I Bet You Think This Storys about You by Marguerite Alcazaren de Leon Sita took a quick look at the

people coming out of the elevator. Just a really quick look, no eye contact. And just her luck, it was Ralphi Tuazon stepping out of the steel box, his scraggly moustache scragglier than ever, with someone who looked like his mother in tow. He wasnt carrying anything. She wondered if he remembered her from her friend Gerry Florentinos Hiraya win celebration from last year, when Gerry finally got to participate in the time-honored tradition of treating fellow writer friends, a.k.a. nonwinners, to several buckets of beer in some random outdoor bar-and-grill near the state university. Ralphi had gone to the Palawan Writers Workshop the same time as Gerry, and was Gerrys classmate during one of his poetry classes in grad school. While Sita had no direct connection to Ralphi, they ran in the same circles. Everyone ran in the same circles. Everyone was the literati. But if Ralphi did recognize Sita, he definitely didnt show it. It was just as well, because he was a creativity-challenged asshole shameless enough to smear crap all over paper and pass it off as talent. Ralphi wrote fast, wrote everything (stories, novels, novellas, poems, plays, screenplays, essays, grocery lists, ransom notes) and submitted everywhereto publications, to awards bodies, to foundations fat with grant money. And this tactic worked better than anyoneprobably even Ralphi could expect. Despite the fact that his idea of writing involved an unnerving brand of pre-meditated stream-of-consciousness and the gratuitous peppering of literary criticism terms, some of his output managed to see print, get prizes, and even take him to conferences and festivals abroad. His last work, for instance, the 116-page poem Roland Barthes and Gen. Douglas Macarthur Fuck Their Mothers, was going to be published in its entirety by Katipunan University Press for some motherfucking reason. Sita stepped inside the elevator and kneaded the button to the 7th floor, watching Ralphi and his mom walk away as the doors slid shut. She checked her appearance in the mirrored walls as the box dinged upwards, just in case thered be other people there she knew, or maybe knew her. Her thrifted orange maxi dress looked strange enough. She clutched the long brown envelope as casually as she could. When she got to the 7th, she found no one but the receptionist in the lobby. It was the same frumpy crone from last year, although she doubted the old thing could remember faces. Sita side-stepped to a corner and checked the envelopes contents for the fourth time that day. Everything was in order: four (4) photocopies of her English short story entry, A Lack of Moon; one (1) original copy of said English short story entry; one (1) copy of her updated curriculum vitae; one (1) soft copy of said English short story entry in .doc format, burned onto a Page 1 of 11

disc; one (1) copy of the official application form; and one (1) original copy of the official letter of notarization, signed and dry-sealed by Manong Ricardo, Friendly Neighborhood Notary Public and e-Load Merchant. She crosschecked the contents with the list saved in her cell phone. Forcing herself to admit that she was as ready as she ever would be, she took one last glimpse at the requirements, so neatly arranged and unassuming, and closed the flap somberly. A small part of her felt ridiculous for acting so paranoid; shed been submitting to the Hirayas for three years straight already. She knew for certain that everything was accounted for, and besides, the old crone was going to check them all again anyway, albeit by dumping everything out on her desk and then stuffing them back in, unmindful of dog-earing the pristine pages, baring her indifference towards all those subtle little efforts people like Sita made in the name of their Art. Upon receiving the envelope, the crone proceeded to do exactly that, and Sita tried to distract herself from the raucous rustling that commenced by sneaking a quick peek into the Archives open door. Inside the tiny, carpeted room crowded with tables and shelves upon shelves of leatherette volumes sat a 40-something woman Sita didnt know. One of the compilations of past Hiraya winners was splayed open before her, and she pored over the pages with pure, readerly concentration. Probably a post-grad doing research, or a bored housewife on a culture binge, or possibly someone who submitted an entry, too. Whoever she was, she didnt look like someone anyone knew, or knew of, so she was, essentially, no one. In a way, Sita envied this womans ability to just sit down and read those works for what they were. She didnt