End of a bromance

0utside this theater mall in Mandaluyong City stands an erect, low-beam façade of a deli that is frequented by, well, sandwich lovers during lunch hour. Despite better ventilation and high-end prices, it takes its place among the row of small, cheap eateries that seem to change from burger joints to barbecue stalls and back every few months.

The hustle and bustle of noontime traffic along the main road, coupled with the returning heat of February added to the aura of a busy, modern-day metropolis: and the perfect setting for a breakup. A different kind, mind you…

I had nothing against Larry Pascua, except for the fact that I flat-out just didn’t like him. His shallowness and inane observations were remarkable traits, sure, but, like the sizes of our feet, most of our similarities ended there.

I met this creature six months ago during one of my solitary drinking sprees at a local pub. He was seated at the bar beside me belching his gut out while occasionally telling the waitress how he came up with the idea for The Da Vinci Code first.

Now normally I would’ve changed seats, sat back and enjoyed watching this nut make a spectacle of himself the entire night, but there was something about his shortness, his pudginess and silly manner that made me want to chat him up a bit. Besides, after four Heinekens I was quite in a friendly mood.

As it turned out, he wasn’t that bad at all. Not unlike me, he was unmarried and, not unlike every guy in the pub that night, was hoping to shag some cute girl. And while that hope turned out to be as unrealistic as me winning a Grammy, we had a fun drunk-talk until the wee hours, with the climax of Larry passing out on the table and throwing up on the floor.

It’s true what they say, though: People are only as good as your last drink. And as sobriety took hold of me over the course of the next month, the real essence of Larry Pascua was unraveled. Boorish, self-involved and extremely adept at telling tall tales, he was the type of person you’d love to meet then forget about — like that drink in the bar.

Ditching him wasn’t so easy, however, as I often found myself in his company. Ever since the mistake of exchanging numbers with him, not a day went by without my getting an invitation to hang out or have brunch or watch a movie. And it didn’t matter if I replied I was busy. He was up for anything. Even activities as mundane as dropping off my clothes at the cleaners or going to the bank or buying new socks, he tagged along. The guy could never take a hint.

Now I probably wouldn’t have minded that much had he kept his character to himself, but he’d stick his nose everywhere and even go as far as to berate the saleslady on why the department store’s socks cost so much. In these situations, I usually gave the victim a smile that hopefully said, “I’m sorry, I think this idiot doesn’t know what the hell he’s talking about, either.”

Things finally reached boiling point one day when, during one of Larry’s many uninvited pop-ins at my apartment to make a sandwich, he accidentally dropped the Beatles mug I won at a Christmas raffle, shattering it to pieces.

“Hey! What the hell did ya do?? I loved that mug!” I cried, shaking my head over the broken shards of glass that made up Ringo’s nose.

“Who was that, the Beatles?”

“Yeah...” I mumbled, still unable to take my eyes off the tragedy.

“Oh,” he said in-between bites. “I did you a favor then. Ha ha ha! That reminds me, did I ever tell you about the time when Paul McCartney stole some idea of mine for a song?”

I don’t know if it was the mug or his lie or the icky sandwich pieces in his mouth as he laughed that did it, but it was probably a combination of all three. I had to have the “talk” with him. And that’s what brings us back to the deli outside this theater mall in Mandaluyong.

I chose a table near the most crowded area (something I’d regret a few minutes later) and bought Larry a turkey club to, uh, help soothe the blow I was planning to sock him with in a bit.

“Boy! This place is a dump!” Larry said.

“It’s only fitting. ‘Cause I’ll be dump—”

“An’ zha turkish dry!” he said while munching heartily on my penny.

“Listen. Larry…”

I’ve only broken up with a girl once. And I thought that was the most difficult thing I ever had to do. I was wrong. Breaking up with Larry was. By the time it took him to order and finish another turkey club, I had used every cliché in the book — from “it’s not you, it’s me” to “I think we should meet other people.” And the bastard still couldn’t get it. The giggles from eavesdroppers at the next table weakened my resolve a little, but I was determined to get this thing done. Eventually, I had to tell him what I should have said in the first place: “I don’t want to be your friend anymore.” That finally shut him up.

For the first time since I met him, there was no comeback of sorts, no funny retort. And I started to feel bad for what I said until…

“You know what, just as well,” he yelled, trying to fight back tears. “Because I can’t be pals with someone like you anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I find your articles sickening.”

“Oh. So you read my articles. In what way?”

“Should there be another way?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“Well then, I find them even more sickening now.”

“Are you sure you wanna go down that road? I’m awfully capable of ma—”

“They are sub-par, borderline plagiarisms of another writer’s accomplishments.”

“And which writer are you referring to, pray tell?” I said.

“Me! Don’t think I never noticed you stealing some of my ideas for a book!”

With that, he finished the last bite of his sandwich and left — leaving me as the sole butt of jokes from the other diners. On my way home, I couldn’t help but think about two things: whether Larry was capable of murder, and his criticism of my articles. Now I never gave much thought to anything Larry ever said, nor have I ever thought of myself as much of a writer, but his little zinger hurt. If there was one consolation, he never bothered me again after that.

A few months later, upon learning my electric bill had gone through the roof again, I received a small package in the mail from Larry. It was a Beatles mug and a short note saying that he was sorry for having broken my old one. I smiled and thought about my former friend. In a moment of weakness, I sent him a message inviting him to have a drink sometime at the local pub.

He hasn’t replied to me yet.

* * *

E-mail: estabillo.matthew@gmail.com.