The Pull of Gravity Read online

  I took a drink out of the bottle and chuckled silently to myself.

  Isabel had called me Doc. That was a name I hadn’t heard in a long time. I couldn’t recall ever hearing Isabel call me anything but Papa Jay or big bro. So when she used my old nickname, it was almost as effective in reverting me to my old Angeles self as seeing her again had been. I don’t recall the person who first started calling me that. Only a select few did, ex-pats mainly. To most of the girls I had been Papa Jay or just plain Papa. But Larry had called me Doc. That’s probably where she’d picked it up.

  And there he was again.

  Larry.

  Right in the middle of things, yet a subject avoided at all costs.

  The total sum of the time he and I had spent together couldn’t have been much more than a month. But it had been spread over a couple years, and in that time he had somehow become my best friend.

  “Fuck you for dying, Larry,” I said softly, then raised my bottle into the air.

  • • •

  My aunt Marla used to like to categorize people.

  “She’s a drug addict.” “The only thing important to him is cash.” “He’s an anarchist.” “A hippie.” “A woman hater.” “A man hater.” “Stingy.” “Soft.”

  She had hundreds. Within minutes of meeting someone for the first time, she had him locked away in one of her boxes—sized up, figured out and filed away. And no matter what that person did in the future, they were always that “shifty-eyed scammer” or that “loose-legged home wrecker.”

  The boxes gave her life structure, but they were harsh and damning. I’m sure her rigidity was responsible for her death.

  I’ve often wondered how she would have described me. Not the boy me, because back then I had been her “helpful Jay.” Rather, the forty-eight-year-old me with the thirty-four-year-old Thai wife in Bangkok and a life uncommon behind me. Where would I have fit in on her personal periodic table? My guess is I’d have been her “nasty, whoring, no-good nephew.”

  A small part of me used to wonder if I had spent more time with her, would any of her system of universal order have rubbed off on me?

  I’m glad I never found out.

  • • •

  My life was already screwed up before I ever got on that plane and moved to the Philippines. I’d spent my career in the Navy basically keeping my head down and not getting into trouble. I never really considered myself a military man, but every time I had to either reenlist or get out, I opted for reenlistment. The truth was, I didn’t really know what else to do. And after a while I was more than halfway to my twenty years and a guaranteed lifetime pension. Getting out at that point seemed stupid. So I traveled the world on large gray ships, and pondered what I’d do when I retired.

  About two years before I hit my twenty, while I was stationed in San Diego, I met a girl. Maureen was only twenty-six years old and I was nearly ten years her senior. But she seemed to love me, and I was tired of being alone. The only thing that made me hesitate asking her to marry me was that she had a six-year-old daughter named Lily. I finally decided she was cool enough, so I popped the question to her mother.

  It’s funny how things turned out sometimes. We were married for three years. Three miserable, horrible years. Neither of us was more to blame than the other. We were just wrong for each other. And yet when it came time to call it off, the one thing that stopped me was Lily. The girl who had made me pause before proposing to her mother had become an important part of my life. I loved her like she was my own. I still love her.

  Lily used to make up these wild stories that maybe I was her real father, but I just couldn’t remember because I had amnesia. I’d play along, and tell her I would go see a doctor, and get an X-ray of my head to be sure. She’d laugh, but there was always a little bit of hope in her eyes.

  That last year Maureen got a night job. I guess she thought that if we didn’t see each other as much, maybe everything would be okay. By then, I was no longer in the service, and was only working part-time at a machine shop while taking a few classes at the community college. So evenings became my time with Lily. I helped with her homework, taught her how to play the opening to “Stairway to Heaven” on the guitar, and talked to her about anything she wanted to discuss. Sometimes when it was only the two of us, Lily would even call me Dad.

  It was those evenings I really wanted to hold on to. They made me put off thinking about Maureen’s question of whether our marriage was worth the effort. When she got tired of waiting for me to do something, it was Maureen, after pulling Lily out of my arms, who left me.

  Over the next six months, Maureen would let me take Lily out for lunch or a movie about once a week. But then my soon-to-be ex-wife met someone else, and my visitation rights were terminated.

  Abruptly. With no warning. No goodbye.

  For several weeks after that, on my off days, I would sit in my car in front of Lily’s school in the morning and watch as Maureen dropped her off. Then one day Lily stopped on the steps before entering the school, turned, looked across the street to where I was parked and waved. Caught off guard, I could only hold up my hand and wave back.

  That was the last time I saw her. After that I thought it was too dangerous to take the chance. One more time and Maureen might have caught me. She might have even called the police and God knows what she would have told them.

  I realized then that I had to get out of town. I’d only be miserable if I stayed.

  Back in my early Navy days, I’d spent some time at Subic Bay in the Philippines. What struck me most was how cheap everything was. Even back then, there was a thriving ex-pat community made up mainly of former American military men. In the States, their pensions would have let them lead a modest life at most, possibly even forcing them to take another job. But in the Philippines, there was no need for a second job. They could afford a large house in a secured development. They could even afford a full-time cook and maid, and there’d still be money left.

