CHAPTER ONE - ARCHIE

It was May 2005, and my last summer at NYU. I just graduated, but ‘technicalities’ stopped me from marching. Not that I cared; I’d hang that diploma up daddy’s old office for hell—it was his lousy undergraduate program. I wanted Business Management, but he wanted something global—so I’d be a just like him.

You see, dad’s some hotshot United Nations diplomat, and he wanted things done his way. He’s this big man of big news, so people hung on every damn word he said. Why’d they all look like they’re pissing in their pants when he’s around? He breathed, slept, ate and crapped like anyone else!

Actually, his simply being white justified that ridiculous public worship—especially in any post-colonial country like this one.

He brought me here; right after I got the diplomat’s diploma, he hauled my ass halfway across the world and dumped me in the Philippines. “Get to know the country,” he said. “Get to know your mom.” Honestly, he should’ve done that himself.

Mom’s Filipino. Born, raised, and imported to America—prior to dad’s moving her around all over the world. His work, you see. Mom always spoke of home like it was some Lost Tropical Eden, so dad eventually bought this vacation house in the Philippines. It was a beachside estate named Villa Nuñez, located in some far-flung province called Ilocos, where mom was originally from. Our land was a sprawling mass of thick foliage and coconut trees, and may’ve actually housed those local terrorists you’d read about. Those New People’s Army guys—them and their little nipa huts veiled somewhere in the bushes. You’d figure it was communist territory, given how close we were to those NPA-infested Cordilleras Mountains.

Apart from that, Villa Nuñez was okay. From MacArthur Highway was a narrow dirt road snaking through the shrubbery and ending at the lodge. Our resort house, up on a beachside hill, had centralized AC, satellite TV, and… that’s it. There were no phone lines, hardly any cell signal, nothing close to modern technology. Cher, my girl back in the states, had no way of reaching me. Not that it mattered; I’d actually enjoy spending time away from her.

Leaving New York for summer was fine. But four weeks in Villa Nuñez was lame. Sure, the beach was a short walk down the hill, and there was a dock for fishing and a wave breaker for snorkeling, but that stuff gets old, fast.

So there I was, on forced vacation sanctioned by the UN Ambassador. Dad always took his work home, like I was part of some Third World Republic.