Brett Battles - The Pull of Gravity

I made my way down to the poolside restaurant, and sat at a table under the awning. My hotel wasn’t quite as nice as the White Sands where Isabel had spent the previous night. There were more rooms crammed into about the same amount of space, the pool was smaller, and the restaurant wasn’t quite as good. But I hadn’t been trying to impress anyone, so it was fine for me.

There was only one other customer for breakfast, another early bird, or perhaps a night owl who was getting a little something to eat before finally heading off to bed. Otherwise the place was deserted.

I ordered some eggs, sausage and a cup of coffee. I had a fleeting thought that I should have waited for Isabel, but I was just too damn hungry. I’d buy her breakfast when she got up.

The eggs ended up being cooked a little more than I liked, but not enough to send them back. So I dug in and ate without pause. By the time I finished, the first drops of rain had begun to fall. I got the waitress to refill my coffee, then pushed my chair out a little and leaned back so I could watch the coming storm in comfort.

If you didn’t like rain, the Philippines-or pretty much anywhere in the tropics-wasn’t the place for you. From about mid-June until October or November, the rain seemed to be a constant thing. Typhoons, tropical storms, the frequent afternoon shower all did what they could to keep everything in a perpetual state of either wet or damp. And even when it wasn’t the rainy season, the rain didn’t stop. That’s why things stay green in the tropics. There were times, even after I moved to Bangkok, when I wished for a few dry, Arizona-type months. Of course if that had ever happened, I’d have probably hated it.

The initial smattering of droplets quickly turned into an onslaught. The surface of the pool danced like it was a pot of boiling water. When I looked across toward the palm trees that signified the end of the hotel property and the beginning of the beach, it seemed like everything had gone slightly blurry. It was as if the air itself had suddenly become liquid, and if we all didn’t grow gills in a hurry, we’d be in trouble. The humidity, probably hovering around seventy-five or eighty percent when I’d sat down, had shot up to one hundred in an instant. For a while, it was coming down so hard the sound of the rain drumming against the awning and the ground made it almost impossible to hold any kind of meaningful conversation. Kind of like being in one of the bars, now that I think about it.

I hadn’t actually seen a storm come on this strong this fast in a long time. So I stayed where I was and enjoyed the show. There was something refreshing, and, on occasion, unsettling about rain. I’m not talking about the “cleansing powers” of water, the “flushing” of the skies, the “renewal” of the earth. All those were fine and very poetic, but for me, it was a lot simpler than that.

You see, most of the important points in my life began with rain. At least that’s what I had come to believe. It rained on the day I enlisted in the Navy, it rained on the day Maureen asked me to move out, it rained on the day I boarded the plane for the Philippines, and I think it rained on the day I arrived in Bangkok. I wouldn’t be surprised if it had rained on the day I was born, but my mother had never told me and it was too late to ask.

It even rained on the night Larry and Isabel met.

After our night of talking and drinking, I didn’t think I’d see Larry again. I thought he, like most tourists, had probably met up with some girl who had caught his eye at another bar and finally lost his Angeles cherry.

So when he walked in on that Saturday night, it caught me a little off guard. I had to take a moment to recall his name, remembering it just as he walked up to say hi.

“Is it raining?” I asked.

His head and the shoulders of his avocado green golf shirt were drenched.

“Pouring,” he said. Then as if to explain his condition, he added, “I left my umbrella in my room.”

“Cathy,” I said, glancing at my number one bartender. “A towel and a beer for my friend, Mr. Adams, please.”

“Here.” She tossed one of the largest bar towels we had in my direction.

I caught it more with my shoulder than anything else, then handed it to Larry. It wasn’t exactly something you’d want to use after a hot shower, but he put it to good use removing the excess water from his hair.

“Two beers,” Cathy said. She set a bottle on the bar. “A San Miguel for Mr. Adams, and something special for you, Doc.” She set a Gordon Biersch Marzen next to the San Miguel.

My eyes widened. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

She smiled coyly. “I can be nice. Sometimes.” She walked off like she had something else to do.

I had thought I drank the last bottle in my supply months ago. In fact, I was sure of it. The ever-resourceful Cathy had apparently used one of her own connections to smuggle some in for me.

Larry motioned to my bottle. “You like that stuff?”

“Best beer ever made.”

I picked up my bottle and drank just enough to get the taste again. I let it roll over my tongue like it was a hundred-year-old scotch that had been opened for the first time. Stupid, really, but damn, did it taste good.

When I set the bottle back down, I noticed Larry looking at me. “It’s just a beer,” he said.

“I know,” I told him. “But I can’t get it here. I have to rely on friends to bring some when they come for a visit.”

Larry shook his head, an amused laugh escaping his lips.

It was pretty quiet in The Lounge, the girls outnumbering the customers by almost three to one. The rain wasn’t helping but it was still early. I wasn’t too worried. Saturday nights always had a way of turning out fine.

“Aren’t you headed home soon?” I asked Larry.

“I fly out on Monday.”

I took another sip of my beer. “Lose your cherry yet?”

He smiled. “Not yet.”

“You gotta be shitting me.”

“Nope.”

Just then a group of five guys came through the door, and the noise level instantly increased. They all looked to be in their twenties, were in good shape and sported close-cropped hair. Marines, I guessed, probably on leave from one of the U.S. bases in Korea. And, from the looks of things, The Lounge wasn’t their first stop of the night. They’d all definitely been drinking, and one of them was having a hard time walking a straight line. Which, to the more business-minded papasan, meant they were probably primed to ring the bell.

“Excuse me for a minute,” I said to Larry, then got up and crossed the room to greet our new guests.

“Welcome to The Lounge, fellas,” I said once I reached them.

Several of the girls were already moving toward them, sensing potential bar fines, or at least a few drinks.

“We’ve got room right up next to the stage or booths along the wall. Your choice,” I told them.

“What do you guys think?” one of them asked. “The booths or the stage?”

“The booths,” another one said.

The others voiced their agreement so I led them over to an empty section. They weren’t really booths, more like a long padded bench that ran along the wall facing the stage. Small, circular tables to put drinks on were placed every seven feet. I got the Marines set up right in the center with the best view of the dancers.

Before they even sat down, two of the guys had already been claimed by a couple of the girls. Since the U.S. military had pulled out of the Philippines years earlier, there was a definite shortage of young, well-built male customers on Fields. So it was like a special treat for the girls. I didn’t have to read their minds to know that, if given the choice, most of them would have gone home with their catch that night for free, just for the change.