Desafinado: Slightly Out of Tune - 6. Paranoia

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CHAPTER 6: PARANIOA

The weight of the scuba gear pushed him further down. He paddled his fins for a good second until he could angle himself to reach the surface.

"Dis is how you pirst test your scuba equipment. You scoop and dibe. Okey?" said Jerome, the official diving expert on the yacht.

There were several people lined up, getting into the proper gear and equipment, who were listening to Jerome’s diving instructions. Every guest in The Kabukiran was a first-time diver. Every guest has to strictly follow the proper safety protocols set in place.

All five of the Swedish guests were getting into their wetsuits when Albert nudged my shoulder. I uncrossed my legs, disrupted by my stern gaze at the very blue but calm waters in the distance, and looked at Albert, who was now wearing a scuba outfit. Taking out the regulator piece from his mouth, he then swiped the mask from his face and eagerly said, "You’re not coming?"

"Nope. I’ve got things to do."

"But I thought you were coming. This’ll be my first time diving. Please?"

He looked chirpy, like a first-time rider on a rollercoaster or a Ferris wheel. It was clear in the way his eyes begged me to accompany him. He pinched my face and said, "Please, pretty please, with cherries on top of a glass of chardonnay?"

"Are you drinking?"

"It’s a figure of speech. Please? Come with me?"

I held out for much longer; his childlike stare was hard to resist. Till I said yes, and he hugged me. Surprising. But it's worth it.

I reasoned to myself that despite the number of things I needed to do on the yacht, maybe spending thirty minutes with him would calm me down, and this might be an exciting distraction for a change, regardless of the countless times I’ve gone scuba diving here in South Miniloc.

"Oh, there you are," said Candy, the girl with the split ends. She turned to me and motioned for her boyfriend to video us. Oh, hi there. I haven’t seen you here before."

"Hello," said Albert, who stood up to go for a handshake. "I’m Albert. And the two of you are?"

"I’m Candy and this is Jeffrey." Jeffrey waved behind the camera. "Nice to meet you," she said.

"What’s this?" Pointed Albert. "Are you guys vlogging?"

"That’s exactly what we’re doing. Smile at the camera." The camera panned over to Albert, and came closer to his face. His forced smile said everything; he looked uncomfortable.

I pushed the camera out of the way and said, "Please stop that," and pulled Albert from the camera’s line of sight.

"Why don’t you head down and wait for me? I’ll just change, and then we can go diving together," I said to Albert, who looked confused. I peered down beyond the railing and called out to Jerome. "Brad, paki-alalayan naman tong si Albert? Sunod mo kami diyan pagkatapos nila." (Bro, can you assist Albert? We’ll follow them after they’re done.)

"Ok ser," shouted Jerome from the lower deck. Albert headed off to the passage deck and rode the elevator.

Candy said to her boyfriend, "Honey, why don’t you take shots of the people over there? We might need it for later." She took a seat, crossed her legs, pulled out her phone, and began reading some online information from a gossip website. "Damien Frederick G. Ellison, born June 15th… There’s no year. They also labelled the age as approximate. It says here: 33-37. But how old are you really, Damien? Height seems right. 6’4. Look at that. There’s no photo." She pointed her camera at my face and captured an image. "And now we have one. How convenient. TMZ would love this shot of you."

I grabbed the phone. "Hey! That’s gonna cost you," she said, as I threw it into the ocean.

"So it’s you? How much do you need? Tell me!" I shouted.

From below the deck, Albert heard a muffled noise as he gazed up. Our eyes met, and I smiled. He darted back to me and then to the group as he settled in, chatting and laughing with the Swedes. I grabbed Candy’s arm and dragged her inside the saloon as I locked the doors, seething.

"I told you I don’t want your money," said Candy.

I motioned at the bartender to leave as I headed out to the passage room to see if someone was eavesdropping. When I returned, I had to control myself. "So you’re on to blackmail now?"