  A couple of my buddies had moved to Angeles City several years earlier. It was only a two-hour drive inland from Subic so it seemed like a good idea to join them. My only regret was Lily, but there was nothing I could do.

  After I moved to the Philippines, and even later, after I’d started my fourth life in Bangkok, I would send Lily cards and presents on special occasions, and sometimes for no reason at all. I still do. But I’ve been smart enough not to send them to Lily directly. Instead, I’ve always mailed them to Maureen’s sister in Temecula. We had always gotten along and I think she was sad to see me go, so I’ve hoped, when the appropriate time comes, she’ll give everything to Lily.

  I’ve often wondered how much Lily really remembers about me now. Perhaps I’ll never know.

  • • •

  I settled down in a three-bedroom house on a half-acre of land that had a built-in swimming pool out back. It was only a couple of blocks from where my friend Hal Dogan lived with his Filipina wife, Dolce.

  “I think the real reason people like us come here,” Hal once said to me, “is to disappear.”

  And he was right. Angeles City was great for that. Like a black hole, pulling you in and hiding you from the rest of the world.

  We spent a lot of time after I first got there barbecuing, drinking, playing cards, watching baseball games on satellite TV, and forgetting about pretty much everything else.

  For a time, things were fine, mellow and relaxed. But soon mellow and relaxed became stagnant and bored. And after three months, I began looking for something exciting to do.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  It was back in the early days—my sailor days—when I’d been introduced to the go-go bars of Subic Bay and Angeles. Those days had been wild with sex shows and naked pool parties and beautiful Filipinas willing to do anything you wanted. And if they really liked you, they’d even do it for free. I was young then, and a lot of it was too much for a small-town boy from Arizona to take. But not all of it.

  I couldn’t help it. N
o one could. If you were a heterosexual male with even a faint pulse, you couldn’t resist the FYBs, short for what Hal called fine young babes. All that flesh, right in your face, and offers coming at you from every direction.

  “You take me home, I keep you up all night.”

  “Look at my tits, they’re all yours, baby.”

  “I like you, baby. I make you really happy.”

  They’re smiling and rubbing against you and you’re young and far from home and they’re saying “you’re so cute” and you’re looking at them thinking the same thing and they’re telling you they want to come home with you and you’re wanting exactly that. You can only say no so many times. And once you say yes, it’s all over. You’re hooked. What you don’t realize at the time is your life will never be the same. If anyone asked you, “Have you ever paid for sex?” you might tell them no, but you’d know the truth. And in the eyes of my aunt Marla, and those who thought like her, you were now categorized and forever branded a “sexual deviate.”

  • • •

  When I expressed my newfound boredom to Hal, he told me that he sometimes filled in as a papasan at one of the bars on Fields Avenue. Since my retirement move to Angeles, I had yet to return to the go-go scene. There was no real reason for this. I just hadn’t felt the urge. Maybe my growing weight had something to do with it. Maybe it was how miserably I had failed with Maureen. Whatever the reason, I had all but forgotten about the nightlife that was only a few miles away. So when Hal suggested I come with him one night, I agreed. Anything, I thought, to mix things up a bit.

  The bars were pretty much what I remembered. Perhaps there was a bit more neon, a little more polish. But the girls were the same—young, brown and beautiful—and the scene seemed just as crazy as ever. The men were older. There were still some young guys around, but the steady flow of sailors and Marines and airmen was gone with the closures of the American bases. At first I thought it was funny and a bit sad, these middle-aged-and-older men looking for comfort from girls half their age and sometimes younger. I had always thought it was a sign of youth to fall prey to these desires, but that these older men were true sexual deviants.

  Only then, as I sat in the bar as one of those older men, watching the girls, chatting with them, laughing with them, and talking with the men, too—men who back home in the U.S. or Australia or England or wherever they were from had regular jobs and regular lives—I began to think maybe I was wrong.

  One of Hal’s friends came by the bar around ten p.m. He was a barrel-chested Aussie named Robbie Bainbridge. Robbie and I hit it off right from the start, and we spent several hours drinking and talking about everything from how to make a perfect margarita to the political situation in nearby Malaysia.

  When it was time for him to leave, he threw a thousand pesos on the bar and told the bartender to keep the change. He stuck his hand out to me, and we shook.

  “Good meeting ya, Jay,” he said as he stood.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Enjoyed meeting you, too.”

  “Come by my bar tomorrow night if you get the chance.” He’d mentioned earlier that he owned a place a few blocks down on Fields called The Lounge.

  “Sure,” I said. “If I’m around, I’ll come by.”

  He leaned in toward me. “Make a point of it,” he said softly so only I could hear. “I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”

  “Okay,” I said. I didn’t really have any other plans. “I’ll be there.”

  • • •

  The next night I stepped into The Lounge for the first time. It was early, half past eight, and there was only a handful of customers scattered around the room. On stage, half a dozen dancers were wearing hot pink bikinis, and more were milling about the bar, either talking amongst themselves or entertaining the customers. I didn’t see Robbie anywhere, so I walked over to the bar.

  “What can I get you?” the bartender asked. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and probably stood no higher than five foot two. She was thin, had long dark hair and small dimples in her cheeks when she smiled.

