I Will Be the One
Table of Contents
Title Page
Other Books by Larry Farmer
I Will Be the One
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
A few words from the author...
Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
Lois rubbed my hand softly and affectionately as we lay in the dark.
“We’re genetically geared to compete, but also to cooperate,” she said as if in a review session. “For survival of the species. Remember that time we rode the jeepney together going to Midsayap? Where I tried to ride the bumper with you?”
“They wouldn’t let you,” I reminisced with her. “You’re a woman. Women tire more easily, but also, women fall off more easily. Or if there’s an accident or ambush, no one wants to see a woman suffer.”
“Exactly,” Lois said. “Survival of the fittest includes gallantry of the strong to protect the weak. Remember what that man said to me to get me to go inside? He tapped me on the shoulder. That’s what they do. They tap on the shoulder and say, I will be the one. I will be the one to take the hardship and danger. That is so beautiful, so touching.”
She turned fully on her side as if to look at me, even though we were in total darkness.
“When we get married someday, Mississippi, that’s going to be our wedding vow. Before you kiss the bride to seal our marriage, we’re going to face each other, look each other in the eyes, hold both hands, and say to each other—”
She placed her hand on my cheek for emphasis. “Let’s say it now. I want to vow it right now. Let’s do it.”
“I will be the one,” we said to one another.
“Whenever one of us is weak,” she continued, “the other will be there. We will always be there for each other. We will always survive.”
We sealed our vow with a kiss.
Other Books by Larry Farmer
and available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
THE KERR CONSTRUCTION COMPANY
Dalhart McIlhenny is restless after finishing college. With old school values from his rural upbringing in Texas and a chip on his shoulder from being a Marine during the Age of Aquarius, he sets off on a quest. He wants something different in his life. Something others of his generation wouldn't understand.
The Indian Capital of America. That's what they call Gallup, New Mexico, and that’s where he'll search for whatever it is he wants. But first he must find a job. One no one else wants. One as a laborer for minimum wage for the Kerr Construction Company, working with the local Navajo and with illegal aliens. Far away from the fast cars and parties he doesn’t care about like others do. He becomes best friends with an ex-bullfighter from Durango and finds allure in just trying to survive in a world that doesn't care.
Then he meets Carmen.
I Will Be the One
by
Larry Farmer
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
I Will Be the One
COPYRIGHT © 2015 by Larry Lee Farmer
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com
Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout
The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708
Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com
Publishing History
First Vintage Rose Edition, 2015
Print ISBN 978-1-62830-703-0
Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-704-7
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To Luke, Lesley, and Monette and her beautiful family.
And in loving memory and gratitude to Larry Foley.
Chapter 1
So many thoughts race through my mind while watching the news of the pro-Russian demonstrations and riots in the Ukraine, the downing of aircraft, both military and civilian, by pro-Russian rebels inside the country, accompanied by the massing of Russian troops on their border. Russia's invasion of the Crimea was but a few months before. Now some fear another Cold War, even World War III perhaps, as Russia’s defiant leader thumbs his nose at the West. And there is always concern over possible disruption of the already teetering world economy.
I scan the channels further and see reports of turmoil in the Middle East. What is happening? Fear grips me. A feeling of vulnerability. Will there be anything left of the world I’ve known? How will this affect our lives in America? Nothing feels far away in this age of globalization, especially knowing friends I’ve made abroad face this more directly.
So many thoughts. But in my case, so many memories. As a baby boomer, I lived most of my life during the Cold War era. There were bases overseas to protect. Dictators to thwart or prop up. Military alignments to enhance. The more things change the more they stay the same, the saying goes.
I was a Marine during the Vietnam conflict. Although I wasn't sent, I volunteered to go. Not just to serve my country. I took the threat of a Communist menace seriously. With Communism came massive executions, concentration camps, and bullying. Endless intrigue and power politics. I wanted to do something. To make a difference. I was such an idealist. I wanted so badly to serve.
After that war I was restless. Stuck in a materialistic aftermath. Trapped and snug in the naïveté of prosperity and security, I felt like a cog of conformity wallowing in the mundane. With advanced skills in wealth creation from my master’s degree in economics at Ole Miss, I was bored and frustrated, to be blunt. I wanted something in my life. And I still wanted to make a difference. To serve in some capacity. To give of myself.
They called it the toughest job you'll ever love. My papers were being processed for the United States Peace Corps, in late summer of 1983, when I saw on the news there was an assassination. In a country called the Philippines, a political reformist by the name of Begnino Aquino was gunned down on the tarmac of the Manila International Airport. Little did I know then how, because of that event, my fate and my experiences in the Peace Corps would intertwine and change my life forever.