"I said nothing about blackmailing you. All I want is an exclusive interview with Damien Frederik Ellison, the grandson of Robert Ellison." She pulled up another phone hidden between her breasts and began reading something from the internet. "It says here, your grandfather has $107 billion from overseeing the Ellison Mon Grace Fashion House, which includes 75 brands. A hundred seven billion dollars. Imagine that. Even if I get reincarnated a million times, I’ll never have that much money in a lifetime." She glanced at her phone and read out information I’d rather have expunged and never heard of again. "5 billion out of the 107 billion your grandfather owns belongs to his missing grandson, Damien Frederik Ellison. How do you sleep at night knowing you’re disgustingly rich, Damien?"

"I don’t," I said curtly. That money had haunted my dreams for as long as I could remember.

"That’s why you have to tell the world where you’ve been? Everybody’s been curious to know what happened to the famed grandson of Robert Ellison who vanished 10 years ago. We’ll make it into a short docu-series about your life in the Philippines. It's like a Netflix special. I’ll call in my people and I’ll have them fly over here in the blink of an eye." She began sounding like herself as she took a seat at the minibar. "Like what happened to you after your parents died? And what happened to you after your bestfriend’s death? Like, you know, did you kill him or something? Or did you cause the accident? We’ll make it sound like a true crime drama. But it also has to be family-friendly, so we’ll add some shots of kids and some stray dogs. Something like that."

"I didn’t kill him," I said, not wanting to divulge any more details to this lunatic.

"That’s why you should tell everyone what truly happened that night."

"Candy, I was in the Philippines when they found him in his apartment. This isn’t on me," I said, lying to my teeth.

"Hmm," she said, forcing her brain to function for a moment. "That makes sense. But...

"What you’re suggesting is impossible. I didn’t kill anyone. I’m not doing this interview. Just forget about this and move on."

"Ok. Why are you so uptight suddenly?" Her tone changed. "What? Do you think I don’t know you? You think I wouldn’t recognise you? I’ve been mapping your face ever since I remembered you that day we met on the island. Do you think going back to your natural hair colour would change anything? I know you wore black contacts to disguise yourself from the paparazzi. I may have a persona of ditzy fucking blonde but I’m no idiot." It was uneasy listening to her as she sipped a clean glass of champagne, then said, "That 21-year-old kid downing margaritas with a mix of LSD and fentanyl, like it’s a party in your mouth. That kid who let Anthony take a line of coke from your cock—like there wasn’t a teenager sleeping in the house who was woken up by two guys fucking in the kitchen."

And then it hit me. There was this guy named Mark who used to be our dealer 14 years ago. He was an opportunistic, disgusting pig who was great with the company he kept and a slimeball with the ones he didn't. He had a penchant for shopping for high-grade drugs with the rich folks of New York City. And Anthony and I were his prized possessions—his top clients. "Candy Forrester? You’re Mark Forrester’s little sister?"

"Yep." She twirled around, walked to the centre, and pointed at herself. "That’s me. I saw you. I was 14 when I saw you fucking him while the both of you were loaded up on crack; he looked like a zombie being rammed by a horny alpaca." She returned to the bar to get another glass. "So it only makes sense that you’d have something to do when they found your best friend dead in his apartment... since you were his lover and you were cheating on him with Anthony. Isn’t that why you’re here—to escape? To run away. To be… free?"

"I had nothing to do with Jake’s death."

"Then speak up and share it with the world, Damien."

"I—I can’t."

"You know what?" She pointed her finger and was slightly slurring her speech. She looked like she'd been drinking since this morning. "To think that when my brother had his house parties, he would invite the decent ones in town to save face. But no. He's got to play with the ultra-rich, wealthy kids of New York—crackheads like him who got to fuck each other well into an orgy." She stood up and walked closer. She glanced up, stared at my face, and found a spot. She fingered the hair peeking out of my chest and said, "So Damien. Will you play with me?"

Staring at the air, frozen, I tried to justify what I did. "We were young. I was young. I didn’t know what I was doing back then. The drugs. The parties. That’s not me anymore."

Her voice was sullen, almost breathing, and she was begging. "I don’t give a shit about what you did then and what you do now." She smelled my chest and sucked the nipple on my pecs. "I just want to give you an opportunity to save yourself."