  “I’ll take a mineral water,” I said. In the Philippines, mineral water was the same as your basic drinking water back in the States.

  She retrieved a bottle quickly and set it on the bar. She then wrote something on a piece of paper and stuck it in a wooden cup in front of me. My tab for the evening had begun.

  “First time here?” she asked.

  “Here, yeah. But not Angeles.”

  “I didn’t think I had seen you before. What’s your name?”

  “Jay. What’s yours?”

  “Cathy.”

  I unscrewed the cap from the bottle and took a drink. “I’m supposed to meet Robbie. Do you know if he’s here yet?”

  “Robbie?” she asked.

  “Said he was the owner.”

  Her eyes widened slightly. “Papa Rob?”

  “Sure, I guess. Is he here yet?”

  “Not yet. But not long, I think.”

  She moved away to help another customer, so I turned around to watch the show. Some loud pop song I’d never heard before was blaring over the sound system. (Months later, after hearing the same song at least twice a night every night, I knew it was “Livin’ la Vida Loca” by Ricky Martin. By then I had become an involuntary pop expert.)

  Unlike strip bars in the States, where it was usually a single girl on stage dancing a choreographed routine, in Angeles there were always multiple dancers, none of whom seemed to have a real plan of attack. There was a lot of swaying back and forth, and some swinging of the hips. A few of the girls danced with each other, occasionally with moments of mock foreplay that would inevitably end in laughter, while others just seemed bored.

  As I watched, a couple of the girls closest to me on the stage started aiming their attention in my direction. One was tall for a Filipina, maybe five foot seven, the other was several inches shorter. Each had black hair, the tall one’s coming down to just above her shoulders, and the short one’s going halfway down her back. Both were thin, but the shorter one had the larger set of breasts and the better smile. The taller one had one of those mouths that curved downward, giving her that just-smelled-shit look anytime she smiled.

  I think the tall one realized pretty early on that I wasn’t really interested in them. She soon turned her attention elsewhere, but the shorter one continued to work me as hard as she could. She began rubbing her hands slowly up and down her body, then dropped her chin toward her chest, giving the appearance that she was looking up at me. She was cute, I couldn’t deny that.

  As the song ended, she pointed at herself, then at the chair next to me, looking hopeful. I laughed, then said, “Not now.”

  She stuck her lower lip out in an exaggerated pout. “Come on,” she said. “Just one drink.”

  “Maybe later,” I told her.

  “Really?” Her face brightened.

  “Maybe,” I repeated.

  A new song had started up, so the short one began dancing again. She continued to focus her efforts on me for several more minutes, then melted back into the pack of her friends.

  • • •

  An hour later, after I’d ordered a couple of beers from Cathy, Robbie finally showed up. No matter what the girls were doing, they all seemed to stop and shout, “Hi, Papa Rob!” It was like a rock star had entered the room. I watched as many of the girls ran up and gave him a hug and kiss on the cheek. Robbie, a huge grin on his face, was obviously loving it. At one point he picked up a girl in each arm and lifted them high off the ground. They screamed in delight.

  “Cathy,” he called out as he set the girls down. “A round for everyone.”

  Another cheer went up, and suddenly everything went from lively-bar mode to wild-party mode. Cathy and one of the other bartenders laid out dozens of shot glasses on the counter and began filling them with tequila. A third bartender pulled out a stack of sliced limes and several salt shakers, while whoever was in charge of the music turned up
the volume several notches. Any attempt at conversation now meant screaming in each other’s ears, but no one seemed to care.

  On stage the dancing became raucous. After the girls drank their shots, several bikini tops came off. Sex radiated from every grinding hip and sultry pout. Somewhere, someone pulled out a spray bottle full of water and began squirting the girls on stage. More squealing, more laughter.

  Cathy set a shot in front of me, and I gave her a questioning look.

  “He said everyone,” she shouted.

  I made a fist with my left hand, sprinkled some salt on top of it, licked it off, downed the shot, then chased it with a lime slice. I could feel the heat of the alcohol as it traveled down my throat.

  I smiled. The boredom of the past several months was suddenly a distant memory.

  It was like The Lounge had become the place to be that evening. Guys seemed to be pouring in the door. Robbie had only been there for twenty minutes but the room was packed. Hal had told me that some nights it seemed like you couldn’t get anyone to come into your bar, while other nights there weren’t enough seats to go around. It was like a wave you couldn’t predict.

  That night, a tsunami hit Robbie’s place. By midnight the bell had already been rung three times—tying a one-night record, according to Cathy—and the vibe that started with Robbie’s arrival showed no signs of ebbing. The bikini tops that had come off earlier had been joined by others until it seemed all the girls, save the bartenders and the waitresses, were topless. And while the guys loved every minute of it, it was actually the girls who seemed to be having the most fun. You could see them, even when they weren’t with a guy, joking or dancing with each other or just smiling large infectious smiles. It was a goddamn all-out party, and no one was going to ruin it.

  I was having so much fun watching everything, I almost forgot that Robbie had asked me to come by for a conversation. Not surprisingly, we had yet to have any one-on-one time. He had said hi at one point, but was quickly pulled away by a pack of roaming dancers.