Chapter 8: Gossip Gurl

The audience was roaring. Or, at least, I could see them shouting and clapping hard. The funny thing was I couldn't hear anything.

Someone from behind gently pushed me forward. I took several uncertain steps and found myself walking toward a well-dressed couple under the spotlight in the middle of the stage. As soon as I reached them, I too was bathed in spotlight.

As if someone had pressed the unmute button, all sounds suddenly came back.

"Welcome, welcome!" said the man.

"Mr. Philippines, your chosen judge is none other than Mr. Lee, the chairman of Samsong Group of Companies!"

The woman's introduction was met with an even louder round of applause as another spotlight illuminated the judges' table.

"Good evening, BJ," greeted the old man.

"Good evening, Chairman Lee!" I greeted back with more enthusiasm and respect than I intended.

"My question for you is this," he started to the audience's delight. "If you were to adopt a gay name, what would it be and why?"

I don't understand how or why, but my mouth seemed to have a mind of its own when it spoke in confidence. "Thank you for that wonderful question! I believe that if I were to adopt a gay name, it would be... Twinkle."

The crowd screamed in ecstasy, the collective voices of gays and girls in the audience screaming for my victory. As soon as the uproar subsided, I continued.

"Twinkle because..." I paused for dramatic effect. "Twinkle, twinkle little star!"

The crowds went wild. The screaming grew louder and louder, and the couple who were hosting the show started hugging me and telling me that I won.

Then, there were trumpets and horns as gold and rose-colored confetti exploded graciously above.

As they started falling, I could feel the sharp sting of their coldness.

Why is the confetti cold?

"Should we call a doctor?" I heard someone say.

There was that sharp sting of coldness again. I opened my eyes to blinding sunlight as the curtains in my hotel room were drawn. I tried putting my hand over my eyes, but it was too much of an effort. My arms had never felt that heavy.

"Here, sir, please drink some water."

The cool water was a lifesaver. After a few minutes, I finally adjusted to being hungover and successfully propped myself up against the headboard.

"I'm sorry, what time is it?"

"It's 1:30 in the afternoon, sir," answered the female staff. "We have been trying to call you since 11:30 to remind you to check out, but you weren't picking up or answering the door. We had to come in to see if you were okay."

I nodded in understanding. "Don't worry. I'll pay for another night."

"Thank you, sir."

"Is it possible to order haejangguk?"

"Sir?"

"It's a Korean dish for hangovers," I explained with great difficulty. "And I really need some hangover medicine right now. Can someone buy me some?"

"Certainly, sir," the woman responded. "We'll have it delivered from a nearby Korean restaurant."

"I think Jiwoo's in," said a man standing beside my bed who I just noticed. He was talking to the female staff. "I'm sure he can cook that for sir."

"Sir, what's the name of the food again?" the woman asked.

"Hae. Jang. Guk," I said, slowly and clearly pronouncing each syllable.

"Right. Please drink more water, sir. We'll have it ready as soon as possible."

And then they were gone. I tried to sleep again while waiting for the food and the medicine, but the consistent throbbing inside my head prevented me from doing so.

I lay there on the bed, trying to remember what had happened the night before.

Blank.

I must have passed out, and someone must have brought me here.

Shit.

Although I tried to get up to check for my stuff, a strong bout of nausea hit me. I gave up. I decided to lie there motionless until help arrived.

Shortly after, the man from earlier came back with some hangover medicine. I took them quickly and downed another glass of chilled water.

"Your food will be with you shortly, sir," he said.

"Thank you," I managed to say. "Do you know how I got here yesterday?"

"No, sir," he answered before frowning. "I'm sorry, sir."

"It's not your fault," I said. "Anyway, thank you very much. I'll sort out your tips once I feel a bit better."

He gave me a weak smile and bowed himself out.

The medicine worked wonders as the dizziness soon subsided. If that Jiwoo person could make an authentic Korean haejangkuk, I figured I would be back in top condition within an hour or so.

The food came at around 3 o'clock. I devoured it like someone who had not eaten in a week. I asked for another serving, and the male staff returned immediately with another bowl of heavenly soup.

It was hot from the generous amounts of chili paste and dried peppers in it, and it was the right amount of savory thanks to a well-brewed bone broth. The meat was so tender that I could only assume the Jiwoo guy, whoever he was, had used a pressure cooker to make it that tender at such short notice. The potatoes, the carrots, even the leeks—they were crunchy and fresh yet soaked in flavor. It was the best haejangguk I had ever tasted!

I made a mental note to ask about Jiwoo because he had practically saved me from a full day of hangover-related suffering.

Afterward, I had enough strength to take a shower. However, as soon as I entered the bathroom, I almost vomited again because of the smell.

