From the Memoirs of a Non-Enemy Combatant: A Novel by Alex Gilvarry
Authors: Alex Gilvarry
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dress, the medium I would devote my life to.
I did understand, however, that my uncle was very well respected. The fact that he was
someone
at a time when I was
no one
. And that we were related, of all things, and that people would recognize me, the tailor’s nephew, as I made my rounds about the city. All because of my Tito Roño, who wore women’s panties. Here was
someone
, I thought. And I understood fashion as its cause.
Among some two hundred names in my uncle’s Rolodex were several politicians, once high up in the Marcos administration, as well as a few film actors I recognized. They were the upper echelon of Filipino surnames: Rosaleses, Aquinos, Cuarons, even actual Marcoses, most likely relatives of the exiled ex‑president.
These were the high times, the years when my uncle’s shop thrived. Nearly a decade and a half later, as Ahmed stood before me with an offer I couldn’t refuse, I felt those high times return to me.
I admit that on the evening of my encounter with Ahmed, after he left my room, I had my doubts. But any doubts about his character were overwhelmed by an awareness that I was about to makesome good money. I suppose I was immature in matters of money. Sure, I had sold a few dresses here and there to boutiques back home, but I hadn’t really turned a profit. My financial savvy was stunted. And for this I blame my parents. They spoiled me rotten as a child and as a twenty-five-year-old man. So however unlikely a true deal with Ahmed seemed, however much of a pathological liar he was, I couldn’t discount the matter of twenty-five hundred dollars, the amount I was being offered to tailor the two suits. I kept thinking about the sum total, depositing the amount into my account and then withdrawing it in five-hundred-dollar increments day by day until I spent it all. It seemed like enough money to last me forever, even though it would last me only four days. 1 This was the American dream thrown at me, without asking.
I spent that entire night dreaming of ATMs scattered around Manhattan, their screens blinking at me: Would you like a receipt for this transaction? Or, would you like to make a balance inquiry? Long white scrolls of paper fluttered out of the machines and into the night air to form a light drizzle of confetti. Meanwhile, I skipped along Seventh Avenue, trying to catch the flimsy scrolls out of the sky while singing a show-tune rendition of the Wu‑Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M.” (“Cash Rules Everything Around Me /
C.R.E.A.M. / Get the money / Dollar dollar bill y’all”). On one of these receipts I saw that printed very lightly in indigo ink was my birth name (Boyet Ruben Hernandez; I was named after
my father, Dr. Boyet Hernandez Sr., Ear, Nose, and Throat), my account number, and an available balance of $2,500, the exact sum Ahmed had offered to pay me. The ledger balance, however,was much more extravagant: $250,000 or $2,500,000 or more. It was hard to make out the exact figures in this lucrative dreamland; all the zeros ran down the length of the receipt in an infinite trail.
I swear to you, I had no preconceived intentions besides making the dough to infiltrate the New York fashion scene.
I considered Ahmed’s offer for all of one night, then did exactly as he commanded. The next morning I was headed down one flight of stairs to his apartment, neither in excited two‑at‑a‑time leaps nor in slow, doubtful intervals. I moved at an average tempo, calm and collected. I was approaching this new business deal like a levelheaded professional, weighing in my mind both the pros and cons: on the one hand, my neighbor—a pathological liar (but not an arms dealer, I assure you!)—on the other hand, cash, cold and hard. These were the known knowns.
Now, it would be impossible to pinpoint my exact thought thought at the precise moment I arrived at Ahmed’s that morning. But I do remember this, a most telling action: My hand froze, halted in the air, before I knocked on the
I did understand, however, that my uncle was very well respected. The fact that he was
someone
at a time when I was
no one
. And that we were related, of all things, and that people would recognize me, the tailor’s nephew, as I made my rounds about the city. All because of my Tito Roño, who wore women’s panties. Here was
someone
, I thought. And I understood fashion as its cause.
Among some two hundred names in my uncle’s Rolodex were several politicians, once high up in the Marcos administration, as well as a few film actors I recognized. They were the upper echelon of Filipino surnames: Rosaleses, Aquinos, Cuarons, even actual Marcoses, most likely relatives of the exiled ex‑president.
These were the high times, the years when my uncle’s shop thrived. Nearly a decade and a half later, as Ahmed stood before me with an offer I couldn’t refuse, I felt those high times return to me.
I admit that on the evening of my encounter with Ahmed, after he left my room, I had my doubts. But any doubts about his character were overwhelmed by an awareness that I was about to makesome good money. I suppose I was immature in matters of money. Sure, I had sold a few dresses here and there to boutiques back home, but I hadn’t really turned a profit. My financial savvy was stunted. And for this I blame my parents. They spoiled me rotten as a child and as a twenty-five-year-old man. So however unlikely a true deal with Ahmed seemed, however much of a pathological liar he was, I couldn’t discount the matter of twenty-five hundred dollars, the amount I was being offered to tailor the two suits. I kept thinking about the sum total, depositing the amount into my account and then withdrawing it in five-hundred-dollar increments day by day until I spent it all. It seemed like enough money to last me forever, even though it would last me only four days. 1 This was the American dream thrown at me, without asking.
I spent that entire night dreaming of ATMs scattered around Manhattan, their screens blinking at me: Would you like a receipt for this transaction? Or, would you like to make a balance inquiry? Long white scrolls of paper fluttered out of the machines and into the night air to form a light drizzle of confetti. Meanwhile, I skipped along Seventh Avenue, trying to catch the flimsy scrolls out of the sky while singing a show-tune rendition of the Wu‑Tang Clan’s “C.R.E.A.M.” (“Cash Rules Everything Around Me /
C.R.E.A.M. / Get the money / Dollar dollar bill y’all”). On one of these receipts I saw that printed very lightly in indigo ink was my birth name (Boyet Ruben Hernandez; I was named after
my father, Dr. Boyet Hernandez Sr., Ear, Nose, and Throat), my account number, and an available balance of $2,500, the exact sum Ahmed had offered to pay me. The ledger balance, however,was much more extravagant: $250,000 or $2,500,000 or more. It was hard to make out the exact figures in this lucrative dreamland; all the zeros ran down the length of the receipt in an infinite trail.
I swear to you, I had no preconceived intentions besides making the dough to infiltrate the New York fashion scene.
I considered Ahmed’s offer for all of one night, then did exactly as he commanded. The next morning I was headed down one flight of stairs to his apartment, neither in excited two‑at‑a‑time leaps nor in slow, doubtful intervals. I moved at an average tempo, calm and collected. I was approaching this new business deal like a levelheaded professional, weighing in my mind both the pros and cons: on the one hand, my neighbor—a pathological liar (but not an arms dealer, I assure you!)—on the other hand, cash, cold and hard. These were the known knowns.
Now, it would be impossible to pinpoint my exact thought thought at the precise moment I arrived at Ahmed’s that morning. But I do remember this, a most telling action: My hand froze, halted in the air, before I knocked on the
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