The Eternal Bachelor -- Not

HIS was the face and physique I would never dream of using to describe the hero of my romantic novel. But I do remember having arrogated, for one of my fictive heroes, some of his other attributes. Attributes – some of which were, of course, magnified – such as his clear green eyes that twinkled in quiet merriment even at the corniest joke, his dark brown hair with its lush curls that enticed women to want to touch it, feel it, and tame it; his being soft-spoken, his gentle and generous ways, his vulnerabilities as – when I first met him – a recently jilted man.

Ignore the face and physical build and sure, he would be Prototype Hero # 3 of formulaic romance novels. A certified bachelor, financially stable, owned a couple of mortgage-free houses, drove a car so shiny that vain women used it as mirror; he also did not smoke, did not drink, did not gamble, did not swear, a very likable guy it seemed – but not eternally likable, apparently, for his fiancée who dropped him with nary a warning. How many stories can a crafty (sarcasm intended) author of romance squeeze from this man’s heartbreak?

He wasn’t downright plain. Oh, no, not at all. He had a nice smile, albeit shy, that lit up his face. But when he wasn’t smiling, he looked so ordinary that one would think he’s part of the wall, the landscape, or whatever’s in the background at the moment. He was of medium height, around 5’7” maybe, a wee bit on the pudgy side but he moved with the agility of a man younger than his age. He was in his mid-30s then. He dressed casually, too casual I would say. He wore jeans, short-sleeved shirt, and trainers in summer. Again: jeans, short-sleeved shirt and trainers in autumn and spring. And then again: jeans, short-sleeved shirt and trainers in winter; his cardigan or jumper would be in his car, perhaps to be used if snow falls and temperature, as a result, drops in the vicinity of -13°C. (Like what happened when two inches of snow fell in Auckland on 27 July 1939, the only time snow fell in the city throughout recorded history.)

It wasn’t a big surprise, I suppose, that he was unmindful of the change of seasons and the resulting change in temperature. He was from Ireland. New Zealand’s famous mild winter, at least in the North Island, was, perhaps, just like summer in Belfast for him.

This Irish Bachelor

SINCE half the men born in Ireland are called Patrick, let me call him that as well – no affront to his parents who named him after a popular cigarette brand.

I met Patrick on my second or third day in New Zealand, and that was eons ago. He came to the flat to visit, ostensibly, his friend and my fiancé (then husband, now ex) who, a few weeks ago, managed to get his big toe crushed by the edge of a 40-ton container at work. (But my fiancé [then husband, now ex], or THNE, was wearing steel-capped work boots so the damage to the big toe was miraculously minimal.)

Patrick’s visit would have been immediately forgotten. However, as soon as he left, THNE mentioned to me that he, Patrick, had been recently jilted. His fiancée, an Irish like him, came to New Zealand, stayed with him for about eight months, then she – let’s call her Fiona – decided to return to Ireland. When Fiona reached Dublin, her home, she called Patrick to say she had arrived safely after an uneventful flight and that by the way, the wedding’s off. Forever.

Shocking, indeed!

Needless to say, I wanted to know all there was to know about Patrick and Fiona. What romance novelist worth her salt would not want to dig deeper into this kind of situation? Sure, I felt heavyhearted for Patrick, but my morbid fascination for other people’s love life – happy or otherwise; romantic or otherwise – was on high gear. I have not met in real life, until that sunny winter’s day, a person who was jilted at the altar – well, near enough.

And learn, I did, some things from the horse’s mouth, so to speak.

Matchmakers, Incorporated

PATRICK, I discovered, could be quite candid on most matters, but with one exception. He was hesitant to discuss Fiona and how she broke his heart. Nevertheless, I managed to have a picture of it from snatches of various conversations with him and his circle of friends, who were also my then husband (by that time), now ex’s friends as well.

Fiona was Patrick’s long-time girlfriend. Some said they were childhood sweethearts. When he decided to come to New Zealand, Fiona thought that he would stay down under only for a brief spell. Just like a working holiday. But Patrick liked the climate and liked the people; plus, he got lucky and landed a spot in a high-profile company known for its generous travel perks to employees. He stayed on in the country but kept in close touch with Fiona by phone and frequent visits to Dublin; frequent as in twice to thrice a year.