What the actual fuck, Hilton? I thought. Is this how you clean you bathrooms now?

It wasn't hard to figure out where the horrible stench was coming from. It was from—drum roll, please—vomit!

There was a shirt and a pair of jeans reeking of one-day-old vomit in the sink. Disgusting. I didn't even know who owned them.

It took all of my willpower to ignore the dirty clothes and block out the smell. My Samsong training kicked in high gear, so I was able to expertly brush my teeth and clean myself up.

I stared at myself in the mirror. God, I looked awful despite the shower. How I wish I were as handsome as that guy I had met the previous night.

Shit. I remembered everything. That was my vomit.

And those were his clothes.

Fuck, I vomited on a handsome guy yesterday!

I stepped out of the bathroom and—fuck my life even further—realized that my clothes were nowhere to be found. What I am supposed to do now?

"Front desk, how may I help?" said the receptionist after the first ring.

"Hi, this is BJ Alvarez from room..." I didn't know my room number. "Sorry, I forgot my room number, and I can't reach my wallet right now."

"Mr. BJ Alvarez from Room 1301," she answered politely. "How can I assist you, sir?"

"Umm, would it be possible for me to purchase the hotel bathrobe I'm wearing now?"

"I'm sorry, sir. I don't get understand."

"Well, you see, I vomited on my clothes last night. I don't have anything else to wear. I was wondering if I could take the bathrobe with me and just pay for it?"

"It's not a problem, sir, but will you be okay with it?"

I was definitely not okay with it, but I didn't have much of a choice. I could take the elevator down to the parking lot and quickly make my way to my car.

"I guess. Can I make the payment here in the room? I don't feel like going to the reception area wearing this, you know?"

Moments later, the same guy earlier came over to check the room. He asked me if I wanted to bring the soiled clothing home. I hesitated for a bit and decided to take it in case there was a contact number inside the pants' pockets or something.

The hotel staff expertly placed them in a laundry bag and sealed it. I handed him my credit card to pay for everything, and he returned it with a receipt a few minutes later.

I found my wallet on top of the hotel room fridge, and then I took out a few bills to give as a tip. As we exited the room, I noticed that the mystery handsome guy from yesterday had not taken my Zegna boots. As soon as my right foot was halfway inside the shoe, I felt a piece of paper left inside.

You threw up on my clothes. I had to borrow yours. I didn't steal it! Will return the next chance we meet!!!

"How do I get to the parking lot? I remember leaving my car here yesterday," I said while pocketing the note.

"Sir, you booked an executive room, so you're entitled to valet parking. I'll call them as soon as we get to the lobby."

"It's okay. Let's head to the parking lot directly," I replied. "I wouldn't want to be seen in the lobby looking like this."

The hotel staff scratched his head and smiled nervously.

"Our valet parking building is across the street. We would have to walk through the underground pass to get there."

"Shit."

"Sorry, sir."

"It's not your fault," I said. "So it means we have to stay in the lobby until my car arrives?"

He nodded. "I'll have the valet bring your car over as quickly as possible, sir."

I could sense people laughing as they watched me traverse the entire length of the hotel lobby wearing nothing but the hotel's bathrobe with my Zegna Chelsea boots. I tried to pretend to be busily reading something on my dead phone. Still, I couldn't take it and decided to wait outside the grand entrance instead.

What's worse, however, was that I had to wait for fifteen more minutes before my car finally came.

I was out there.

At the entrance of the Hilton Hotel.

Practically naked.

For everyone to see.

That was, without a doubt, the most embarrassing day of my life.

At home, I tried replicating the haejangguk I had at the hotel. It proved to be more difficult than I had thought. Pressure-cooking the meat made it very soft, but it failed to extract the flavors from it. I made a mental note to try again next week using a different technique. I guessed it would turn out better if I cook sober.

The laundry service came for my clothes, and I almost forgot to give them the soiled shirt and jeans I had brought from the hotel. I was embarrassment personified the entire time I was explaining to them why I needed the clothes handled with care, in case there was a note in there somewhere with instructions on how to meet up with their hot owner.

Just before dinnertime, I remembered Robert and his offer of hooking me up with the DBA. I spent a couple of minutes updating my CV before e-mailing it to Rob. I thought I should call and thank him for helping me, and also to low-key let him know that I had sent my resume over.

It was the perfect time for me to start looking for a new job. I mean, at least it would be something to keep my mind off JM.

I took my phone from the charging pad and switched it on. Within a few minutes, I got flooded with notifications from Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. It wasn't just any kind of flooding—it was Noah's ark type of flooding. The notifications seemed to go on and on and on!

