That boy needs therapy

wecomeofage:

by HP Vargas (awarewolves.tumblr.com)
written October 26, 2010
submitted October 30, 2010

This is a story about my first love. But before I tell you about my first love, let me tell you what my name is first. My name is Hil Petersen Vargas, and I was called Petersen for the first half of my life, and Hil, for the second half up until now. And that’s my name. Now for the story.

The memory of my first love is about ten years, one hundred and twenty-five months, five hundred and twenty weeks, three thousand and six hundred fifty days, eighty seven thousand and six hundred hours, five million and two hundred fifty-six thousand minutes, and more than a billion seconds old.

It began one day when I felt my heart lash from its inner cage. It began one humid afternoon, my cartoon-character modeled trolley bag in one hand, and the other in my chest, feeling the sound of my unsteady heartbeats splashing and resembling outrageous jazz chords, if ever it were an instrument. It began when I ran to the comfort room, still one hand on the left part of my chest, where the vibrating muscle, that is my heart, quaked its way to a magnitude infinity that began to bother me. It began when I saw my reflection in the comfort room’s mirror, flushed to a certain shade of red and pink, as if someone put too much blush-on make-up on my face. It began with the thud-thud, lub-dub, dug-dug-dug’s; the overly red tinted cheeks; and my twee senses coming to functionality.

It began—

(This is a story about my first love.)

I already forgot what his name was, even the exact specifics of his face. All I remember were both his initials and nickname — PR. PR may refer to a lot of things, though, so I was never really sure if it were his initials and/or his nickname, but I remember calling him PR. Did PR mean Peter Robert? Or Pedring Roberto? Was his name overly American, or was it of a certain Filipino nature? I also forgot how his eyes looked like. Or how his hair was (curly? straight? wavy? spiky?), or what his built was (was he fat? skinny? just the right built?). Nope, nothing at all.

(But before I tell you about my first love,)

If I were to get this straight, I would say I never really knew him that well. I never knew what his age was, what grade he was in, his interests, who his friends were, et cetera. If I’ll be frank, I would say I never realized how minimal my knowledge about him was, how few those pieces of jigsaw puzzles that served as a memory of him were even to just complete his exterior. Just about how little everything was. If I were to be honest, I’d gladly tell you how I never knew if he liked Pokemon as much as I liked it then, how I never knew if he abhorred basketball as much as I abhorred it then, how I never knew if he was into boys as much as I was then. If I were to be brutally truthful, I would tell all of you, with all sincerity, that I never knew who PR was exactly — I only knew but a fragment of his personality, which were those two letters that served as mere initials.

(let me tell you what my name is first.)

But I knew who I was, ten years ago, back when I fell in love with a fragile piece of my memory. I was Petersen Vargas, age eight, who fell in love with a boy he barely knew, a boy he would soon learn he would never, ever remember vividly in the future. I was Petersen Vargas, surreptitiously queer, who fell in love with a boy he saw one humid afternoon, with his hand clenched on the handle of his cartoon-character designed trolley bag, and the other, on the left part of his chest, feeling his heartbeat create an uneasy turbulence, when he saw a boy he was going to call his first love.

(My name is Hil Petersen Vargas, and I was called Petersen)

But for little consolation, I remembered a few things, some irrelevant pointers that may have to deal with PR. He called me Petersen, he was a friend of my service-mate (someone I rode the school van with to and fro), and he was entirely my type of guy. I don’t remember how we were introduced, but we were introduced eventually, by our common friend, which was my service-mate. I remember how I felt his arms around me, by my shoulders, how we were friends, how I fantasized about us being more than friends, and how I treated each gesture of friendship as a gesture of affection, a gesture of (what would I call it?) love.

(for the first half of my life,)

You may ask, as an eight-year-old kid, what did I know about love? To tell you honestly, I didn’t really know. But would you consider those nuances in my heartbeat, love? Would you consider how I remember being ecstatic about school, just because I could get to see PR, love? Would you consider the time when a part of our house was still wet with cement, and there I left my name and his name (or his initials) together, carved, so as to serve as a reminder of how I felt, love?

(and Hil, for the second half up until now.)

Now that I think about it, I still doubt if ever there was a PR in my life, or there maybe was, but was just a simplistic representation of my childhood imagination. Now that I think about it, I’d be happy to linger and return to my era with PR to see for myself if 1) his initials were really PR; 2) if he ever really existed in the first place; 3) if we ever really became friends and shared those ‘special moments’, and finally; 4) if our name together carved in wet cement ever really was there.

(And that’s my name.)

I still have this crazy fantasy that ten years, one hundred and twenty-five months, five hundred and twenty weeks, three thousand and six hundred fifty days, eighty seven thousand and six hundred hours, five million and two hundred fifty-six thousand minutes, and more than a billion after, he would still remember me just as much as I still (partly? vaguely? wholly?) remember him. I still wonder if he ever thinks about a ten-year-old memory, in grade school, where he met a soft-spoken and skinny gentleman named Hil Petersen, but was fondly called Petersen. I still wonder if he also has these thoughts of my possible non-existence, or if he clung to such vagueness and ambiguity; and I wonder, did he ever fall in love with me, too?

(Now for the story.)

If he wrote about me as well, would he write it in the same way as I am writing him now? Would it include the same jittery and giddy sentiments? He was my first love, PR. Was I his first love, too? Until now, just thinking about it — our names immortalized in cement — I bring myself back to my eight-year-old innocent self, without malice and lust, feeling my heart pulsing outrageously, forcing a cosmic nebula in my insides, a galaxy of stars bursting into undying flames, dressing up arson in the territories of my emotions, my affections, for this guy, for this boy, for PR. It brings me back when—

(The memory of my first love is about ten years, one-hundred and twenty-five months, five-hundred and twenty weeks, about three-thousand and six-hundred fifty days, eighty-seven-thousand six-hundred hours, five-million and two-hundred fifty-six minutes, and more than a billion seconds old.)

—it began one day when I felt my heart lash from its inner cage. It began one humid afternoon, my cartoon-character modeled trolley bag in one hand, and the other in my chest, feeling the sound of my unsteady heartbeats splashing and resembling outrageous jazz chords, if ever it were an instrument. It began when I ran to the comfort room, still one hand on the left part of my chest, where the vibrating muscle, that is my heart, quaked its way to a magnitude infinity that began to bother me. It began when I saw my reflection in the comfort room’s mirror, flushed to a certain shade of red and pink, as if someone put too much blush-on make-up on my face. It began with the thud-thud, lub-dub, dug-dug-dug’s; the overly red tinted cheeks; and my twee senses coming to functionality.
It began—cut shortly, when I first saw him, my dear first boy who owned those initials, carved implicitly, etched innocently on a wall; and engraved mystifyingly up until now, on the wallpaper of my heart.