Sunday, April 19, 2015

When spiders were more interesting than girls

I am flooded with memories every time I attend mass at the Fernando Air Base Chapel, where I was, a long time ago, an altar boy.  It must have been some kind a covenant made by our parents with God that everyone of us six Enginco boys would serve because I somehow found myself reluctantly following the footsteps of my Kuyas who have distinguished themselves as dutiful servants.  If I had my way, I’d be happier looking for spiders in far away fields and playing basketball at the plaza, instead.  I had the shortest tenure among all of us because I entered rather late and retired rather early. 

But I learned a lot of life lessons as an altar boy.

If you don’t know yet, the most important part of the mass is the ringing of the bell, which happens four times during the celebration; first, when the priest blesses the hosts by placing both his hands, palms down, over the chalice, second and third, when he offers the host by raising it so that the congregation will see, then the wine by doing the same, and lastly, when he drinks the wine which signals that everyone must now fall in line to partake of the feast.

For some reason, I found myself the only altar boy in the chapel one Saturday afternoon that a wedding was to be officiated.  It was not unusual for only one acolyte to serve in a mass, but it was for me because it was my first time.  The thing with being on a solo mission atop the altar is that you have no one to exchange furtive glances or elbows to the side with when you spot something, or someone interesting in the crowd.  So I did what I would normally do when left alone -- use my imagination to go some place.  That was when the revelation of the most important part of the mass dawned on me.

The wedding was going along fine, the bride and groom already delivered their respective agreement to hook up with one another for the rest of their lives with no one from the audience making a dramatic last minute plea, “Itigil ang kasal!”  As far as everyone was concerned, they were already married save for the honeymoon and the first official married kiss, which the priest will later on permit.

It was when I was kneeling on the merciless marble floor that the revelation happened.  At first, I thought it was God himself talking to me in my trance.  But when I came to, it was Father Oarga, his face so close to mine I could clearly make out the pockmarks on his cheeks.  I was tempted to name each one of them after the moon’s craters but he was saying something so urgent, his voice so deep and serious, like an extended sigh married to a grovel.  I was convinced a sacred secret was being passed on by a master to a disciple – Yuuuunnngggg belllllll….

Oh.  I missed it, didn’t I?  Twice, in fact. 

But not the third one, when I rang it so loud I must have made up for the lost two.  And certainly not the last, which signaled that my most favorite part of the mass would follow when I will have the chance to place a plate under a massgoer’s head, which would trigger the devout to stick out his/her tongue, which would then prompt the priest to place a host on it as a reward for falling in line.

Father Oarga rarely talked to me.  And his silence became complete after that incident.  I interpreted it as an unspoken command never to reveal the most important part of the mass to anyone.  But as great secrets go, I just had to let it out to free me from the burden of keeping it.

I didn’t know if I did not put out the proper solemn face when serving, or if I was not trusted enough to do the right thing at the right time because I have never been assigned to carry out the most regale and dramatic roles that an altar boy could ever play, such as carrying the burning incense which swung from a bronze chain, or lugging the large crosses, or ringing the wooden bell called matraca, which made a distinct takatakatakataka sound.  For a change, I would have loved to tak-tak-takatakatakatak-tak-tak it to provide some fresh rhythm to special ceremonies.   

But there was one role particularly reserved for  me though. And this came during Holy Week when Christ’s body, loaded on a carosa, would go around the military base in a long and winding procession.  This time I would be handed a very long pole and my duty was to go ahead of the caravan to look for low lying electric lines or protruding branches, which I would then raise with my instrument until the carosa passes by without a hitch.  It was not pretty, but I got the job done.

One of the reasons why many adolescent boys want to become a member of the Knights of the Altar is that it is one, if not the best way to meet girls.  And in summer, we had our counterparts – the catechists, whom we’d like to be around with most of the time.  With no sisters in the family, my only knowledge about interacting with the long-haired ones consisted mostly of my exposure to girl classmates in school.  But the only thing I knew about them is that they don’t like games for every time I tug on their hair or put thrash over it, they cry.  Same thing happens when I’d like to hear the sound that straps of trainer bras make on their back, or when I pull the chair under a girl who was about to take a seat.  Girls cry when you play games on them.  That much, I knew.