At six feet and a hundred ninety pounds, I still had my Marine physique and muscle tone. Though it was the Peace Corps I was joining now, things didn’t sound so peaceful to me. I was glad I was big. Though in a non-combatant’s role, I wasn’t so sure I wouldn’t have to be on my guard. With no combat gear at my disposal, I could physically thwart the more marginal threats that might come my way, and most importantly, the Marines had conditioned my psyche. I knew what to do with danger.
There was a song that followed me around in those Peace Corps days after I arrived at my assigned destination. “Ang Bayan Ko” it was called. In English you would simply say “My Country.” I heard these words sung only in Tagalog, but the English translation is moving. I could tell you of the meaning they held for me, but it would be cheating the Filipinos, for this song is th
eirs. The story, however, about my days with them during this time, is hopefully for everyone.
This love song was originally written as a poem by Jose Corazon de Jesus:
The country mine, the Philippines,
land of gold and flowers.
Love is in its destiny,
offered beauty and splendor.
And, for its refinement and beauty,
foreigners were enticed.
Country mine, enslaved wert thou,
mired in suffering.
Even birds that are free to fly—
cage you them and they shall cry!
What more a nation, most verily beautiful,
would not yearn to break free?
Philippines of mine that I treasure,
cradle of my tears and suffering,
my ambition
is to see thee truly free!
Chapter 2
“A package arrived for you, James,” my mother said in her soft Southern drawl as she handed it to me. “Is this what you’ve been waiting for?”
I tore it open and nodded that it was. “It’s from the Peace Corps,” I explained. “They just assigned me to the Philippines. Maybe here’s some third-world version of Hawaii, I’m hoping.”
I read the brochures and pamphlets in front of her as she cooked, occasionally reading aloud.
“Over seven thousand islands,” I nearly swooned, looking up as I pictured it. Mother smiled as if living the dream with me. “They speak English, and most are Catholic,” I continued.
“For once you’ll seem a mainstream American,” she replied. “You won’t stick out so much because you’re Jewish.”
I got out some of my mother’s Hawaiian record albums, which was as close as I could get to Filipino culture, I assumed. “Tiny Bubbles.” I drove everyone crazy playing that song constantly on the stereo and humming it everywhere I went. I also bought a video of The King And I, though that was about Siam.
It was obvious by how little my parents talked about it that they were embarrassed I was going into the Peace Corps. That’s because where we’re from, Vicksburg, Mississippi, people think Yankees and liberals do this stuff. And all that money to get a master’s in economics at Ole Miss—just for this?
It must be the Jewish thing about us, people decided, when they heard what I was about to do. The John F. Kennedy vision and such, you know. They were certain that by now President Reagan should have already disbanded the Peace Corps.
Chapter 3
When I arrived at the Manila International Airport in February 1984 in a group of prospective Peace Corps Volunteers and looked out the window at the miles of ghetto around me, it took every ounce of idealism I had to stay.
But other things were brewing that overshadowed that view.
The airport was under military control, cordoned off. Some fifty thousand demonstrators stood outside, protesting the murder of Begnino “Ninoy” Aquino. Murdered, in fact, right at this airport six months before.
“Please don’t worry,” a representative of the Peace Corps told us at customs. “I have a diplomatic clearance to get all new Peace Corps personnel out of the airport despite the military lockdown,” she assured us.
To the right of the airport was a chain-link fence surrounding the lower open perimeter of the building. The fence was covered with hundreds of protestors, silently waiting. At the top of the fence was a small open space, just big enough for protestors to crawl over after climbing the fence. On the left, adjacent to us, were a hundred or so riot police, fully encased in protective riot gear, large shields in front of each man, and each wielding a long wooden club. An eerie silence surrounded us. I could hear only heavy breathing as each side waited for the other to make a move.
We left them behind as a Peace Corps bus took us to a section of Manila called Malate, which was near a beach where the hotels were for tourists, a huge step up from my first impression. I was even a tad disappointed, actually. I had come to live among the downtrodden. It bothered my conscience to so quickly experience much comfort.
I already had a best friend in our group. A girl I’d met back at the staging area for Peace Corps prospects in San Diego. A graduate of Ohio State named Lois. We sat together on the plane to Manila and got quite chummy, even sharing shoulders to take naps along the way. She was cute, with long, frizzy, light-brown hair, and had a nice figure. It made being friends appealing since we probably were going to be stuck out in the middle of nowhere after we finished training. It was good to know someone would be out there with me, or near me, wherever “out there” was. A place I could run away to during free periods. R-and-R we’d called such times in the Marines. Meaning rest and relaxation. A smart, robust, good-looking girl with some sass filled the order perfectly for me.
