Untitled, chapter two

He made up the date: New Year's Eve 1981.

He made up names: Juan Lopez and Alice Alindogan. As he grew the circumstances he invented changed, but those details remained.

When he first learned about the birds and the bees (sixth grade), he stirred up the possible conclusions to which he ended up being born. At first he wanted to believe he was birthed from a long-term relationship. As the years passed, his imagination eventually scattershot into a tree of paths in which his consummation could have been a product of sex-drives, infidelity, alcohol-fueled or just out of boredom.

His adoptive parents, Ivan and Monica Henry, told him that they flew into the Philippines, looking to adopt a child. They arrived at the convent and were briskly introduced to a two year-old Clark Kent sitting idly in the center of a rug and staring ito the ceiling. The nuns had taught him how to speak English and his favorite word was "okay".

Ivan asked hm when his birthday was. Sister Rose answered for him; September 12, 1983. It was the only note left in the basket where he was found.

Clark didn't remember a second of this encounter. His first vivid memory was waking up to an empty house when he was four years old, thinking his parents had abandoned him. He looked everywhere, even in the cupboard.

Little Clark cried for five minutes until his parents came in from the front door, with Rice-A-Roni received from their neighbors. He couldn't recall if this all really happened, maybe it was a dream. Regardless, this was his first memory.

Monica told him that the nuns found him in a basket like in the movies. All that was left was a note with his birthdate and a request: "Forgive me and take care of him, Lord." The whole thing reminded Father Rene of "Superman" and the name Clark Kent stuck. The Henrys liked the name and the story behind it so much they decided to keep it.

Monica and Ivan would joke about how he was from Krypton. When they told him that, Clark imagined a small pocket of the Philippines similar to that distant planet. He imagined his biological father, Juan Lopez, in Krypton with his brothers and sisters, He imagined his mother looking out the window, waiting for Clark's return. He felt guilty of these daydreams because he had loving parents who never abandoned him. He surmised that those thoughts were betraying what he already had. But it never left, it just hibernated.

"We don't need Superman," his mom would tell him. "Clark Henry doesn't need a secret identity."

But for some reason, he was sure his last name had been Lopez.

Roughly 24 years and nine months after his conception, he still imagined their names: Juan lopez and Alice Alindogan. He imagined the date: New Year's Eve 1981. He imagined me and "Alice" at a parking lot of some bar. "Summer Breeze" by Seals and Croft was playing. It lasted four minutes, the song and the lovemaking.

Clark got out of his car and made his way to Andre's apartment.

"I love you," Jose must have said. "Mahal na mahal na mahal kita."

"I love you too," Alice would have responded.

His phone rang. It was his mom.

"I just want to say thank you for having breakfast with us this morning," Monica said. "We don't get to see you often."

"Shit, mom," Clark answered. "It's my birthday. Sacramento isn't too far of a drive. It's my birthday I need to see you guys."

"I love you Clark," she whispered.

"I love you too, mom."

Untitled, Chapter One

The difference between eating by yourself and eating with yourself is the difference between solitude and independence. Clark was well aware of that conundrum 15 minutes ago when he checked his fridge, 10 minutes ago when he went in his car and two minutes ago when he walked into a local Greek restaurant. He had hummus in the refrigerator at home.

Sitting in the table he was aware of the difference to the point of self consciousness. His demeanor was the only thing that separated an image of loneliness or relative anonymity when eating in front of the occasional nosy patron, let alone most of the employees of Apostolis Greek Restaurant. He recalled a lunch break last week with Greg at a fast food chicken restaurant chain.

"I miss eating this back home," Greg had told him. "Back home you get unlimited gravy for your chicken and you get rice. I would use the gravy for sabaw."

"Sabaw," Clark asked?

"Like soup," Greg replied. "Parang sabaw."

Clark tried to mimic Greg's tagalog, unable to avoid masking a thick ignorant American accent.

"Par-ug suhb-ow."

Greg laughed.

"I know you're adopted by non-Pilipinos, god damn son of a," Greg said in his own adopted version of the English language. "But you're Pilipino. You look more Pinoy than me. You have a dark complexion. moreno. Your height is like a point guard. You are no question 100% Pilipino whatsoever your citizenship says. I will help you be Pilipino like you are helping me be American."

"Thanks," Clark answered.

What Clark remembered most that day was how they were sitting at an elevated table.

Greg was talking and Clark was listening, bu the majority of his attention was on this man eating by himself about ten feet away.

Watching him from behind, the first thing he noticed was a bald spot. The back of his head was a patchy island of flesh surrounded by a sea of white hair. What had struck him soon afterwards was this gentleman's overall appearance; The left part of his collar was up, his white oxford shirt was wrinkled, the bottom part of his pants frayed and muddy from being too long for his legs and constantly being stepped on by his dirty old sandals.

As ruffled and frumpy as this man's appearance had been, he managed an air of dignity while dining. His posture was impeccable, his body at a right angle where his torsos met. He used the plastic knife and spork like he was eating with royalty. His tall drink in a paper cup was placed on a napkin, a makeshift coaster. Clark's admiration was reserved and silent.

At work, flooded with errands, he paused for a moment and stared up at the ceiling. Clark picked up the phone and dialed the number he remembered by heart and vowed never to forget. To his surprise, the line was still working. He heard Sandra's voice and closed his eyes. This time, he left a message.

"Hey, it's Clark. I went to church for the first time in ages last Sunday. I talked to God but didn't ask for anything, made no requests. I used words like 'faith' and 'hope' and 'understanding'. I stood up when everyone else stood up and kneeled when everyone else did. I felt like I was part of a community, but ath the same time I felt like I wasn't invited. I know it's weird that I'm leaving a message to you but I needed to tell someone and you were always that someone so I felt compelled to call you."

He hung up and carried on with his work for the rest of the day.

At the Greek restaurant, eating he sat and ate as if someone was watching him from ten feet away. He dipped his fries meticulously, chewed thoroughly and kept his elbows off the table. He couldn't imagine who would be looking at him, but he owed it to himself if someone was. There was a toddler running around the place as if he owned the world, careless with the space surrounding him. He smiled at the kid and the child smiled back. He thought about the consummation of the child and the circumstances surrounding it. He did the same with the old man at the chicken joint. The images conjured up were graphic but they weren't pornographic. Everyone had a story for thier birth, he thought. Everyone had a beginning to their creation, something that led up to the present events unfolding. For him, something was the genesis to this exact point in their lives. Like right now, all these little things from the last 24 yours had led him to this exact moment; eating alone on his birthday at 3:32 p.m.

Later tonight he was planning on the some controlled debauchery with his friends. For now, however, he savored this lunch regardless of it being in a vacuum of either loneliness or singularity. That distinction was not for him to decide.