If given the chance, she would’ve fucked me right there with the way she went down on my nipple and fondled my crotch. I didn’t get hard. She was more of a nuisance, like a fly buzzing around me. Swatting her was an option. But this chick definitely has issues only a shrink can help with. "I’m really sorry, Candy. I can’t do the interview."

I gently pushed her away and was about to unlock the door when she said, "Then do it for the people who care about you. Do it for them." My face was empty; I didn’t react. "Then do it for the person who trusts you—"

"—leave him the fuck out of this!" I said, calling her out on her bullshit.

She stared at me—at my face. Like she was studying something. I had an inkling she may have gotten this one right.

"Jackpot. I was thinking of someone else—that old Filipino guy that follows you around. But I guess this reaction was better. What’s his name, er, Albert? Albert right?"

"Don’t fucking involve him in this."

I…I was scared that Albert would find out about the story. I was afraid that he would see what kind of monster I am. And it was clear in the way Candy saw through me and said, "Oh-em-gee. You care about him. How cute. Just imagining you fucking him is making me horny." She began touching herself.

"You’re sick in the head. You need help."

I had to get out of there. So, I unlocked the door and ran outside. But before I left, she said, "We know that interview’s going to happen, Damien. Trust the process."

Our turn came after three of the Swedes jumped in the water. The other one received an important call and had to FaceTime his wife on the main deck. From what I heard, his wife went into early labour, 3 weeks early. And the other one, Erik, the brunette with an impeccable smile and a face that could grace the pages of a GQ magazine, was friendly enough to ask Albert, "Would you like to join me? I hear there’s a cabbage coral garden nearby."

"Is it okay if I join him?" asked Albert. "You haven’t worn the scuba suit anyway."

I said, "Sure. Don’t stray too far, ok. Listen to Jerome and the guides."

So there I was, sitting on the yacht, popping a smoke with a San Mig on my right, saying to myself, "This is the life." And then this tiny, annoying, frigging’ insignificant voice echoed in my small, mote-sized brain that said, "Wouldn’t you like it if he’s with him?"

By not entertaining the stupid fucker, the voice in my head stayed in my head. Chatting with the German couple who played with one of the boat’s toys helped pass the time. I assisted them, being one of the qualified Jet Ski instructors on board, and showed them how to ride it into the ocean. I went up to the sun deck and discussed a few things with one of the gay couples. Sheila told me that in Australia, they marinated their crabs in a special mix of soy sauce. The conversation was boring, but it also helped pass the time. What was interesting was that they made their own water. Lesbians are making artisanal water—that’s new. Then I proceeded to the saloon to check if Candy was still there—she must have headed to her quarters and passed out drunk. Good riddance. I won’t be able to see her until tomorrow, I hope. Her boyfriend was still taking photos and videos of the guests and the crew. Now the staff thinks there’s a documentary on board. Ryan was on his best behaviour, touring him around the galley. If only I had the courage to tell him the captured footage was going to be a vlog.

I checked my watch; the sun was about to set in an hour. I haven’t seen Albert. Are they done? Damn it. I was trying to avoid listening to my inner voice, but there it goes again, a noisy, unsolicited Karen reminding me.

"They must be having a great time."

"I bet they’ll be close after this."

"They’re probably holding hands by now, swimming in the ocean, looking at the fish."

"How romantic! Look at that! Albert just kissed Erik on the lips."

I was even hearing unrelated shit in my head:

"Sea cucumbers can grow up to 2 metres long, but it only takes 6 inches to stuff Albert’s mouth. You bet Erik’s sea cucumber's around 12 inches."

"Hmm… you’re really trying to avoid me. Well, let me tell you, they’re having: ANAL, ANAL, ANAL, ANAL…"

ENOUGH. I’ve had enough of being paranoid today. I came stomping to the lower deck, suited up, and dived straight into the cold, clear waters. I swam to the part where Erik mentioned the cabbage coral garden. But they weren’t there. I dove deeper, and a big school of big-eyed snappers came through. There was a school of tuna, a big mackerel, and a big barracuda swimming in the corner. I turned around and went back to the corals, where I found some frogfish. A ribbon eel slithered to go hunting, as I held onto a nudibranch and played with it for a while, amazed at how adorable it was. Turning back, I couldn’t find them. Where the hell are they?

