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A Long Walk

One day in 2003, a twenty-two-year-old college drop out from Cebu named Trisha Vicencio decided to move to Manila to set up her own business. She was bold, independent, quite intimidating, and attractive – with an Asian face that you couldn't clearly identify as Filipina or Korean, or Thai; could even have been Indian. Trish was one of the smartest people I ever worked with, and she had this certain degree of neurosis that made her very interesting.

   I got very close to her in that confused and anxious time after quitting my band to get a real job. She was born into a relatively wealthy family in Mandaue. Her father was a diplomat who took his Peruvian wife and their five children around the world in service to his country. She was obsessed with Miles Davis, Thom Yorke, Milan Kundera, and Gaugin. She was not afraid of strange places, and when sleep came and went or wouldn’t come at all, she went for long walks with her Jack Russell.

   Trish and I first met at a mutual friend's funeral in Davao. Three days later, as I was walking through the airport, someone yelled out my name. It was her! And we were boarding on the same plane!

   It was only an hour flight so I had no problems trading my seat so I could be close to her. We talked about our friend John, our interests, and the weather, as folks do when there's a gap in conversation. Her voice was small and typically feminine. Her eyes were small, but not too Asian. I noticed her long black eyelashes, her small but firm chin. She had on a short skirt showing her toned legs and I liked the fact that men stared at her as we walked along.

   Some relationships are shaped by a commonality of passions and beliefs: you're both into photography or jazz or you both despise Jimmy Fallon. We both love music and movies, and a couple weeks later, I found myself among five video editors and motion graphic artists working for Trish in a small postproduction outfit in Manila.

   My friend Christian had an apartment downtown and I asked him if I could come stay with him while I was looking for my own place. I was not ashamed to ask this little favor because I know within a few months I'd have some cash and I'd be on my own in some crummy little dwelling.

   Christian was an amazing character; a tall muscular guy with the bronze leathered skin of a Boracay sun worshipper. When sober, he was a voice talent/columnist/bartender and he fancied himself as a tortured poet and lyricist.

   One Sunday morning, after a few bong hits, I took him to the studio and tried to teach him the basics of video editing. Stoned, and in the mood for some adventure, we messed up with the raw footage of some up and coming filmmaker. I can't remember what happened to that video, but I recalled that I'd developed the habit of smoking weed when I teach Christian the ropes of postproduction.

   While working for Trish, I became obsessed with her. The guys at the studio used to go out for drinks on Friday nights, and a lot of times after the party, I joined Trish in her apartment to talk, listen to music, watch movies, smoke weed, and have casual sex.

   After my resignation from the posthouse, I got a series of dead-end jobs. Trish and I didn't have a formal falling out; we just sort of stopped seeing and (texting) each other.

   Last night, at two in the morning, I sneaked out of my house and went for a long walk. I grabbed a bottle of vodka, watched the stars flicker, reminisced every enchanting thing she made, then fell asleep wondering if I will see her again.
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