Now, there was one particular catechist who took interest in me: Charity.  I was in Grade Six, she was in first year.   She was pretty.  So pretty, that I didn't know what she saw in me, because at that time, I rarely looked at the mirror so that I could find out for myself.  But there she was, inside the church every time I was at the altar, whether it's on a Saturday, Sunday or Wednesday.  Apparently, she knew my schedule better than I did because she regularly checked on our assigned masses, which was posted on a bulletin board at the back of the church.

I would know where she was seated because just when everyone was quiet, Charity would make a sound with her throat – Eherm, eherm.  She would smile when my eyes located her presence.

During my favorite part of the mass, she would fall in line where ever I was assigned to handle the plate.  When it would be her turn to receive communion, I would jab the plate at her neck just hard and sharp enough to make her gag as she takes in the host.  That’s the best I could do.  I mean, as much as I’d like to pull her pretty bangs with my free hand, I just couldn't because the priest, or the lay minister, might slap my hand with his free hand.

Charity would wait for me at the end of the mass.  Sometimes she would hand me a letter.  I always responded with a smile for two reasons:  One, I didn't know what the hell to say to her; Two, because she was so darn pretty that grinning silly made perfect sense for clueless me.

Well, apparently, we were a couple in waiting.  My fellow knights thought so, and so did the other catechists, including Lea, who was also very pretty.  And as a pair, I guess it was mandated under the dating law that I should walk her home after the mass, which sounded strange to me because if she found her way to the church, then she could very well do the same going home.

Those were long, silent, awkward walks.  I didn't know what to talk to her about.  I don’t want to reveal to her that girls have the tendency to cry when they are exposed to me.  And I certainly did not want to boast about what I learned in school because even my teachers were not sure if I was getting anything.  And the more I couldn't tell her what was really on my mind every hour that I was awake – spiders, the ones with long reddish legs and hairy torsos.

I loved fighting spiders.  And I spent a great deal of my free time making long hikes under the scorching sun, alone or with my cousin Adrian, to far away fields where somewhere underneath the leaves and twigs of dried brushes and shrubs hid these fiercely majestic creatures.

I did not have the courage to ask Charity if she liked spiders.  But I was always optimistic that she would pop the question herself.  That never came though.

Charity liked to see me much more often than our once a week date at the church.  One afternoon, as I was inspecting my haul of spiders from a long, hot hunt, I spotted from a distance Charity with Gay, her cousin and best friend, and another cousin who was the prettiest of the three but who was already in fourth year high school, walking towards our home.  I didn’t know what to do then.  So I did what any self-respecting spider-loving-adolescent would do – run as fast as I could, so fast that I would be a blur and they wouldn’t notice me escaping, and so light on my feet that I wouldn’t stir even a speckle of dust that will give them a hint that I was even there.

That incident convinced me one thing: If a girl wanted to see you, she will.  And I think that it was mighty selfish of her to show up unannounced because I could have just as easily hurt myself running away from her.

I was already 5’7” when I was in first year high school.  And I began noticing that I was fast outgrowing the Sotana which garbed my altar service.  While I have grown adept at ringing the bell at the right time, I was also growing conscious of how I stuck out like a sore thumb when I was at the altar.  By then, my passion for spiders had waned, which was replaced with my love for playing basketball where I was in my place, considered a budding superstar.  Though Charity still attended the masses I served, her letters and my budding romance with her were put on hold.

The highlight of my summers became organized basketball where, with my quickness and jumping ability, I was fast gaining the reputation as a must-see player.  During one intense game, I heard a familiar voice sweetly call out my name; it was Gay, smiling.  She was with Charity, and she was very pretty, especially when she was giving me that look.  I did not say hi, I was playing a game.

I still hang around with my sacristant friends when I was in second year high school, but my service at the altar became less frequent.  By then, the sotana which once reached up to my heels was now hanging at my knees.  Donald, a friend who was a head shorter than me, took interest in Charity.  He had sisters and he looked at the mirror more often.  He would walk Charity home, and they had things to talk about.  He eventually became Charity’s first boyfriend.

I still did not understand girls then.  They were just not interested in games.