An Excerpt from "My Life as a Bee"

By Michelangelo Samson

“YOU WERE ALWAYS the performer," Auntie Fe said, her head bent into her shoulder to wipe away her tears. "We weren't at all surprised when you ended up in showbiz. In fact your uncle expected it. When your movie made it to the West Coast, we had a big party—oh my god—we plastered the whole storefront with posters, Robin bending over to kiss Vina, a car exploding behind them, Eddie Garcia looking stern on one side, and you on the other with your arms crossed—it was amazing. Your uncle told everyone who came by the store that you were his nephew. He was just so proud, you know. So proud.”

“It was a small role,” I said. They promised me a bigger one but most of it ended up on the cutting room floor.

“A movie's a movie,” my aunt said, patting my arm, forgetting that she was wearing rubber gloves covered with soap.

I was in the kitchen helping her wash up after Uncle Bitong's fortieth day prayers. It had been a long night with people staying well past the mass and the small dinner we prepared. Jeslyn, Meng and Tita Susay were also there but they were busy wrapping the leftovers in foil, partitioning the platters of pancit and dinuguan that Auntie Fe had ordered into small containers to be given to the neighbors. So I was left alone with my aunt, drying the plates that she handed over, listening to her tales of Uncle Bitong. It was clear she missed him still. His passing was so abrupt. There was just that croak in his voice that developed one day, the one that scraped in his upper register as he launched into "Born Free" while demonstrating the features of the Minus One machines he sold. It got so bad that he stopped doing the demos altogether, preferring to play a recorded version of himself rather than ruin what he called 'the greats'. By the time he decided to see a specialist, it was too late, his cancer had spread and there was barely enough time to put his affairs in order.

He called me a few days after he found out, his voice sounding normal save for a wheeze in his throat that whistled when he paused for breath. "We have to talk," he said. I thought he was calling about work. After the incident at Grilla Manila where I fought with the owner, the only job I could find was with the San Jose SaberCats as a cheer-dancer. Three days a week, I screamed and fist-pumped to get the crowd going and sometimes ran around the arena with the SaberCats flag while the SaberKittens did their halftime dance. Uncle Bitong knew I was miserable there but he told me I couldn't be too choosy because of my immigration status. I guess he felt guilty telling me to take the job in San Jose. Whenever he called he always started by telling me about new leads he heard about.

"There's a problem," he said.

I couldn't hear him at first. My roommate Darius had the TV on with the volume high. Darius always kept it loud when he was lifting. It was 60 Minutes, something about honeybees, how they were disappearing from California, their hives abandoned, the effect of pesticides or some virus.

"What was that again?" I said.

"The tests. They found out what was wrong with me. I don't have much time left. A year maybe."

Uncle Bitong stayed quiet, letting me absorb what he said. There was just the faint whistling in his throat on the other end. "—A hidden catastrophe—mass extinction—" a scientist on TV said. Suddenly San Jose seemed as far away from Vallejo as the Moon from the Earth. "Are you sure?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.

"They’re very sure," he said, “second opinion confirms it. But don't worry. I'm going to fight this. I feel great.”

From that conversation it was a short two months of intensive chemotherapy and radiation before an infection brought the curtain down on my uncle. He had a nice memorial service. My uncle owned a video store. That’s all he did. You couldn't tell that though from the number of people who came to his wake. There was so much warmth, it surprised even my aunt who didn’t expect the crowd that gathered for my uncle’s fortieth.

After Tita Susay and the girls left, I decided to stay a while longer to make sure Auntie Fe would be okay. She cut a lonely figure in the kitchen, backlit by the refrigerator light. She and my uncle had a modest house, a one-floor affair typical for that neighborhood. Now, with my uncle gone, the house felt enormous, like a newly discovered cavern that my aunt was exploring by herself. •

> Michelangelo Samson lives in Singapore with his wife and daughter. For the last sixteen years, he has worked as a banker focusing on mergers and acquisitions. His stories have appeared in the Philippines Free Press and in the anthology Fast Food Fiction.