Moondogs - Alexander Yates [57]
“Well, I’m glad.” Bobby smiled, making his bandages pucker and pinch. “You’ll be glad, too. We’re fun.” He picked up his glass and held it out, as though to make a toast. “Mabuhay,” he said. “You saw that sign at the airport? Mabuhay means welcome.”
Benicio lifted his own glass, eyeing the liquid a little suspiciously.
“Oh, it’s terrible,” Bobby assured him, but he said it as though terrible wasn’t so terrible. “Lambanog. Coconut moonshine, flavored with bubblegum. Don’t smile at me like that. You think I’m joking?”
Bobby clinked his glass and sipped. Benicio tasted the lambanog and found it so overwhelmingly foul and sweet that he couldn’t help but make a face. But Bobby was right. It was kind of fun, how bad it was.
“So how did you know I was a scuba diver?” he asked as he set his glass down and pushed it away, slightly.
“That was simple,” Bobby said, spreading his palms in a way that seemed to indicate he was going to start showing off. “There’s only so many reasons people like you, foreigners I mean, come to the Philippines. You’re not wide-eyed enough to be Peace Corps. You could be a Habitater, I suppose, but your hair doesn’t shout cause to me. You’re in good enough shape, but the granola backpack crowd doesn’t wear khaki. Neither do young businessmen, who should, no offense, be trying a bit harder to impress. Mormons wear plenty of khaki, but they also wear black ties, bicycle helmets and fuck-face haircuts. You’re not horrible looking, so I guess you don’t have trouble getting laid … do you?” He paused, clearly expecting an answer.
“No trouble,” Benicio said, restraining a half smile. While Bobby spoke he couldn’t help but imagine the circumstances of his accident. He’d probably crashed a jet ski or something frivolous like that.
“That’s good,” Bobby said, “you’ll live longer.” He extinguished his cigarette and lit a new one. “So, if it wasn’t sportsmanship, liberal guilt, romantic self-discovery, missionary work or the missionary position that brought you here, then I thought it had to be diving. I’m a diver, too. Or at least …” he flicked his knee brace with a fingernail and it made a pinging sound, “I used to be. You’ve come to a good place for it. A good—”
Just then something happened on the television that made Bobby quit his speech. The shot changed and his head whipped back up at it. “Ay nako,” he said, “fuck, where’s the sound?” He grabbed a rubber-tipped cane that had been propped against his stool and used it to stab at the volume button. The newscaster’s voice grew and people along the bar who’d been tapping their fingers to the music turned to give them dirty looks. The screen went blue and then a single number came up, followed by the headshot of a man in his early sixties. It was a picture of Charlie, so doctored that it looked like an artist’s rendition. Bobby let out something between a laugh and a yelp. He struck the bar hard with his fist, flipping his ashtray and sending butts flying. “Shit, sorry,” he said, shoulders dipping like scolded kid. He picked up a napkin and started wiping at the mess until the bartender came over and cleaned it with two strokes. He gave Bobby a fresh ashtray and put the television back on mute.
“What’s Charlie doing on TV?” Benicio asked.
“You don’t know? Oh, well, I guess … yeah, the whole not-talking thing. Well, Ben, you’ve landed right at the climax of our election season. Votes were cast on Monday, and they’ve been counting all week since. First results are coming in tonight. Looks like good old Charlie Fuentes has been elected to his first term in the Philippine Senate.”
Benicio was lost for words. He looked back out at the dance floor where he saw Charlie, the new senator, his father’s buddy, glad-handing the crowd. “That’s what he’s celebrating tonight?”
“Just tonight if I’m lucky,” Bobby said. “But he’s probably going to want to party all week.”
“But, he didn’t even know if he’d won.”
Bobby waved him off. “How big he’d win was the only real question, and the news there looks good. Those jerks in Malaca