Red, Red Wine

It was raining cats and dogs last night.

I was in my fortress of solitude, sitting in front of the computer, as usual. In the middle of soundtripping on some melancholic songs, my dogs started barking, signaling the approach of unwelcome intruders.

The insistent knocks on the door made for cacophonous accompaniment to the angry barking of my royal pooches, but the barbarians at the gate refused to go away.

Sighing the sigh of the damned, I trudged to the portal in my boxers and grudgingly greeted the team of wild horses awaiting me there.

"Hel-lo!" smiled Miguel.

"Hello!" smiled Andrea.

"Well, hello, Greta," smiled Nicky. That last one did it, and my scowl broke into an uncontrollable smile.

The arresting party, of course, had a glass of red wine in each hand.

"Aren't you going to invite us in?" asked Miguel.

"Nice try, vampire," I snapped.

"Oh, come, come let us in," cajoled Nicky.

"This isn't where the party's at," I replied, still standing firmly behind the screen door.

It was a classic Mexican standoff. After a minute of silence, I figured resistance was futile and said "Let me get decent, and I'll see you there in a bit."

Nicky gave me a raised eyebrow.

"I promise."

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"Well, that was fast," Nicky said when I arrived five minutes later.

"I didn't bother to shower," I replied.

"But why?"

"There's no one here I can even remotely imagine having sex with."

"Oooooh, I love that jacket," he gushed, caressing the tailored red leather number I threw on to repel the rain.

"Someone knows how to make an entrance," chimed in a girl I didn't know.

"Thanks," I replied. "It's my homage to Scarlett O'Hara showing up in that sinful red number at Melanie's party after being busted for having the hots for her boring husband."

"I thought it was more James Dean, dear," offered Nicky.

"It'll be that when I have a Porsche I can crash."

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The red leather jacket continued to garner rave reviews throughout the night. An elegant Englishwoman festooned in turquoise asked to take a picture, which took me by surprise. I haven't been a camwhore in years and so it was a little awkward, but I acquiesced nonetheless.

I wonder where that pic will end up.

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In between, my old friends and I talked of many things, of cabbages and kings. Nicky amused us with his tale of finding genuine Manolos in some Baguio ukay-ukay for P1500.00. Sadly, they were size 8; his feet were size 11. But Blahniks being Blahniks, Nicky phoned a designer friend in Manila - someone with size 8 feet - to ask if he wanted them.

"Tawaran mo pa ng P1000.00" said the friend.

So Nicky tried to haggle for the pair.

"Hindi ba puwedeng P1000 na lang? Ano ba naman yang Manolo na yan?" he asked, feigning ignorance.

Unfortunately, the tindero happened to be gay himself, and countered

"Si kuya naman! Parang hindi niya alam."

End of story? Nicky wandered off for a while, and 15 minutes later, when he went back for the shoes, they were gone.

Some other lucky Cinderella had snapped them up.

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For all his footwear expertise, Nicky admitted he couldn't tell genuine LV from Class B. And so the girl I didn't know and whose name escapes me weighed in with the merits and demerits of Class A LVs

"Define 'guts'" I said, out of the blue.
"Shoot," she said.
" 'Guts' is shopping in Bangkok and then boarding a direct flight to Charles de Gaulle."

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And then Maureen arrived.

"I LOVE that jacket!!!" she squealed in her unique effervescent way.

"It loves you too, hon," I replied.

A glass of red wine appeared magically and then the Lea-bashing began in earnest. A frenzied feline free-for-all made even more ferocious because no one at the party seemed to sympathize with Ms. Salonga, no matter how crystal-clear her voice was.

"She's so FAT!" hissed Maureen, blessed with genes that still kept her svelte and flawless way beyond her 30s. "She looked like a furball!"

"She just doesn't have the gravitas to carry the role," chimed in Nicky. "She's perenially cute, forever tweetums."

"Well, maybe next time they can get Sanrio to produce CATS instead." I muttered.

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October is when Nicky has his grand masquerade ball at the old haunted house.

"How are your ghosts?" I asked.

"Ok lang. They don't bother me. And yours?"

"Same. They know better than to bug me while I'm working."

"Ganun lang naman dapat. Just carry on."

I'm a busy man. And that's how I live with my ghosts.

Human or not.

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Talk turned to fashion and Nicky waxed nostalgic about some fabulous antique gown he gave away to a female friend. Apparently, said gown became the talk of the town in Paris, where the friend is based.

"What did you ask in return for that gown?" queried a jealous Maureen.

"A poochie!" exclaimed Nicky.

I stared blankly, an image of a black Yorkie flashing in my mind.

"Ooooh, I love poochies, too! I want one!" gushed Maureen.

Blank look again, this time with a poodle running through my head.

"Well, it depends on what the color schemes are." tittered Nicky.

And then it hit me.

PUCCI!

Pucha.

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The red wine continued to flow as Ned joined us.

"CATS is a one-song show," he sniffed.

Well, he saw it on Broadway with Betty Buckley as Grizabella, so there you go.

"Nice jacket," he said as he passed a joint around. I haven't had "herbal life" in a good while so I was grateful for a couple of puffs before resorting to my Reds. Maureen carried on about her showbiz career and the boredom of playing the stock contrabida mestiza.

Ned is a filmmaker and I am an aspiring one.

"We should do a remake of Supergirl," I told Maureen. "You can reprise the mad scientist role played so effortlessly by Odette Khan."

"Is that the one with Nora?" asked Ned.

"No, that was SuperGee," I corrected. "Nora in black leather, on a black bike. Supergirl was with Pinky."

"Pinky de Leon did Supergirl?" asked Maureen.

"No. Pinky Montilla. The chubby girl who's vanished off the face of the earth since then."

I couldn't blame her, really. If I played Supergirl, I'd have vanished off the entire universe myself.

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I collared Miguel as he, his boyfriend, and Andrea tried to scurry away like the rats they were.

"Where do you think you're going?" I snapped.

"Ah...home," came his meek reply.

"You live a block from here."

"Well, it's almost midnight," he stammered.

"Your Corolla has been a pumpkin for a decade now. Try harder."

"Ah, ano, my girlfriend is looking for me na kasi," offered Andrea helpfully.

Well. Far be it from me to stand between a woman and her lesbian lover.

"We're going off to Sagada with Nicky in September," came Migs' parting shots. "Wanna join us?"

"Do they have Blahniks there, too?"

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My leave was French, as usual.

Maureen with a black cat on her lap.

Nicky cackling about someone or something.

Ned ignoring his lover's pleas to get going home na.

And our weary host sprawled on his sofa, dozing off while waiting for us to vanish.


Red wine in my system, red jacket over my skin.