Patrick

Untitled Part 1

PATRICK

I hated him at first, for no particular reason. I just didn't like the way he looked. Something on his face did not align well with how I believe a human's face should look. Anyway, he was a mixed child between a Filipino man and a woman of some sort of South American origin. One thing for sure, He spoke perfect English, at least that was how I rated his English based on my own broken English.

When I started the idea of writing a short story about this man called Patrick I had a very strong feeling this was an exciting event for me. Thus, for that high hope, I thought his wife and his other family members would be very touched to know one of his coworkers would dedicate enough to whip up such a wild story. In the beginning, I thought it was a cakewalk. But I must confess that was not the case. After the first paragraph, I bumped into the first major obstacle; the story entailed more than I thought. Although we chatted a lot and Patrick always made me laugh, that never guaranteed a short story about him written by me would circulate very far.

But this story must be written. I promised myself that one day I would write a short story about this man and give it to him before I left my job. And it was easier thought than done, writing a short story of a coworker like Patrick. But this task must be done. I always felt I owed this dude this story. Well, in the nicest way, I had no choice. The story must be written. I had to do it, the way I had to muster all my strength and drive my head right into the brick wall.

Well. At least the third paragraph had just finished. The story was now getting more momentum. I liked it. It was like a good demonstration that nearly all tasks in life could only be done when one actually stuck one's hand into the bucket and got dirty.

Yup. Just like that, if I determined and stuck with my plan, I could stretch the substance a bit thinner, then the fourth paragraph could be feasibly done. However, there was a technical problem here. Although I started liking this friend Patrick for some time already I could not gather enough tangible substance about him for me to stretch this story. But, I hoped, desperately, if I dedicated to him enough, I would eventually be diligent enough, and then I could cook something up. At least I could borrow some characteristics from other guys in our section, adding a bit more Southeast Asian flavor, and then you, my audience would have a nice dish, let's say: Eggroll, huh.

See, the story was now picking up a little bit. Again, my theory did work. If you were determined enough to make something out of nothing miracle would happen; the way you could manipulate words as a hibachi chef cutting up a piece of New York steak and feeding five men, I once heard. At least, you could finish the fifth paragraph while still being able to hold the audience's attention.

You got my point. That was exactly how I looked at Patrick, a handsome man, per his lame announcement. As I said earlier, there was something about this man that you could not forget easily, his crooked teeth for instance. He was quite eloquent with his tongue but his Pandora's Box could be easily triggered and suddenly all men would have their vaginas bleeding.

See. Now we were about to start the seventh paragraph. And when I said paragraph, I meant a piece of writing collectively containing sentences with all grammatical elements that qualified for a real paragraph. The funny thing was when I wrote this piece (of shit) – Patrick would always add these two words as if they were the hot sauce he must put on his burrito – I had a weird feeling that I wrote this just for him although it would not hurt if his wife could read it as well.

I want to be a writer. – I once told him that, perhaps after a year we worked together.

Fuck no. You would be never a writer, you're the son of the... - Patrick would say something hurtful like that, caring for nothing if his word would hurt me or not.