think anyone had that ability anymore. Then again, Sita had a Bachelors in English Literature, was threefourths of her way to a Masters in Creative Writing, had no extra-curricular activities, and usually shirked spending time with her family. Most of her life thus far was spent around people who put everything they read into contexts and perspectives; who could immediately tell which of the mere handful of the countrys published poets wrote what piece; and who saw parallels between a fictionists work and the rumors they heard about said fictionists own promiscuous personal life, said fictionist usually being a friend of a friend. Whoever that woman at the Archives was, she was one lucky bitch. When Sita looked back at the old crones table, her newly wrinkled envelope was being placed on top of the teetering pile of other wrinkled envelopes. Once the crone ascertained that the pile would teeter no further, she threw Sita a rudimentary smile and said that she could go now and good luck. The last two words had never sounded emptier, unless Sita considered the times she heard them last year, and the year before that. Just as she was about to press the down button on the elevator, the contraption opened to reveal none other than Tomas Antonio Alfaro, her erstwhile Philippine Contemporary Poetry professor and newly-anointed editor of the Literatura Review, the annual collection of the literatis best 15
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works of the year. In his hands was a brown envelope as pristine as hers used to be. Sita had yet to have any of her works in the Review, but she at least got a 1.25 from him in class, and several invitations to join him for beers with other writers, professors, and writer/professors after work, which she accepted more often than not. (Hed drink two or more buckets on his own and never get wasted, and if asked as to the source of his drinking prowess, he would always respond, I only get drunk on poetry.) Sir Tim! Hi! O, Sita! Youre joining, too. Thats good, thats good. What did you submit? A story? Have I read it? Yes, a story. And no, its new. Justsomething. Its nothing. Email it to me. Im opening the Reviews call for submissions na. You know, I should really start collecting from people, no? Alam mo naman, theyre all going to submit last-minute. O, yes, congrats sa Review, sir! I heard the news from Jamie yesterday. Thanks, thanks. Its just more work, you know. So yes, email the story, okay? Send that poem I like, too. Okay, sir. Good luck, sir! Yes, good luck. Sita took a deep breath as she descended in the elevator. Talking to higher-ups like Sir Tim always left her feeling a little flustered. The end of each conversation always brought a staggering sense of relief, as if she were barely able to make it out of a Customs interrogation. And it wasnt like they told her to do spoken dissertations on the spot, or asked outright what she thought about the things they wrote. It was normal, friendly, polite banter the usual trickling of niceties that, in most other situations, would barely be of any consequence whatsoever on any remotely significant aspect of a persons life. A mere exchange of pleasantly toned sounds. But in Sitas mind, however, it wasnt that at all. It was one of the best opportunities for her to impress, to pique, to electrify, knowing full well that few people could really run into these distinguished men and women in places like elevator bays and be recognized by them. The fact that Sir Tim knew Sitas first name right off the bat was already a bewildering privilege. She should have asked him what poems he was submitting. It was such an obvious, rudimentary thing to ask in that situation. She felt stupid. Did he think she was being self-centered? Did he sense that she wasnt that big a fan of his latter contributions? Maybe not, probably not, but could she possibly have said any wrong things earlier, though? Like when she hesitated to say anything about her entry, did that make her come off as timid? Untrusting? Stupid? Sita had to literally shake her head just to stop herself from thinking. Once she stepped out into the faux-marble cavern of the main lobby, the late afternoon sun coating its glass walls in amber, she at least felt a little calmer. She would likely be fine. There was likely nothing wrong with Page 3 of 11

