untitled shoujo billiards 2/?

[pielcanela]

So I wait with Kuya Stephen and the rest of the billiard hall regulars. Most are people I only know by face - some, like Kuya Seto, are people my Kuya Stephen have been playing with for years. He was nowhere near Kuya Roger's league, but he still liked to play.

"No noise," has always been Kuya Stephen's primary rule. So I sit quietly on a monobloc chair at one of the small, sparse tables, zip up my lips and hold up my hand: a promise.

While everyone's waiting for the "rich kid" to show up, I grab the chance to talk to Kuya Seto. As everyone probably knows, I'm shy and not very good at talking to boys, especially - but Kuya Seto and Kuya Stephen are an exception. They've known me since I was little and I've known them since they were wearing short pants to school.

"Who is this 'rich kid'?" I ask him. "What does he even look like?"

Kuya Seto shrugs. "Rich?" He ventures, before he takes a swig of beer. "Regular rich, I guess. Nice clothes... clean hair... face like it'll melt if it isn't put in the freezer for one day."

"What?" I laugh.

Kuya Seto grumbles, "I dunno, Nikki, they all look the same to me!"

"He's a kid, right? Everybody calls him a 'kid.' How old is he, do you think?"

He shrugs. "About your age... maybe older..."

A man of few words, this Kuya Seto. He's from this neighborhood too. Like us, he didn't grow up in the most privileged environment... but unlike us, he had to quit school a lot earlier because his parents couldn't afford to keep him there.

You can probably understand why he dislikes rich people, and doesn't like them muscling in on the games he earns money from.

Well, to be fair, I don't believe Kuya Seto really hates rich people... they just aren't part of his world.

Although by all rights, I shouldn't be part of his world either.

My parents wouldn't like it if they knew that Kuya Stephen still let me come along to watch his games, sometimes. Since Kuya Roger's passing, my parents have developed an aversion to billiards. Just hearing about Efren "Bata" Reyes and Francisco Bustamante making waves in the international arena makes their eyes glaze over.

Really glazed over. Like they're tired of wanting to say something.

Whenever I try talking about billiards, my parents would say "Stop that nonsense and focus on your studies" in a sharp voice. The tone of their voices are even so similar, it's scary.

What they want to say is clear:

I should study so I can get out of the world where my brother died.

My parents may have come to hate billiards... but I haven't.

I guess a lot of it is because Kuya Stephen still hasn't, either.

I still don't want to call Kuya Stephen a "hustler"... even if that's technically what he is. Somebody who comes in just to play for money, then leaves. For me, that just doesn't capture what the sport is to him.

To Kuya Stephen, billiards is a gentleman's game. Yeah, I know it sounds silly, but if you knew him as well as I do, it would make sense to you, too. For him, it's played as much for the reputation as it is for the money.

Players betray their personalities when at the table, he likes to say. Above everything else, it's an educational sport.

Sure he loses a lot, but he learns a lot, too!

For example: guys (for it has almost exclusively been guys; there are some girl money players outside of town, but Kuya Stephen didn't make an effort to seek them out) who puff themselves up, drawing up to full height, at the start of the game are real windbags. They're usually loud without having a lot of playing skill. And guys who sit hunched up a bit, whether leaning forward or back, are what he calls "book players" - people who study up on the game, watching endless videos and reading tons of books. People you shouldn't underestimate.

A great deal about billiards to Kuya Stephen is good impressions.

And guys who stand him up on the first money challenge don't exactly leave a good impression.

"Who's that?" I hear someone say. I look up to see Kuya Stephen and his friends looking up the road - to a shiny black car parked at the corner, before the dirt road becomes too narrow for it to easily pass through.

"Hm. A rich car," Kuya Seto grumbles. "Must be him."

I stand up and walk a bit toward Kuya Stephen. I have to keep my distance, or he gets upset. I'm not even supposed to be here!

But I really want to see who it is. I crane my neck so I can see. But I don't have to crane my neck very far, I can see who it is just fine...

It's a tall white-haired man, wearing a strange suit - a striped vest and a long-sleeved white undershirt. And striped pants starched into sharpness; they look like they won't be able to get through mall security.

I blink. That may look rich, but it definitely doesn't look like a billiards player.

That doesn't even look like a kid.

It's a middle-aged man wearing a uniform. A very strange uniform, if I might add. I think I can recognize it from TV shows and books.

...Isn't he what's called a "butler"?

"The heck is that thing?" Kuya Seto mumbles.

Another of Kuya Stephen's friends stifles a laugh. It comes out as a snort through the nostrils.

The middle-aged man has a funny walk. His back is straight as a board and his chin is in the air - not too high up as to suggest haughtiness, but definitely high enough to catch attention in a place where you keep your head down if you don't want to get picked on by people with bigger muscles and beer-bellies than you do.

The man stops in front of Kuya Stephen. He says "Good afternoon. Are you Mr. Stephen?" in heavily accented Tagalog. Except he says "Mr. Stephen" in perfect English.

"Kuya Seto," I say, "you didn't tell me the rich kid was a foreigner!"

Kuya Seto frowns. "He isn't! Maybe a mestizo, but not a foreigner. He talks in straight Tagalog, not like that guy." He looks after the vanished middle-aged man. "...He's definitely not that guy."

Kuya Stephen raises an eyebrow. But he has to reply, or the man won't go away, or say anything else. That much is clear in the man's gaze.

