inklingfair “My friend Justin looking for chetor in English – Joan,” said the sign posted on our boarding house’s bulletin board. That was around a month ago. I smiled, took down the sign, and skipped up the stairs to Joan’s room. Joan’s Japanese – she’s been going to English classes at Solomon Institute since April. I found her bent over her grammar book, lips moving silently.
“Hi Joan… I saw your note,” I said, waving the piece of paper. “It’s t-u-t-o-r, by the way, not c-h-e-t-o-r.”
“Eh? Sorry,” she said, trilling her r’s. Her eyes crinkled up. “So, do you like to che-tor En-ge-lish?” I nodded. I was on the verge of bankruptcy; my yearbook’s down payment was due in a week. I was considering pawning my Rex Stout collection – I was that desperate. “Good. I think you suit Justin.”
The next afternoon found me hurrying down Kalayaan Road to the Plaza, fifteen minutes late for my first meeting with Justin. He’d asked to “just meet” me – probably to size me up. I spotted him standing at a corner outside the plaza, his spectacles blinking in the sun.
“Hello,” I stammered, reaching forward and up to shake his hand. The top of my head barely reached his chest. He was blindingly pale and thin all around. Not the limp lazy slimness of Jughead; it was more like a tightly-coiled Bruce Lee. “Sorry I’m late.” His facial muscles uncoiled into a grin.
“Itch okay. I will see you to-marrow, 9:30 a.m.? My apaht-ment ich 7 Mahtapat.” “Yes. 9.30.” He hailed a passing jeepney. “Exh-cuse me, I have appoint-munt in SM with my friend. We watch movie.” He shook my hand again, beaming, and sped away to his movie.
I panted six flights up 7 Matapat* at 9:25 the next morning to Justin’s room, and knocked.
*Author’s note, 2020: Apparently the image above is the only photo I have of Sikatuna Village, where Matapat is. I don’t have any photos of Justin.
“Hi – who ich it?” called Justin from inside. Feet padded heavily to the door. It swung open before I could say anything, and there he stood, wearing an old blue T-shirt, denim shorts with more holes than denim, and the same grin he had on the day before. He stepped aside.
I entered a box of a room, bare except for a bed, a closet, a desk and two plastic chairs. He made a sound and pointed to my sneakers. I looked down at his bare feet. “Oh.” I removed my shoes. We padded to the desk. “So, ” I said, “where do you want us to begin?”
“We…” he puffed up his cheeks and frowned, searching for the right word. “We – con-vuhsation. It itch correct?”
“We talk.” Well.
“Why don’t you tell me something about yourself, for a start?”
“So-rhee? Why I don’t tell something about myself?” His brows furrowed. “But I want to tell!”
This was going to be tougher than I thought. “No – I meant, tell me something about yourself. For example, why do you want to learn English?”
For the next hour, Justin struggled around tenses and prepositions to tell me about his dream of being part of the Korean president’s bodyguard. He had to pass a general knowledge exam and an interview in English to qualify for the training. “I have problem in pronun-cidation,” he sighed. I nodded gravely. To say the least. His tongue often shied away from r’s, he emphasized syllables that didn’t exist (“Fi-ni-shed,” he’d say, conjuring up images of the Prince in Romeo and Juliet roaring, “All – are – puni-shed!”), and he mixed up p’s and f’s. Ferfect!” he’d exclaim after a triumphant exercise – then he’d scrunch up his nose, thump his forehead with his palm, and waggle his tongue at me.
We wrapped up at 11:30. He wiped the sweat that had gathered on his forehead and sprang up from his chair, all six-foot-fifty of him, and clumped to the sink. “Do you hungry? I will cook noodles,” he offered, banging around dishes.
How nice. I squinted up at him. “It’s ‘Are you hungry.’ No, I’m not, but thank you though.”
“Okay, then,” he said, wiping his hands. “See you to-marrow.”
For the next few days we chattered about movie stars (his favorites: Jennifer Love Hewitt in “If Only” – because “she so sex-y,” and Jackie Chan), his daily Fitness First workouts, and his stint in the Korean army. “My nick-name is ‘Sniper’,” he once said, proudly. I made a face; I’m vehemently anti-war. Justin defended his position: “Sometimes peo-pul have to fight. What you do if you meet enemy? You kill him – or he kill you?”
“I’d kill him,” I said. The argument was flawed, but I didn’t push it. He wasn’t done yet.
“We fight North Korea because they in-vasion South Korea.”
“Invade.”
“Invade-sion,” he continued seriously. “North Korea have un-cle-ar weapons.”
That was new. “Un-cle-ar?”
“It exch-plode and make people hair bald.” I snorted and bit my tongue to keep from laughing out loud.
“You mean nuclear.”
“Yes, yes. Nu-clear. Like when US bomb – “
“Bombed.”
“Bomb-ed Japan. You know Japan and Koreano had war?” I nodded. He went on, “Japan plant big nails – “
“Planted.” I wondered where this was leading. “Japan planted big nails inside all over Korean floor so plants do not grow. Japan wanted (ich correct, wanted?) Korean economy smaller than Japanese economy. So l-ruin land. Today someone have job digging out nails.”
I debated whether to believe this or not. We were silent for a while, then he spoke. “So, why do you not wear Chap-stick?” My hand went up to my lips. They were peeling. He was grinning his Cheshire Cat grin again, eyes twinkling behind spectacles. I rubbed my temples. A fine bodyguard he’d make.
One Wednesday (we met nights on Wednesdays), Justin announced: “I will walk with you to your house.” It had been almost three weeks since I answered Joan’s ad. I was halfway through my yearbook dues. I slipped into my sneakers, and he into rubber flip-flops. He locked the door, hesitated, unlocked it, and grabbed a long stick from behind the door. It was a weapon from one of his unpronounceable martial arts classes. “For protect you,” he explained. “My friend robbed last week along Kalayaan road.”
“To protect, was robbed,” I said automatically. We strolled out into the night. It had just rained, and the breeze was cold and damp. I yawned, remembering the warm stillness inside Justin’s room. Justin suddenly seized my shoulders from behind and pulled them back. I whirled around in surprise. He cracked a wide smile.
“Why you always walk like this?” He mimicked my slouch, wearing an exaggerated pout. I sniffed in disdain.
“I do not walk like that.” First Chapstick, now my posture?
He shrugged. “Sorry… Itch not good for your back.”
I shot back – “Itch okay.”
He laughed breathily, as if a host of h’s had been trapped behind his throat before that. “Itch… Itsch. I have to practice.”
We walked the rest of the way home in silence. Justin swung his stick around a few times for good measure – to scare away robbers, maybe. We said good night at the gate. I watched him stride away, cheerfully waving threats at passing stray cats.
I called after him, “See you to-marrow!”
