First of the Gang to Die

I - Sweet and Tender Hooligans

        Often, the most graceful way to begin a story is with an ending. In this case, it's a funeral.

        In order to be present at the memorial services, I left behind a formidable pile of unfilled book orders, proofs to be corrected, and a half-­finished grant proposal for the National Commission on Culture and the Arts.

        Of course, that's just how it is with funerals, right? You can't really anticipate death. Well, most of the time, anyway. But this one - I really ought to have seen it coming. In fact, the entire ceremony feels like one big déjà vu, like I've experienced it all before, right down to the little details.

        The sound of Aerosmith's "Dream On" fills the Chapel beside the Santuario de San Antonio, in Forbes Park. There are no vocals, just the strains of an electric piano, tinkling in plaintive celebration of a life gone by.

        There's no widow, per se, just a sniffling live­-in girlfriend with heavy, Siouxie­-esque make­up that she deliberately wore thick, as a challenge to herself. No tears must be shed. (Enough of that going on, as it is.) In fact, the relationship had gone cold, and she was seriously considering a break­up. She never expected fate to do the job for her. Meanwhile, the Doctor hunched over the eighty­eight keys is straining to read the notes. He valiantly fumbles with the ivory, through watery eyes.

        It's all so familiar to me. And I recall exactly where and when I've seen it before: in the empty lot on Banyan Street, Alabang Plains village, on Easter Monday, 1993. I don't recall the precise circumstances that brought me to that disused plot of land. As far as I can remember, it started out as just another hot summer's day for the old Gang of Four.

∞

        Ah, yes, the Gang of Four... That was the oh­-so-­creative moniker we came up with for our little tropa, in between hits of Johnny Walker swiped from my Dad's liquor cabinet. I'm fairly certain we had no idea about Chairman Mao's inner circle or the seminal punk group, back then. We most likely picked up the name from an old history textbook, and thought it sounded cool. In fact, we were just ordinary subdivision boys, doing typical bourgeois kid stuff, with the usual inflated sense of personal drama that fourteen-­year­-olds possess.

        It was the summer before our freshman year in high school, and though we'd probably never admit it, we had internalized all that Jesuit hyperbole about growing into manhood, and leaving behind our childish ways. As a result, every stupid activity took on a near­-mythic sense of purpose, knowing it could be the Last Time Ever. We marked each kickflip off the benches in the picnic area. We memorialized each time we beat the high score at Sonic the Hedgehog. We toasted each small victory in our quest to draw the most bad­ass WildC.A.T.s character. "Stay gold, Pony Boy" indeed.

        It was obvious enough that we'd probably go our separate ways, once the outward trappings of boyhood gave way to the self­conscious posturing of high school. Our differences were more likely to keep us apart, rather than complement each other.

        Buboy had the poor little rich boy shtick down pat. He was doted on and over­fed by his philanthropist mom, who indulged him with the latest Super Nintendo games and Laserdiscs, as a means for restricting his social life outside the house. He faced constant academic pressure from his control­-freak dad, a human rights lawyer with a reputation as a second­-tier also-­ran within the political cabal that formed after the EDSA People Power Revolt. He also had the misfortune of having a nickname that could be readily bastardized into any number of petty taunts. (As one might guess, the most common ones were also the least imaginative: Baboy and Mama's Boy.)

        JR was our token working­-class lad. He was a scholar with a ridiculously advanced understanding of applied physics, and everyone believed he would be the next Stephen Hawking. Steadfastly determined not to be perceived as a social climber, he proudly wore faded Menudo tees, or ill-­fitting Polo shirts, handed down from his step­brother in Riyadh. His skin possessed a naturally dark tone, in spite of his generally introverted nature and hours spent indoors, poring over lab notes and science journals. Of course, that meant he would always be stopped at the gate of our village, serenely clutching his second­hand Powell Peralta deck, until one of us picked him up, and reassured the guards that no, he wasn't a "bad element". If this ever upset him, he never let it show. Almost every day that summer, without complaint, JR put aside some of his pocket money for the tricycle ride from his house to the Town Center, and jeepney fare to Alabang Plains.

        Javi was the real bad seed among us, or so he'd like us to believe. He certainly looked the part, with stubby facial hair growing in earlier than any of us, and a dress sense ripped off from early Metallica, without a hint of irony. Expectedly, he was the promotor of the group. He got us the fake Driver's Licenses, instigated the dick­measuring contests, and reassured us that he would take the fall, every time we nearly got caught doing something we shouldn't. He'd been marked as a trouble­maker very early in pre­school, and he quickly learned that the benefits of a reputation as a tough guy (lunch hall protection racket, designated spot in the playground, and the begrudging respect of your peers) usually outweigh the negatives (teachers on your case, disapproving parents, and excessive familiarity with the detention room). Truth is, he was extremely good­-hearted, with such a pronounced sense of Saturday morning cartoon hero ethics that it almost seemed clichéd. Besides, he figured if he set expectations low, it would be all the more heart­warming, if he decided to clean up his act, later on.

        And finally, there was me; a plucky, non­descript kid with a messy swath of wavy hair and a creeping acne problem that caused my folks to piss away a modest fortune on derma treatments. Nevertheless, I had my bright spots. What I lacked in Pogi Points, I decided to make up for with a nebulous cool cachet. By then, I had started to gather a collection of remaindered American magazines: discount rack copies of Rolling Stone, and back issues of Circus and SPIN.

        They may not have contained the practical knowledge of glorified chord books like Jingle, but they gave me crucial insight about the burgeoning Alternative Nation. I scoured record bars for cassettes by up­and­coming alt­rock bands, future Lollapalooza mainstays, and obscure critical darlings. As the smell of Teen Spirit began wafting on the airwaves, I became a kind of gate-keeper for the barkada, patiently explaining which bands Rocked and Sucked, and why, with Beavis and Butthead-­like simplicity.

        So there you have it, Dear Reader - our little rogue's gallery of adolescent schmucks, vying for the dubious honor of becoming the title character of our present story. Who among us, then, would be the first to join the ranks of the Future Corpses of the Philippines? Keep reading...