what had just happened. All this laborious small talkthat was just how things worked. Thats how everyone she knew got by, and as long as she stuck with it, it would all turn out well. And besides, Sir Tim was a perfectly nice guy. Just any other academic who wouldnt hurt a fly. +++ That fucking Ralphi Tuazon, Tim went on, signaling in the air for another lite beer, has too many balls and not enough dick. That is poetry! Give this man a Hiraya! said Sonny de los Santos as he approached. He swiped an empty plastic stool from another table and set himself in between Tim and Kat-kat Espinosa, Tims World Literature student from St. Regina College. The rest of the long table nodded their hellos and returned to their respective fervid exchanges. What about Ralphis got you soverbose? Sonny went on, signaling in the air for his own beer, then clapping his hand over his mouth melodramatically. Oh, Im sorry! Is it because he has twice as many Hirayas than you and hes half your age? Is that it? Thats it, right? Im sorry! Im sorry, Tim! Sonny, you know why youre a Hall of Famer? Tim replied, stonefaced. Because youre so old. I may be 49, but youre 50-fucking-six. Youre so old and they just give you Hirayas because youre so old. Doesnt matter what you wrote. Youre old, youll probably die soon, youve won a few beforethats how it works, diba? Hoy, Tim, theres budding talent here, Sonny mock-whispered, pointing at Kat-kat. Dont shatter the illusion. Speaking of illusions, Kat-kat loves Ralphis work, Sonny. She said shes read everything Ralphis published. Ah. What do you like about his work? Sonny asked Kat-kat, who nervously puffed out a large, opaque cloud of cigarette smoke, not quite accustomed yet to sucking the stuff down her throat. Its because she understands him, Tim, he suddenly added in an accusatory drawl, turning back to his old friend. Theyre young. They like writing about, I dont know, Facebook, and we just cant see the pointthe valid pointtheyre making because were just too old. He turned to face Kat-kat again. Am I right, Kat? Its a generation thing, no? I dontits not Kat-kat began, pushing her purple plastic glasses up her nose with a blue manicured finger. I think his voice is unique? And he experiments, he does different genreshe doesnt care what people think. Do you have a crush on him? Sonny continued. Its his bigote, no? Its that filthy facial hair that drives the girls crazy. Before a beet-red Kat-kat could reply, Tim blurted out, Ah, so thats why he wins all the time! Was Maam Pacita a judge when he won for that poem? The one about giving God AIDS? That witch likes them young.
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Really young, Sonny added with a laugh. You call me old, but at least Im not old enough to judge. Kat-kat put her cigarette down, looking nauseated. All I know is, that Jela girl won that same year because Sir Mario practically wrote her entry for her, said Tim. He was her thesis advisor, and he was her panelist at the Palawan workshop. It has Marios poetics written all over it. You should have seen them at the awarding. He hung that medal on her like a proud old daddy. You mean grand-daddy? Sugardaddy. Thats kind of what happened with Ralphi, you know, Sonny said after a sage swig of beer. All the shit hes ever won for, the judges likely read already in the past. You know he emails his drafts to everyone for feedback, but thats just so he stays on their radar. Takes advantage of the fact that the judges are so ancient, theyd just pin the prize on the first thing they recognize. Is that really what happens? Kat-kat asked faintly. The two men glanced at each other, then looked at her with vaguely penitent expressions. Sometimes, said Tim. You know who Id like to mentor? Sonny suddenly asked. Sita Santiago. Beautiful girl. Who? Tim asked, raising his hand for another beer. Ay, Tim, you know her. Fictionist, Katipunan U, long hair. Diba she was your student? The one who read that story on the lover and the ears. At Bennys launch? Ah! Sita! Yes, yes, sorry. With the dimples, no? I think I saw her at the Hiraya Building weeks ago. Yes, shes pretty. You like her? She looks like a Gaugin girl. And I read the whole of the story and its good! Like a young Allende. Verynuanced. Your cock is nuanced. You dont think shes good? I guess shes okay, from the bits I can remember. So you were at the Hiraya Building? Who else did you see? Nobody. Everyone else submitted the last day, probably. You know how it goes. Yes. Well, its almost July. Well find out which random souls to glorify this year soon enough. Arent the awards in September? Kat-kat asked, suddenly reminding the two of her presence. Or have they moved them to July? Still September, Sonny replied, then made a show of leaning closer to her, as if in conspiracy. A lot of us know much earlier, though, he stagewhispered mockingly. Those judges leak like broken buckets. To Ralphi fucking Tuazon and the Hirayas, bastions of talent and rectitude, Tim blurted out, thrusting his beer out to them.