I opened the IG app and saw something that I thought would never happen to me: my 32 followers had blown up to 47,854! What on earth was going on?

I noticed that I was tagged in one particular photo. I tapped the image and almost fainted.

It was posted by an influencer named Gossip Gurl. It was my picture, waiting at the grand entrance of the Hilton Hotel and wearing only a Hilton Hotel bathrobe and a pair of Zegna Chelsea boots.

Define fashion forward – It's none other than @bjmesoftly sporting a Hilton Hotel Bathrobe and a pair of Chelsea boots from Emilio Zegna! All you gossip gays better start trembling because this hottie is here to stay!

I noticed that the same photo was posted on Twitter and Facebook with the same caption.

Then came a call from Faye.

"Hey, gurl!" Faye greeted in an unusually perky manner.

"What?"

"You got featured on Gossip Gurl's page!" she said excitedly. "I've been trying to reach your phone since this morning, but it was off!"

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"What the eff happened?"

"A lot... A whole lot," I answered, all sorts of things running in my head. "Derrick's living with me now, you know." I suddenly remembered Derrick and his emergency yesterday. "His mom's in the ER."

"Yeah, I know," Faye said. "She got discharged this morning. Heartburn, from what I heard."

"That's a relief," I said. "Hey, I'm still pretty hungover now, so can we just meet tomorrow?"

"Sure thing," she said. "And don't forget about the wedding."

"What wedding?" I seriously didn't remember Faye mentioning anything about a wedding.

"You're my plus one to Trish's wedding." Faye was practically on steroids again, the pitch of her voice high as it could go.

"Trish who?" I asked. "And where's Henry?"

"Trish Aquino!" Faye almost screamed. "It's the wedding of the century!"

"Trish Aquino?" I said, unsure whether Faye and I had the same Trish Aquino in mind. "The Queen of All Social Media?"

"YES!" Faye screamed, and I had to pull my ear away from the receiver. "That's why we're scheduled for a beauty session tomorrow."

"Great," I managed to say, the fact that I was to attend the wedding of someone famous not really sinking in yet. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

I went back to bed as soon as I ended the phone call. I lay spread-eagled on the bed, trying to recall the face of the guy I had puked on. That was one of the feelings I hated the most: not remembering anything.

I pride myself on being a good drinker. I may not be that tall, but my kidneys can take a beating. It's one of the reasons why I got hired by Samsong. As obscure as this may sound, Samsong conducts drinking interviews as part of the hiring process, especially for positions that require a lot of meetings with third parties—the procurement team, investments team, sales team, and several others I can't really remember.

They test how good we are at maintaining our cool and wits despite liters and liters of alcohol going through our bloodstreams.

I had aced my drinking interview without batting an eyelash.

That's why I really didn't understand why I blacked out! What the hell did Janus give me?

Hey Janus. I texted. What the fuck was that drink? I blacked out!

A few seconds later, Janus replied. Call me JC. And I gave you my own invention. Unfortunately, it's absinthe-based. Even more unfortunately, you downed it in one shot.

Absinthe? Weren't people supposed to get hallucinations with that?

You passed out and I took you to your room in Hilton.

It was you? I replied.

Yep. You okay now?

I'm home now. Still a little hungover. I texted back. By the way, I didn't throw up on you or anything, did I?

No. You were sleeping like a baby. Janus answered. Something wrong?

Never mind. I said. See you soon!

I went to my contacts list and edited Janus' name to JC.

JC Mariano.

JC.

Jesus Christ.

Another name starting with J, as in JM. I was getting annoyed at that point, so I decided to call JM. I was no longer going to wait for his reply—I needed answers right that second.

My heart stopped as soon as I saw my call history. I had drunk dialed JM, Derrick style. And by that I mean I called JM more than 300 times. Fuck!

I hastily went through my text messages, and my biggest fears came to life.

fuick me!!

Ur d. Dmnit.

Hey JM. I nee d some vitamin D.

Let's fuck. Answer the phone.

I tjink we'd make goo dbabiez!

God, I was about ready to go kill myself, and I was so scared to scroll further down. They were probably going to be the texts sent in my least senile moments.

I want to be a part of your life, JM. I really do.

That wasn't so bad. Right before I read it, I was hoping the last one wouldn't be worse.

I haven't really thanked you for the poem you wrote. It was beautiful. Thank you for giving me all those feels. It's been a while since I last felt this way. And I kinda think you feel the same way, too. I know you've already said it before but that was when we're busy doing the deed... so I thought it was just your hormones and your libido doing the talking. But your poem really said it, though. I mean... I hear you loud and clear, JM. And I want to do the right thing and say it out loud, too. (Though it's just a text message...