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Maximum Volume: Best New Philippine Fiction 2014: Maximum Volume, #1
Maximum Volume: Best New Philippine Fiction 2014: Maximum Volume, #1
Maximum Volume: Best New Philippine Fiction 2014: Maximum Volume, #1
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Maximum Volume: Best New Philippine Fiction 2014: Maximum Volume, #1

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Maximum Volume is about creating spaces for emerging Filipino writers and new narratives.

Here is a baker’s dozen of the best contemporary writing, ranging from small personal tragedies to fantastic voyages of the imagination to our nation’s past and present.

LanguageEnglish
Release dateNov 30, 2017
ISBN9786214201396
Maximum Volume: Best New Philippine Fiction 2014: Maximum Volume, #1

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    Book preview

    Maximum Volume - Dean Francis Alfar

    Maximum Volume: Best New Filipino Fiction 2014

    Angelo R. Lacuesta and Dean Francis Alfar, editors

    Copyright to this digital edition © 2014 by Angelo R. Lacuesta, Dean Francis Alfar, and Anvil Publishing Inc.

    Copyright of stories remains with their authors.

    All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

    Published and exclusively distributed by

    ANVIL PUBLISHING INC.

    7th Floor Quad Alpha Centrum Building

    125 Pioneer Street, Mandaluyong City

    1550 Philippines

    Trunk Lines: (+632) 477-4752, 477-4755 to 57

    Sales and Marketing: Locals 813, 816–817

    marketing@anvilpublishing.com

    Fax no.: (+632) 747-1622

    www.anvilpublishing.com

    Book design by Carina Santos (cover) and Ani V. Habúlan (interior)

    E-book formatting by Arvyn Cerezo

    ISBN 9786214201396 (e-book)

    Version 1.0.1

    Sarge Lacuesta would like to dedicate this book to Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta and Lucas RA Lacuesta.

    Dean Francis Alfar would like to dedicate this book to Nikki Alfar, Sage Alfar and Rowan Alfar.

    Contents

    Introduction

    Acknowledgments

    The Stories

    My Life As A Bee: Michelangelo Samson

    Exchange: Christine V. Lao

    Posing: Noelle Q. de Jesus

    The Other Woman Narrative: Daryll Delgado

    Cruising: Isabel Yap

    The Secret Adobo Wars: Kate Osias

    The Missing: Eliza Victoria

    The Red Cup: Francezca C. Kwe

    A Case of Two Husbands: Heinz Lawrence Ang

    Man of Letters: Marc Gaba

    Basta: Glenn Diaz

    Little Places: Crystal Koo

    Journey Back to the Source: Gino Dizon

    The Authors

    The Editors

    Introduction

    MAXIMUM VOLUME is not about making noise but about creating space for emerging Filipino writers and new narratives.

    When Sarge Lacuesta and I formed our specialty publishing imprint et al, one of our goals was to encourage younger writers, to show them their voices matter, that they matter. We want to help grow a more vibrant readership, one that appreciates, supports and celebrates the different kinds of stories being written in our country. We want to help readers discover authors they may have previously been unaware of.

    We issued a call, sounded the clarion for stories by writers under 45 years old, and were overwhelmed by the response as submissions came in from all over the country and abroad. It was a difficult but rewarding task for both us—we had more excellent stories than we hoped.

    Here is a baker’s dozen of the best new contemporary writing, ranging from small personal tragedies to fantastic voyages of the imagination to our nation’s past and present. These stories take place on our soil as well as in other lands we have learned to call home—and all of them display a characteristic vitality, a certain energy that not only engages but also shows us what it means to lose and love and live. We unabashedly believe these stories to be among the best we have read this year, and each one deserves a wider audience.

    Sarge and I thank all our contributors as well as everyone who submitted fiction for consideration, and Anvil for giving et al and MAXIMUM VOLUME a home.

    This is only the beginning of MAXIMUM VOLUME. It is our hope that it will grow louder and brasher and shake the world in the years to come.

    Now go and read.

    DEAN FRANCIS ALFAR

    Manila 2014

    DO NOT READ THIS INTRODUCTION. Go directly to the first page. Read the stories. There’s one with a nude model in it. There are a couple that are a bit tough to understand. There’s one with Jollibee in it!

    There are thirteen stories in this inaugural MAXIMUM VOLUME. We prefer to write it that way, in all-caps. Because it makes it seem louder and more important. Because it kind of calls attention to the word’s many useful meanings. Because when we pound out the letters with the caps-lock light on or with a finger firmly on the left shift key we feel like we’re making a big decision, collecting what we feel are really good stories from a young generation of writers who all probably pounded out these stories with the same kind of confidence.

    Thirteen could be an unlucky number. There might not be another book. But there will be. Because we’re feeling lucky, and there will always be writers who are young and who don’t care when people tell them writing stories isn’t worth much anymore, and that besides there isn’t much to write about anymore in our time. Because we will always be lucky to have stories like these, stories about second-hand clothing stores and lovers and cruise ships, stories about adobo and Spanish times and little places and big places like Bangkok and basta!

    ANGELO R. LACUESTA

    September 2013

    Acknowledgments

    The Editors would like to thank:

    Karina Bolasco of Anvil Publishing, along with Gwenn Galvez and Ani Habúlan.

    Mookie Katigbak-Lacuesta and Nikki Alfar.

    The Stories

    My Life As A Bee by Michelangelo Samson

    Exchange by Christine V. Lao

    Posing by Noelle Q. de Jesus

    The Other Woman Narrative by Daryll Delgado

    Cruising by Isabel Yap

    The Secret Adobo Wars by Kate Osias

    The Missing by Eliza Victoria

    The Red Cup by Francezca Kwe

    The Case of Two Husbands by Heinz Lawrence Ang

    Man of Letters by Marc Gaba

    Basta by Glenn Diaz

    Little Places by Crystal Koo

    Journey Back to the Source by Gino Dizon

    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 fucking 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.

    Does anyone here fit this costume? asked Kevin, looking at each of us. How about you? he said, pointing in my direction.

    Me?

    Yeah you. Jeric right? Kevin said. You look about the right size.

    But I don’t know what to do, I said, thinking about the complicated finale where Sabra had to jump through a paper barrier and then run to each end zone doing his Sabre Dance.

    We’ll simplify. Just do what you do every night to get the crowd into it. Punch the air, clap—you know, normal stuff. We’ll skip the paper thing. Run to each end zone and point to the crowd, make like you’re throwing a spear or whatever, that should get everybody going.

    I can’t, I said, getting stage fright for the first time in my life.

    Dude, it’s the playoffs! Win or go home. You gotta do this. Take one for the team, buddy.

    With that, I found myself bundled into Sabra’s costume, soft body parts covering my limbs, my torso, like armor for a foam gladiator. When they attached Sabra’s head, the fiberglass helmet settling on me like a crown, I heard Kevin as if from underwater shouting beside me: You alright in there? Two thumbs up if you can hear me. I raised my hands—white paws the size of pillows.

    Great, said Kevin. Everyone, follow Sabra out onto the field. Big smiles! Go Cats!

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