Upon resurfacing, I gasped for air as the stress of my paranoia came hurtling to a new level of wrong and disgusting thoughts. Even my freestyle, as I swam to the yacht, was tiring and fidgety. As I climbed up to the rack and heard people laughing, I took off the oxygen tank and slid out of the scuba gear. I asked Jerome, who was helping out the other guests, "There’s a party?"

"Yes ser. They’re partying ober der."

At the back of the yacht, early 2010s pop music was booming near the swimming platform as I walked closer. I went down the stairs and found Albert and Erik drinking beers while swimming inside the ocean pool, a large square pool placed on the ocean that has netting, protecting the guests from jellyfish. I didn’t see Albert JUST laughing; he was howling with laughter.

That moment when Erik placed both hands on his shoulders and gave him a massage and probably whispered sweet nothings into his ear while Albert snickered and laughed like a grade-schooler being pinched in the ears, I was the one losing it.

I dragged Erik out of the pool and punched him. Ok. Maybe that’s the preferred outcome in my head over this reality of having to approach them and ask them, "Have fun, gents?" like I’m a butler paid by the hour.

Albert turned around and said, "Yes. I’m having fun, thanks to you. I've been telling Erik over here how funny you were the first time we met."

"Oh." I looked at Erik, smiling at me. What was I thinking? I’m an idiot. A grade-A idiot. Maybe nothing’s going on between them. I went down the pool stairs, submerged myself, and said, "I’m funny? I don’t think I’m funny."

"You were funny, especially when you told me about that German word," said Albert, who was coming over to hand me a beer."

"What? Arbeiterunfallverischerungsgesetz is funny?"

They both laughed. I’d forgotten by now that I’d been jealous.

"That is such an American thing to say," said Erik. "Saying that word in the style of Hitler is very—what’s the word?—dumb and inappropriate."

And then I was reminded that our friend Erik, over here, has a punchable face. The backhanded compliment was too obvious. "You’re calling me dumb?"

"Maybe. But you are interesting, in a way," said Erik as he swam closer.

The way he stared at Albert: "Something’s brewing, and I ain’t liking the tea. Albert hung his arms around my neck. I was intrigued and felt zesty about where this was going. "There’s a sea kelp stuck on your back."

"What?" He pulled a green, sloppy leaf stuck on my back. "Oh," I said, marked with disappointment. If there’s another zone in the friend zone, I was there.

Erik raised his hand. The personal assistant assigned to their group handed him a bottle of beer. He swam close to us and asked Albert, "Will you be joining tonight’s dinner?"

I clarified. "Here at the boat? We’ll be returning to the island before the sun sets. We’re only here for the scuba lesson."

"No," said Erik, chortling, "I meant dinner on the island." It seemed I wasn’t invited as he swam between us, separating himself and Albert so they could have their moment, while I was left in the corner to suffocate him and kill him, and then murder him again inside my head.

Albert then asked him, "Dinner? Who’s coming?"

"Lars doesn’t feel like going out tonight. His wife’s in labour, so he might fly back to Sweden tomorrow. Mikael, Anders, and Karl are planning to go to Karaoke. But I was thinking, do you want to get a Shiatsu massage? There’s a couple’s massage we could do together. They give out discounts if we do it in pairs. Then we can have dinner after and probably join them at the Karaoke. Do you like the idea?"

This guy’s slick. Very slick. A "come on" disguised as a couple’s massage—this prick’s more cunning than a sly fox. Well, here’s the news: the two of you aren’t a couple!

"Sure," answered Albert. "That sounds like a great idea. But—"

I’m not really a jealous person. Ok. OK. OOKKK. With my previous history, I may have been jealous on more than one occasion. At that time, I followed an ex to church in case he hooked up with his priest. Or that time I accused my date of flirting with the barista. Or that time when I bought an entire restaurant just to make sure he was really meeting up with a cousin. Or that time when he allegedly was studying overseas, only to find out he was banging on his professor. Alright, maybe that really happened, so I deserved to be pissed. But I do have a history of being too jealous. Maybe a bit too much.