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Sonny stared at Tims bottle for a few seconds before clinking back, and Kat-kat followed. There was a round of languid clapping. Thank you, maraming salamat, said the woman onstage, letting go of her grip on the microphone and folding up her piece of paper. The host appeared and took her place at the mic. Thank you, Danica Tan. Up next, reading his poem that came out in the March issue of Philippine Poetry Monthly, Jayson Kyle Zamora. Come on up, Jayson. +++ According to Ralphi Tuazons calendar, the one with a lesser known Man Ray snapshot per month, it was July 14. The tiny pea of anxiety that had sprouted in the pit of his stomach two weeks ago now felt like a melon. The ringer volume on his cell phone had been set to Outdoor for days, but the only times the stupid thing blasted Dirty Projectors was when his buddy Jayson called to brag about the girl he, Jayson, had been vigorously fucking. Which was kind of pointless since she was one of Ralphis leftovers from months before, which meant Ralphi already knew that, yes, she had a swastika tattooed on her inner left thigh, but that was just how the postmodern cookie crumbled. He went back to the Macbook sitting precariously on the edge of his book-burdened desk. It had been seven minutes since his last Facebook status update (Awards dont really mean much. ~Uta Hagen), and it had amassed a tidy 15 likes, four re-posts, and nine comments. The one comment that had just barely enough substance to it standing out amidst the many permutations of You are SOOOO right from the Kat-kat Espinosas of the worldwas from Abby Lee, the first person to bag a Hiraya solely through haiku. Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs. ~Georg Trakl This was exactly the kind of reaction he was going for. He had to get a rise out of at least one person for his project to matter. And for him to be accused as being all bitter and huffy was perfect; it revealed how some peoplehe was pretty sure Abby wasnt the only oneperceived him at this stage in his life. To them, despite all his protestations, he was just another lackey of the literati, another sycophant waiting for the Muse to offer her bare, butterball breast in validation. Which, obviously, was totally not who he was. At all. Ralphi was not like the others. Ralphi was different. Ralphi wasnt really a part of this construct called the Philippine literary tradition, steeped as it was in such un-ironic pretense, artifice, fabrications, machinations. Not really. He was what came after. He was not really inside; he was really outside looking in while appearing to be on the inside. There was a difference. And it was this
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difference, this other-ness, that allowed him to execute this latest project in particular. Ralphi wanted to portray himself as the ultimate caricature of the sad writer in desperate want of praise, and in so doing, expose the utter hypocrisy of the Philippine literati. He wanted to make a show of being contrarian about the current awards season, to throw thinly guised tantrums because he hadnt gotten that fateful call yet, and have other writers chastise him, to sayexactly like Abby didthat he should stop being such a crybaby when, in truth, they were being just as colicky, just as unskilled at cloaking their very own desperation. Or something like that. Just this big mess of hypocritical dialogue, this disoriented stream of bias and post-grad warbling. He would put it all down on paper eventually, when he had some free time. And it didnt really need to make sense, at least not right away. That was real art, after all. Art wasnt something you could glean a crisp, black-and-white meaning from the second you see it. In fact, in Ralphis mind, meaning could be unbeknownst even to the artist himself. He was simply a tool through which meaning made itself manifest. In this particular project, he was like a sieve that strained out all the so-called grandiosity of the literati to reveal the staggering amount of bullshit that really made this community up. And what made his project even more genius was that the artwork continued whether he won the Hirayas or not. If he won, then he would be ridiculed for all of his whining. If he lost, then he would be pitied as a victim of the system. Either outcome, however, would belie how everyone linked to arts and letters were all just a bunch of uninteresting fame slaves. But that melon in the pit of his stomach! As much as he ignored its existence, it continued to grow in sneaky increments, practically threatening to burst inside of him. Ralphi already had another