Tristan

The one and only time I got dead drunk in my 49 years was at G5, in La Union. I was  my siblings, and my bestie. The bar owner, G-Net, a friend of the family, offered their cocktail of the night. I refused, knowing fully well I could not handle alcohol. But she said it was just a cocktail, it was not made for women to get drunk. So, I said ok. One sip of the cocktail, I told myself, ok, it is not that strong. In fact, the cocktail tasted like juice, with just a teeny bit of vodka aftertaste. So the night went on, with us in our usual sessions, jokes around, etc. We were in the VIP room, or whetever it was called, then we decided to move where the 'real action' was, with the music played with the controls for the base turned up high, I thought my chest was going to explode.

I recall I felt tipsy after the first cocktail, was offered another, so I accepted. I do not remember exactly how many cocktails I had when I started to speak louder like my companions were deaf. I was raising my glass up in the air, dancing on my seat, and well, basically boisterous. My sister signalled my brother to stop the drinks coming my way, to which he replied, 'let her enjoy', or something close to that. Then, the acid in my belly started to act up. It suddenly rose to my throat, then I had this sour taste along the insides of my mouth. Oh goodness, I was about to throw up, I told myself. So I stood up, was promptly assisted by whoever was beside me that time (I just remember a hand grasping my arm) but of course, I shoved whoever that was, off. I can go to the restroom on my own, thank you very much! 

I maneuvered my way across tables and chairs, in the middle of loud music banging in my ear, my heart racing like I was about to keel over, lights in the bar adding to my already extreme confusion. I found the restroom, miraculously, and found what looked like a toilet bowl. And barfed. The toilet bowl seemed to have moved a little to the left, because, goodness me, my vomit did not find its way to where it should have. By the time I was done, I had made the toilet stall the most disgusting place in the planet. 

Behind me, all this time was Carlo, this angel of a brother from another mother, who took it upon himself to check on me. With him was Tristan, who already had a few in him too, at that time. Tristan came in the restroom, scooped me up from the stall (I do not remember if I was still standing or on the floor; maybe midway). He led me to the toilet sink and told me to wash my face. I attempted to, I really did. But my hands could not find my face, for some reason, the water splashed to my neck and left ear. I laughed. Now why is that?, I repeatedly asked Tristan. He said nothing. He put his hand through the water from the faucet and washed my face. He washed my face. He pulled tons of tissue paper from its caddy, and dabbed my face dry. Then he wet more tissues and wiped the vomit which landed on my shirt. Then my pants. Then my feet. I did not even realize there was vomit there. He got a disposable glass out of nowhere, I just remember him shoving water into my mouth, and asked me if I was ok. I did not even have the strength to reply. He walked me out of the restroom. By then, my head started to clear. Which meant I swore I would never, ever, drink alcohol again. 

Of course after that incident, I still did but one beer, then I am done. Nowadays, zero. It seemed like just last week that this happened, today that I again face the reality of Tristan, now gone. I was half-mad that night at G5, but strangely, like a dream I recall details of that night now more than any other day. It is perhaps now that Tristan is gone, I suddenly miss him. I have not seen him in years, save from facebook. I remember one time blood pressure was off the charts once while we were in Caba to visit my late Lola Coring. I looked his way and I knew he felt it, yet he did not  whine. He looked pale, so I insisted that he be driven to the nearest clinic and treated. We had moments like that. 

Tristan had gone through a lot with me, my seething sarcasm and anger each time he 'wronged', but he took it all in. He did not retort to anything I said of him, his character, his life. Sometimes it was too much, and I recognize that now. If I were in his place, I would have probably slapped him for attacking me and my character. 

He was down and out for a long time, was given a chance to better his life for his kids. He was not yet there, this longing of his to be a better person he is. A little more push then he could have reached where he wanted to be. But life is short. And yes, we never really know what God has in store. I am grateful, however, that Tristan became part of my life, our lives. And I regret that my pride trampled on his. My tears now can never wash away the regret, but I pray that each drop be caught by Tristan in spirit. That it serve as a balm to soothe the ache of how it was to have me as Manang, that it was not all hurt, but of love and concern, moreso. He is no longer here to wash my face. I bet he would, if he still could. Now I see clearly, it was his hand on my arm I shoved off.