Eventually, after thousands of miles of overseas travel back and forth, Patrick managed to convince Fiona to come to Auckland. He wanted to show her what has kept him in New Zealand. She agreed. She took a long leave from work and traveled halfway round the world to be with Patrick. They got engaged. He was very happy. His mates had not seen Patrick in such state of bliss. The couple started planning for their weddings (yes, plural): a quiet one at the Registry Office in Auckland with close friends in attendance, and a “proper” one, in church, in Dublin. Ireland-based families and friends, from both parties, would naturally be invited.

The wedding plan did not come to pass. All of Patrick’s Auckland-based friends felt sorry for him. They thought that Fiona was a heartless woman; they believed that she should have stuck with Patrick and embraced his dreams for the future. How dared she, said one of Patrick’s friends, return to her career, family and friends, and to everything in Ireland she grew up with, and leave Patrick who only wanted to escape Ireland’s dismal weather?

But if Patrick was disinclined to talk about his failed relationship, he was the opposite when the topic veered to drinking or alcoholism. He used to be a heavy drinker, he said. It got so bad, his drinking, that he wouldn’t know how he got home from the pub, or whose mate’s house he’d wake up, groggily, from his unconsciousness. The worst episode, he said, was when he woke up on the side of the street somewhere in South Auckland, his body slumped on the ground like a discarded rag doll. A few feet away from him was his car, engine running, haphazardly parked on the curb, headlights on, passenger side door wide open. The fat drops of rain was what roused him from his alcoholic torpor – and roused he was, no doubt about it. He was lying face down on something quite sickening.

He realized later what must have happened: he was drunk, yet he drove home; he felt sick and thus stopped on the side of the road to get sick. But he was as drunk as a skunk that he just passed out onto his own vomit. Revolting, indeed!

After that, he said, he got in touch with the local Alcoholics Anonymous chapter. Through AA, he got over his heavy drinking, and never had a drop of alcohol ever since. The thought that he could have killed someone while driving under the influence, he further said, was what made him walk away from his worsening alcohol addiction.

A year after that, Fiona had come to live with him in Auckland, they got engaged, and he got jilted. His broken heart, fortunately, did not lead him back to the bottle. He was very proud of that and I was impressed. A lesser man, like in one or two of my romance novels, would have gotten himself soused over and over to deaden the hurt of being callously rejected.

Soon enough, most of his mates at work plus their spouses, most of whom were Filipinas, plotted to introduce him to a ‘nice woman.’

But naturally, I also became a member of ‘Matchmakers, Inc.’

My Single Friends

THAT I wasn’t the only one plotting to make a match for Patrick did not dampen my enthusiasm. I sincerely wanted him to have another shot at happiness, and I thought it would also be fun to present this bachelor to single women who might be interested to get to know him. However, when I learned that the other ‘schemers’ had their sisters or cousins in mind to introduce to Patrick, I was sort of amused. Not for long, though, because it hit me: the other members of Matchmakers, Inc. were deadly serious in their design.

To make this short, Patrick was introduced, both in subtle and glaring ways, to eligible women. Most were from the Philippines, a few of those Filipinas were already residing in New Zealand, and there were a number of Caucasian (‘Pakeha,’ as the indigenous people of Aotearoa call the Europeans) females as well.

I tried to introduce three of my single friends (I had a different set of friends then) to Patrick when he flew with me and with my then husband, now ex (THNE) for a month-long Philippine holiday. None of the introduction happened though. THNE got to meet my friends first, and he confided that they’re not Patrick’s type and it would be a waste of time.

Not Patrick’s type…?

They’re too sophisticated, was the answer given to me.

All three, in retrospect, were taller than Patrick and all three loved wearing heels. Not only that. These three – Gina, Lou and Divine – were not only smart, attractive, assertive, full of confidence, and successful in their career; they were also very particular about the looks of a guy. I could almost hear Lou making funny but scathing remarks about the cheek of a vertically challenged suitor who once asked her for a date. These girls were really picky, but especially Lou.