quotation in mind in response to Abbys, but just before he could type it down, a chat window popped out from the bottom of his screen. It was Jayson. shit. SHIIIIIT golda and sir raymond 1st and 3rd. no 2nd place. FML Ralphis fingers pummeled the keyboard. MOTHERFUCK Jayson sent an animated smiley that burst into flames. FUCK, Ralphi typed. So much for English poetry. What else do you know? stef, anina, and rex for fil poetry. in that order. Ralphi felt like chucking something against the wall. He should have submitted to more categories. He usually tried for most slots most years, but he slacked off this year with just three entries, all of which were just for the Hirayas. It was mostly out of laziness, with just a touch of hubris; you couldnt help but feel that way, Ralphi reasoned, if youve been winning in at least one category in at least one contest each year for so long. He threw a
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book of poems against the wall, but the volume was too slim to create a satisfying dent. English play? he typed back with shaking fingers. As if in response, his Facebook newsfeed refreshed automatically and revealed new posts from his acquaintances. AAANDREW!!!! CONGRATSSS!!!! FIRST IN ENG PLAY!!!!!! GALING GALING!!!!!! posted Zea Baytan. A heartfelt congratulations to Andrew Hortaleza, 1st in English Play in the 2012 Hiraya Awards! The muses have chosen well. Heres to the next Pinoy Ibsen! posted Althea Cruz-Lapid. Wow, congrats, Drew! Who r 2nd and 3rd? asked Jessie Reynales in a succeeding comment, which had yet to be replied to. As if possessed, Ralphi started refreshing the page over and over until a response appeared. Soon enough, Zea Baytan tittered: Gek Tirona 2nd; Yolanda Onpauco 3rd :) Good job guys!! The page was eventually flooded with announcements and well wishes for Andrew, Gek, and Yolanda, as well as for the other winners in the other categories. Not all of the winners had been revealed just yet, but word would eventually seep into his newsfeed over the next week or so. His cell phone bleeped with a new message. He picked it up slowly, both a little wary and a little intrigued by what he would find. The news making the rounds online, after all, were still hearsay; the Hiraya Foundation had yet to announce anything officially. Maybe it was a text message from one of the judges? That had happened before; Maam Pacita had once texted her advanced congratulations because she had run out of load for a call. Or maybe it was a text from some other insider who hoped to inform him that there had been a terrible mistake, and it was Ralphi whod won a spot in some category and not whoever that other person was. It was also possible, of course, that it was just some acquaintance text-blasting to his entire phone book the same names mentioned online. There were kooks out there who treated each years leaks like the announcement of a new Pope, so it could just be that, at worst. He checked the message. 1 more week to earn free call and text bonus! Load only 190 pesos from Jul15-Aug15 to get FREE 100 texts + 10mins worth of calls to all Globe/TM subscribers valid for 1 day. This is a free advisory. R096a-10. He felt the melon deflate, and everything else along with it. +++ Melinda fanned herself with an O. Henry anthology shed picked up over lunch. Another day in comatose at Manalo Manufacturers Factory A, atop her perch in the glassed-in Presidents office, eyes fixed on some spot on the factory floor where the conveyor belts wound like flatworms. Those belts had been in operation for over 30 years. Melinda still remembered when theyd been brand-new; shed just started work in the factory then, packing up hundreds upon hundreds of boxes of their sulfur Page 8 of 11

and papaya soaps in her own little corner. That was just for a few weeks, of course; Mr. Manalo had wanted his daughter to experience a smidge of hardship before tossing over the keys to the managers office. But she still recalled the constant, confident hum of those belts when shed worked down there, not unlike running refrigerators. Now they just wheezed. They worked, albeit slower, and wheezed like emphysemic hags. Her cell phone rang. It was either the supervisor over at Factory B, or her daughter, who had been calling her relentlessly since she moved into the freshman dorm at Katipunan-U, probably wanting some other trivial appliance from her room at home to be sent over. But it was an unfamiliar number. Hello? Yes, hello? Is this Ms. Melinda Jane Manalo? This is Maricon Duterte of the Hiraya Foundation. Um, yes? How Congratulations! We are very pleased to inform you that your short story, Sunset on Manila