But… jealousy isn’t bad. When you’re jealous, every fibre and bone in your body is telling you not to lose this person. Every part of you is aching to have them back. And that you're being reminded of the things you’d lose once they’re gone. Because losing this person is more than a heartbreak; it's more than some petty feeling you'll forget the next day. Losing this person means losing a part of you. And no one wants that—to live the rest of your life living some part of a half.

So, hearing it from the horse’s mouth, damn, you’re right, I’ve heard enough.

I climbed up the pool stairs, towelled myself, and headed up to the main deck. Looking up, the sun’s about to set, and my plan has to take shape. Not really understanding what I was doing, I walked through the passage deck, went over the lower decks, and into the yacht’s helm.

I opened the door, and the captain peered at me and gave his salute. "Sir, how may I help you?"

"What’s the closest problem we’d have that would force us to stay overnight?"

He took off his flat cap and said, "I don’t understand your question, sir."

"Give me a valid reason why we should leave tomorrow instead of tonight."

"Er—harsh winds?"

"But there’s no storm," I said.

"Engine trouble?"

"I like that. Now announce to the entire ship that there’s engine trouble and that we’re staying till tomorrow. Do it."

"Sir, but it costs a lot of money to sail, not to mention the other expenses."

I hung an arm over his shoulder; I had to remind him of my position.

"Who am I?"

"You own this yacht."

"And?"

"And the other yacht."

"And…?"

"This business, er, sir."

"So?"

"You don’t care about the expenses."

I tapped his shoulder and said, "Glad we have an understanding. Do it now. Thanks."

I was on my way to the galley when the captain announced the situation. The announcement was like a glorious chorus of angels singing in my ear. I imagined the couple’s massage and romantic dinner would be postponed, or, much better, cancelled. But there’s one more problem. Convincing Ryan might pose a problem. But I was determined that if I played to his ego, my plans would be—perfecto.

I dashed inside the galley, looking frustrated. "Hey Ryan, someone was complaining about the food."

He was sitting on a folding chair, picking his nose, while watching YouTube on his mobile. "Sorry? What were you saying?"

"The guest said: I didn’t pay an exorbitant amount just to be served a tasteless chicken. That’s what they said."

"Who said that?"

"Er—the lesbian couple. They make their own water. They’re fancy."

Ryan rose from his seat and slammed his fist into the kitchen island. "But that was adobo? A deconstructed adobo that I personally marinated for a week. A WEEK!" He seemed angry. Now’s the time to play to his weaknesses.

"Well, it seems we’re here until tomorrow. I’m sure they’ll complain about the rest of the food."

"Let them complain. It’s Mike’s turn to cook anyway," said Ryan. I didn’t expect it to be the alternating chef’s turn. But an idea suddenly came to mind.

"Ok. I’ll have Mike cook for tonight’s dinner. Who knows? That couple might suddenly be into his cooking—no offence, man. But that's what it is."

"Tonight’s dinner?"

"Yeah. We’ll be serving them a complementary meal thanks to the engine problem we’re experiencing. I think they’re still some noodles and porridge from yesterday’s breakfast. That’ll do until Mike cooks up something more appropriate, I guess."

He slammed his fist again on the table, this time with more panache. "No! You can’t do that when my reputation is at stake. I’m an award-winning chef. How dare they mock me? I’ll show them—those cock’a doodle bitch lesbian peasants. They want chicken! I’ll give them a Bocuse D’Or award-winning chicken! We have two hours to cook several dishes." He glared at his sous chef and said, "Heat that up now! I want tonight’s dishes to be perfect!"

I went out of the galley, punching the air. My plan was a success—an incredulously motherfuckin’ perfect but expensive plan. Mariel’s going to eat my head for this. But I don’t care! The only thing now is to tell everyone about tonight’s activity.