"Yeah? Why?"

In answer, the man puts his right hand to his abdomen, between the chest and the stomach, then bows.

Kuya Stephen's friends burst out laughing. I can barely stop laughing, myself.

I mean, geez...

"My name is Alfonso," the middle-aged man continues, undaunted. His accent isn't American, or British... it's definitely not Asian, but I can't figure out what it is. "I work for the person who has challenged you to a match today. You see, he is my Senorito..."

And if I thought that Kuya Stephen's friends' laughter couldn't get any louder - that term just makes one of them lean against the wall to keep from collapsing in giggles.

"Come on," Kuya Seto jeers, "who even calls a person that these days!"

Kuya Stephen is starting to look put upon. He's the guy this weird person is addressing. It must be embarrassing for him.

"This isn't funny," he says - but not to his friends. To the middle-aged man. "I don't like the way you talk, old man. If this is a joke - "

"This is not a joke," Alfonso clarified, still brimming with cold respect. "My Senorito is unable to attend today's match. He sends his apologies."

Now both of Kuya Stephen's eyebrows are up.

"Is he chickening out?" he says. "Is he scared? That's why he's backing out?"

The gentleman - that is what he is, funny walk or no - does not let this faze him. It isn't a temper flareup after all. Honestly, this guy doesn't want to see Kuya Stephen when he's really mad.

The man called Alfonso just shakes his head.

"He is... busy." I can see that a lot of other words crossed his mind, but none of them except "busy" turned out to be acceptable. It's probably the worst word ever to describe what his Senorito is really doing - therefore, it's probably a lie. "It's an emergency. Please do not take offense. He wishes to reschedule, and as a gesture of good faith..." He bows lightly and briefly extends his hand to Kuya Stephen, palm open. "You may pick the time and place for your match. He will adjust his schedule to accommodate you."

Kuya Stephen stares at Alfonso for a moment. Then he turns around and says to his friends, "This is nuts. Am I supposed to fall for this?"

"Well," I say from my little corner of the billiard hall, "he did ask nicely..."

Everyone turns to look at me.

This... isn't a very comfortable situation.

I feel so small right now. Kuya Stephen is glaring at me as if he wants me to shrink away to nothing (don't worry Kuya, I'm doing that without your help!!) - and everybody else is looking at me expectantly, as if I know what'll happen next!

Old Alfonso stands there silently, as if he's memorizing my face.

After this, Kuya Stephen doesn't take long to make up his mind. He takes Alfonso aside and talks to him, away from the curious onlookers and eavesdroppers. They must be setting a time and place.

Of course, they have to do this while I'm not looking or listening in. Otherwise I might tag along again, right?

While we wait for them to finish talking, Kuya Seto beside me whistles. "Wow," he breathes out. I can't tell if it's admiration or disdain in his voice. "I knew that rich kid was rich, but not this rich. A nice car and a messenger?"

I suggest that it's probably all a fake, and he shakes his head. "He's probably some drug lord's kid. Or a congressman's. Only a loaded person can even think of faking something this ridiculous." Kuya Seto looks sidelong at Alfonso, who is at this point coldly shaking hands with Kuya Stephen, as if to finalize some sort of deal.

"They won't even say his name," I think aloud.

Kuya Seto chuckles. "Well, whatever it is, he's 'Senorito' around here now!"





I have to admit, it was one of the most exciting things to have happened around me and Kuya Stephen recently. Even if it was none of my concern.

Kuya Stephen tells me that he makes an effort to keep away from underground betting tournaments, because it's far more likely to get caught up in dangerous dealings there than in ordinary one-on-one betting games...

Although I know the truth. Kuya Stephen just can't win often enough to catch the betting groups' attention.

He used to, but that was a long time ago.

Now he just goes head to head with individual players for small change. He often goes double or nothing because he makes so little otherwise - and more often than any of us would like, he loses it all.

Now there's this "Senorito" who's almost my age going round, challenging hustlers and even sending a servant to challenge them - I understand why Kuya Stephen can't let this slide. If he's good enough for this guy, who's beating a lot of other good amateur players, drawing so much attention to himself AND flaunting his wealth in all the wrong places, the underground betting groups might let him back into their rosters. At the very least, he could milk "Senorito" for all he was worth.

"It's all set," Kuya Stephen tells me, as he's taking me home after that very brief encounter with the man calling himself Alfonso. "I've given our rich kid a time and place. If he doesn't make it, I'm never taking him seriously again." Kuya Stephen grunted. "He's a laughingstock as it is."

"Maybe he's really good?" I venture. "I mean, he's beaten some other amateurs before he heard of you... maybe he's just new, so he doesn't know how things work in our part of town. We can't really measure his skill with that, can we?"

"What do you care anyway?" he snaps at me. "You're not even supposed to know these things, all right? Just go home, study up and get some rest so I don't have to wait long for you tomorrow morning - and if your parents ask you why you're home so late, tell them you needed to stay over at school for something. Student council stuff, things like that."

Hearing the words "student council" made me think all of a sudden of Dylan Aiba, and I was silenced.

I have to admit that for a moment, when old Alfonso arrived, I forgot about my nice, quiet little haven of schoolwork and a boy who doesn't even know I exist. I was almost caught up in a world that my parents warn me to stay away from, the world that won't let Kuya Stephen go.

My Kuya Roger's world.





to be continued