Bay, has won first place in this years Hiraya awards. What? Really? Yes, maam, the voice said with a touch of amusement. Please stand by for the snail mail announcement, which should get to the address you indicated on the application form in a day or two. With the announcement is a letter of invitation to the awards ceremony on September 3, Thursday, at Makati Shangri-La. All the other details will be there. Do you have any questions, Ms. Manalo? Oh, well, no, II dont think so. Alright then. Well see you on September 3. Congratulations! Thank you. Thank you. When Melinda ended the call, her phones touch screen felt charged with a mild current. In fact, everything around her suddenly seemed fantastically bright, as if someone had adjusted a gigantic lens for sharper detail. She won! She won. And first place, too! They liked her story! They really, really liked it! But wasnt this the last thing she expected? She had excellent grammar and syntax; over a decade in a private girls school had ascertained that. She even used to write for the school paper for a time, and could vaguely remember tackling Hiraya winners in her Reading classes. But other than that, she really didnt know what a winner was made of. Her story was about a girl from the province, Caridad, who had just moved to Manila to support her starving family. (Melinda was born and raised in the capital, so she just went with the few things she knew about probinsyanasinnocent, demure, predisposed to manual labor such as farming and sewing.)The storys villain was a dirty rich, disgustingly fat, European businessman named Olaf who hired Caridad as a secretary, but Page 9 of 11

treated her as a sex puppet. (The only thing Melinda was sure of was that her story had to have depth and significance, that it delivered a powerful universal message, so she opted for the evils of globalization and the importance of unconditionally loving your country.) The story ended with a very pregnant Caridad left to beg in the streets. Olaf had fired her when she revealed that she was bearing his child, and she was far too ashamed to return to her family in the province. In the very last scene, Caridad was standing in the rain on the sidewalk across Manila Bay, shivering, her hand stretched out to passers-by. Just when she was about to cry out in desperation, a random stranger dropped a coin into her hand, but alas, it was a 25-centavo piece, not enough to buy a crumb of a fraction of anything. As the sun began to set, a tear fell down her cheek and onto her pregnant belly. The end. Her own story had given Melinda goosebumps, but the thought that she could get first place had never crossed her mind. She had only joined the contest because the Hiraya office was just across from her apartment complex, and during submission season, she could overhear countless spirited discussions between writers who met up at the Starbucks on the corner, their thick brown envelopes fused to their fists. Since she mostly just read whatever showed up on the top ten list at National, a lot of their terms and names were unfamiliar to her, but they spoke with an urgency, a confidence, a certain matter-of-factness, that betrayed how utterly consumed they were by what they were doing. Melinda doubted if she could even begin to understand how writing a poem or a story could be just as important as saving a life in the emergency room, or presiding over an entire population, but that was what she could see in these peoples eyes. It was like they were doing the world a favor. Unlike them, she had joined on a whim, but she could vaguely comprehend that it was a good whim. She remembered poring through the Hiraya archives after submitting, and feeling strangely privileged for doing so. And now she was part of it. She picked up her phone and called Julie, her best friend of 15 years. She couldnt imagine breaking the news first to anyone else. Julie! I just got a call a minute ago. They said I won a Hiraya! First place! They said I got first place! Me! Its so strange, no? Anyway, whatever! Youll be my plus-one for the awarding, diba? Its at Makati Shangri-La, sa September. Lets go! Ha? Linda? Wait lang, wait lang. Whos they? Whats a Hiraya? +++ Melinda Manalo, muttered Sita, reading the Facebook post out loud. Was she the new girl at last nights reading? she thought with trepidation. +++
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Probably Sonnys student, thought Tim as he walked away from the cork board. Assholes been keeping the good ones for himself. +++ Melinda Manalo? Ralphi cried to Kat-kat as he pulled his boxers on. Who the fuck is that?

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