Standing in the centre of the saloon, I told the guests, "We apologise for the inconvenience. As you may have heard, we’re stuck here until they fix the engine. They're doing everything they can to get it done. ETA is we’ll leave here tomorrow after lunch. But for tonight, we’ll be serving complimentary meal care to H.M.S. Tours. It’s a 5-course meal prepared by our gifted chef, Chef Ryan Aubery. Tonight, we’ll be gearing up for a nice evening, and we hope you enjoy it."

Everyone returned to their rooms, probably to change into their formal attire since it was a 5-course meal to be had inside a charter yacht. I doubt anyone would wear a sombrero and a poncho to dinner. As I was about to make a call to check up on something, someone’s finger tapped my shoulder.

"Hello," said Albert.

"Oh hey," I replied, feeling awkward that I suddenly left them at the pool.

"You didn’t do this, did you?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don’t know. I have this feeling that you had something to do with this. Like you did it.

"For you?" I said, laughing. "I don’t have the power to do this. I’m only the help."

"Yeah. I know, it’s silly. Forget I said anything."

Life would be much simpler if he knew. I traced myself to the lounge chair and said, "So, how’s the date? You and Erik are getting chummy back there."

"I didn’t really say yes to him. You’ve already left when I explained it was better to go to dinner as a group than to go as a pair."

He didn’t really look into my eyes when he said it. But it felt like he was telling the truth. "Oh, so how’d he take it?"

"Pretty well. Very gentlemanlike and polite."

I rolled my eyes and said, "He just wants to get into your pants."

"I don’t think so. I haven’t had, er, sex in a very long time."

"Really?"

"Yeah. I’m on medication. My sex drive doesn’t exist right now." He took a seat beside me. "It’s just one of the side effects."

"So that’s why you said no sex between us?"

"Partially, yes. But most of it is because I didn’t know you."

"Huh. Makes sense. But how about if someone’s dancing naked in front of you?"

"Nope."

"What if someone gives you a lap dance?"

"No."

"What if someone’s giving you a blowie?"

"I’d probably be bored."

"What if—" And then he cut me off.

"—I’m sorry about today." He looked at me, filled with worry. Anxiety doesn’t suit him. There’s something sad and lonely about the way his eyes settled on the ground. "I completely disregarded the conditions of the contract. Without you, I wouldn’t be here."

"Yeah. But…"

"No buts. Whatever you say goes. If you tell me to do something, I’ll do it. I shouldn’t have gone diving with Erik or even suggested it. I can’t be doing things on my own. Talking to him was exhausting. Pretending to be happy was exhausting. I should know better than to stretch myself thin. You’re supposed to be my guide, and...

Hey, hey, hey, hey..." I held out his chin and stared into his eyes. I didn’t know he felt this way. "If you want to be happy, sad, or angry, then you’re free to do so. You’re not a prisoner here. You’re allowed to do things on your own."

And then he said it. "Maybe it’s the beard. Or that stupid hat. Or that stupid face. But do I want to do things with you?" He said the words that make every plan, devious or innocently done, even more worth it. "Definitely. Because—you make me happy, in a non-sexual way."

"So go to dinner with me then as my date?" I insisted.

"As for your date?"

"Yes. As per my date." He was smiling when I said, "Have dinner with me, along with a narcoleptic lesbian couple who’ll judge us for not recycling. I think one of them slept the whole day."

He nodded and said, "Yes. I’d be glad to be your date."

"This is the part where I’m supposed to kiss you, I think."

He flat-out said, "No."

"Why?"

"Is it because of my long beard?

"Nope."

"Do I have bad breath?"

"No."

He rose from his seat and walked to the passenger’s deck and downstairs to the ensuite rooms to change. I followed him there, still intact with my questions.

"Is it because I like the colour blue?"

"No."

"Is it because I enjoy watching Bewitch reruns?"

We reached the room, and then he said, "No. Damien. Listen. I will not kiss you because I’m only here for 3 more days. This isn’t some romantic comedy where we both engage in a relationship after a day or two. We’re friends. And I like that we’re friends. So NO kissing."

I was outside his door, leaning on the wall, looking worried for a reason. The words that came out of my mouth fell unexpectedly. "3 days, huh? If only you'd fall for me and never leave."