My THNE’s ‘rejection’ of my friends did not disconcert me. However, it made me wonder what Patrick’s type was. I thought I found out the answer soon when, the next day, I met Patrick’s penpal from Manila. Let’s call her Jean.

She was as attractive as my friends but she was painfully shy. She happened to have this big zit on her chin – most likely, a menstrual zit, nothing revolting – but she kept covering, with her hand, her chin and mouth while speaking very softly. After a while of trying to make sense of what she was saying, I realized that she might be physically attractive but she had a mousy personality. She lacked vibrancy; she lacked enthusiasm. That’s when I got the impression that she could be Patrick’s type.

Patrick dated Jean a few times, with chaperon, during the course of that particular holiday in Manila. I thought it was a good sign. The single women he was introduced to in Auckland did not have that number of chance of getting to know him. So, with Jean, I had hoped that something positive would come of it. It did not. Patrick returned to New Zealand with nothing, not even a crumbly string, to indicate that his bachelor days are numbered.

And so the years went by. The well-intentioned schemers, including me, had lost interest in making a match for Patrick. Matchmaker, Inc. died a natural death. Patrick remained a bachelor although he had always expressed that he would marry when he met the right woman.

We lost contact with Patrick a few years after my THNE and I returned to the Philippines for a long, long spell.

A DOZEN YEARS LATER…

IT was the onset of winter when I returned to New Zealand for an extended vacation. One of the first people I phoned when I got there was Patrick. His telephone just rang and rang the first time I called. No answering machine picked up my call; a surprise since everybody, but everybody, had an answering machine. On my second try a few days later, a male voice answered. He, the voice, was rather curt to my polite request to speak to Patrick. He’s not available, was all he said and then hung up. I did not have the opportunity to ask if I can leave a message.

Since I had better things to do with my New Zealand-based family members, and I had other activities more important to pursue, it took nearly a month before I again tried Patrick’s number. The same male voice picked up the phone, asked who I was, and it took a couple of minutes for him to get Patrick on the phone. I heard some kind of discussion in the background but it was garbled. It was some kind of argument or something. I could not be sure what it was about. What I was sure of was that I felt disconcerted. Did I ring at a bad time? Have I not made clear that I am a long-time (not old) family friend?

When Patrick picked up the phone, I was greeted with a gruff, “Who is this?”

I was shocked. Was this the person who welcomed me to New Zealand eons ago, and who treated me and my THNE to a nice dinner, like a despedida, on the eve of my earlier departure from the country twelve years ago? Was this the same old friend who I had welcomed many times in my homes, both in Auckland and much later, in Manila, introduced to my family, ate and had fun with us, and who played ‘sweet uncle’ to my youngest who was only six or seven years old at the time?

Much to my consternation, he could not recall who I was despite my explanation. To save myself from further dismay, I thanked him for taking my call and apologized if my call inconvenienced him.

For a person who, for years and years, had been using words and stringing them up to paint a picture or an emotion, that incident had failed me. I could not describe my bewilderment over that distressing telephone conversation.

Teetotaler – Not

MY old friend’s surly attitude on the telephone, I discovered later, was because he was drunk. And not just drunk. His being a teetotaler became a thing of the past; his being a heavy drinker, previously, as if from another life, had come back to possess him and then turned him into an alcoholic.

I was speechless as another old friend, one of Patrick’s mates at work, explained his – Patrick’s – disremembering me. Our mutual friend was forlorn as he narrated how Patrick is on the verge of self-destruction or being fired from work. He got drunk on the job; that is, if he managed not to report for work already soused. His friends and mates at work had been alternately covering up for him, doing his job while he drank in the loo or sprawled, soused, in the staff room.

“What happened?” was all I could say, not for the second or third time. “What pushed him to drink again?”

There was one and only one reason our mutual friend gave, or blamed, for Patrick’s alcohol addiction:

His drinking started soon after he got married a few years ago.