by heart.”