There were dorm-like areas for us to stay in while being processed in Manila. They were clean and tidy, but the Peace Corps was already limiting how much they were going to spend on us, not wanting to spoil us before dumping us into the squalor where we’d probably soon be living.
Right off, my cohorts dubbed me the Mississippi Redneck, which shortened to Mississippi, which soon became my name to them instead of James. After I got assigned to the Central Bank of the Philippines, some of these same associates viewed me with contempt, as if I wanted to foreclose people’s farms.
I don’t know if it derived from being one of the few Jews in Vicksburg, Mississippi—one of the few Jews in or around anything about Mississippi, for that matter—but I never enjoyed just hanging around with whomever. I need companionship and interaction, but I don’t enjoy small talk, or trying to fit in. I never was a loner, but I preferred spending most of my time by myself.
Lois, however, was a different story in my eyes. I don’t know why we hit it off so well, but we did, and it was instantaneous, almost with the first hello in San Diego. She sought me out, to be blunt. Who was this guy from Mississippi? Those were almost her exact words. That and openly wondering why I didn’t have a hooked nose, you know, like Jews are supposed to have. Or why I stood six foot tall, which didn’t fit the bill in her eyes, since Jews were supposed to be short. She was at least satisfied I had brown eyes and brown wavy hair like I was supposed to have. But her questions seemed more curiosity than anything hostile or skeptical. Maybe she wasn’t as blunt about it as I’m portraying, but I determined she was subtle only to keep from being perceived as someone who stereotypes. Stereotyping was supposed to be my department, since I was from Mississippi.
She never thought she would meet anyone from such a place as Mississippi, and surely not with the same agenda as serving in a culturally sensitive organization like the United States Peace Corps. The fact that I was Jewish answered some of that for her, but it still seemed an oxymoron to her that the same mindset could inhabit both a demography of Peace Corps and the heart of Dixie.
Lois and I paired off on our first afternoon in Manila, while determining our skills and desires in how to best serve the Peace Corps mission. If we separated for an interview with someone, or for shots, or with a distinct discussion group, we immediately sought each other out afterwards to compare the experience and information.
When released for the day to discover what we chose of Malate, we checked out the sights together. As in: together we two, apart from the others in the group.
It was hot and muggy on the streets of Malate, even at night. It reminded me of Mississippi in the summer. Manila Bay, part of the Pacific Ocean between the Philippines and the South China Sea, was barely a block away, but the buildings and the density of the compressed human population all but offset any moderating breeze there might have been.
“Which way you want to go?” I asked her, in case she had any ideas of what she wanted to do for the evening.
“There’s a folk house nearby,” Lois said as we walked out into the street from the hotel. “I heard one of our directors talk about it in a cultural lecture this afternoon. He made a big deal about it. He said to be sure to go tonight, in particula
r, because the Filipino Bob Dylan sings tonight. It’s called the Hobbit House. The waiters there are all dwarves.”
“Okay.” I began to read the signs of the establishments on the street we walked. “Hobbit House.” I hummed. “I’m looking for the Hobbit House.” I looked at her for clarification. “Which direction?”
“I was told turn right after we left our hotel. Turn right and look across the street to the left as we walk. It’s a couple or so blocks from the hotel.”
“There,” I said, pointing. “Fifty yards or so on the left, just like you heard.”
Lois winked at me in celebration, then grabbed my hand and held it as we walked. The problem with that was I loved it. The problem with loving it was I didn’t want to. I knew how this Mother Nature thing works with our DNA and our hormones and all. One of the appeals so far about Lois was it was so easy to be friends.
Friends.
That’s all I wanted. Not even a good time at her expense. Just friends. Safety type friendship. We were going to be a couple of hours from each other when we finished training, so it was explained to us by the Filipino Area Project Coordinator we had together. Meaning we would see each other now and then, mind our own business, do our jobs, save the world, and go back home. Or in my case, hopefully, to Hawaii.
But here I was, holding her hand as we walked to the Hobbit House to hear the Filipino Bob Dylan. Please, I begged myself as we walked along, be careful while you have the chance. Please don’t get carried away now, then spend empty nights in a hot, dirty room in the middle of nowhere, in the Philippines, thinking of a girl you can’t have.
As we crossed the street to enter the Hobbit House, I acknowledged to Lois how the place had appeal. As good a place as any to know something of our new setting.
The Hobbit House had many American patrons. Somehow this was the place to be, I decided. It must be chic or something. Cool. It did have atmosphere. Like a place you would expect in the Greenwich Village area of New York. Or so I visualized. Where the real folk-singing Bob Dylan got his start.