Mass after Mass: A Christmas Story (Part 4 + Final Chapter | 12/21/22)

[SamuelBarbado]

I had to overcome my Catholic guilt writing this one. Haha. I always wanted to write something from my culture and took this season as an opportunity. For many of us, whether we believe in it or not, religion is a cultural thing. Anyway, enjoy! Merry Christmas!

PART 1

It was the middle of December, and Joshua Figueroa still felt groggy from the overlong flight from Heathrow to NAIA and from the two-hour bus ride to his hometown in Urreta. His father Domingo had failed to meet him in Manila. “The car broke down,” Domingo said. But Joshua knew that the old man would rather tend to his fighting roosters than inconvenience himself for his own flesh and blood. 

“You’re a big boy,” he called earlier. “I’m sure you can get home before dinner.”

Domingo’s words proved true that afternoon when he heard his son’s footsteps coming from the wooden staircase leading to the antesala. There at the doorway of the comedor, with luggage in hand, stood a 5-foot 7-inch and 200-pound muscle bound man. 

“You grew.” Domingo sipped his hot chocolate which Felicidad had brought him earlier.

“Of course. I wasn’t writing all the time.” 

The truth was, Joshua got depressed living solo as a graduate student at King’s College. Sure, the abundance of knowledge and the prestige he could get nowhere else first attracted the 140-pound man when he had stepped inside the university. But he realized later that he needed variety in his life, away from the dusty halls and dreadful conversations too common in his field. And so he used the scant time he had working out. He only wanted to blow some steam off initially. But the next thing he knew, he was putting more hours in the gym, lifting heavier weights, and gaining more quality muscle. And to prove to himself how serious he was, he hired a personal trainer named Liam who got him access to gear. 

“You should compete,” Liam said. “Your proportion and symmetry are to die for. If you diet down hard enough, you could place.”

“I’ll think about it.”

The new Joshua surprised his peers and advisers. They could not fathom how he even found time to build a phenomenal body when papers were demanding to be written. Joshua suspected that they secretly blamed his mediocrity to his lack of sacrificial dedication to the academe. But the call of the iron and the pump had already caught his heart.

At least one man other than himself enjoyed his new body. As soon as he landed in Manila, Ethan called for a brief meet up over coffee. “You look like you ate yourself whole. I like it,” Ethan said, sipping his cappuccino. Merlinda, the town chandler, also said something of the like when he arrived in the cemetery to visit his mother’s grave. Such comments boosted his confidence, a little reminder that he had gone beyond that lanky kid who would ruin the game for his teammates.

But there he was now, in the Figueroa ancestral house, standing before his father who kept talking about the time he lifted weights in the 70s. 

Joshua slept the whole afternoon and woke up late into the night. Felicidad had left him a dinner of chicken tinola which she herself cooked after Domingo’s favorite rooster lost. He devoured the lukewarm meal. He went back to bed, but he found it hard to sleep. His body was still getting used to the eight-hour difference. 

He wondered how he can survive this sleepy town. His friends in high school only consisted of the members of the chess club, and they had all found work abroad. He was basically setting himself up for a lengthy, unproductive holiday. But Manila was too terrible a city to offer a better alternative. 

Earlier that morning, inside that small comfort room in the café, Ethan was kissing his pecs and caressing his biceps. His fingers were tracing the details of his washboard abs down to his hardening cock. Seconds later, the smaller man was ramming his ass, reminding Joshua who the boss really was. At the end of the day, Ethan had powerful friends who could take Joshua to places.

“See you in a few days,” Ethan said after their quick session. “The guys wanted a get-together. Carla suggests we discuss Philippe Léandre’s new work on post-humanism. But it’s Christmas, and who’s in the mood for that?” He kissed Joshua goodbye.

The sound of church bells cut his thoughts short. He checked his phone. It was 4:30 in the morning. He slid the capiz shell window open and watched a familiar scene.
 

The baroque Urreta church dominated the plaza mayor. In its yard stood a nativity scene, its manger still left empty. Cars, tricycles, and jeepneys sounded their horns to signal the arrival of the faithful. Paról or star-shaped lanterns lit every tree in the plaza where gathered the town’s families, couples, musicians, and street food vendors. It was the 16th of December, the first of the Misas de Aguinaldo or the nine Masses celebrated each early morning before Christmas Day. 

None of the Figueroas were religious, save for Joshua’s mother who took the burden of lighting a candle for her unbelieving relatives. Joshua used to attend such Masses with her because she would reward him afterwards with an ice cream bun and a bag of bibingka or baked rice cake. A brass band would play carols in the plaza grandstand. He would play with the street kids before his mother would call him to help her carry the bags from the market. These things made up his childhood memories of the season, different from those of his British peers who talked of Father Christmas and roast chicken and snow.

Joshua got up to get dressed. If he could not sleep, he might as well do something else. He opened his grand wardrobe for some decent church clothes. He told his father to have Felicidad wash them before he arrived. But he realized just now that none of them fit him anymore. Nevertheless, he tried on his small PE shirt. Its sleeves just ripped off his arms before he even put the rest of the shirt over his head. He smirked, thinking how big he had become.

He opened his luggage and took out some jeans and his favorite Nirvana t-shirt. He then saw himself topless in the wardrobe mirror. He smiled. His body looked magnificent. His eyes feasted on his broad shoulders, his bulging arms and pecs, the supple lines and curves crisscrossing his torso, all visible under the moon and lantern lights. He got hard in seconds. 

But his brief vanity gave way to the sound of the bells. He changed quickly and walked out of the house.

He let the cool air hit his body as he strolled across the plaza. He let the smell of steamed glutinous rice and coconut milk fill his nostrils. The kids were already up, singing Christmas carols and asking strangers for some spare coins. When they saw Joshua, they flexed their arms. He flexed back and let them touch his 19-inch biceps. The town was full of life, and all the misery in the world vanished like vapor. Joshua felt like a kid again. He wished he could feel like one forever. 

The church was packed. Joshua came in later than most, so he had no choice but to stand up in the aisles during the whole service. He could force himself in the pews, but he knew he would take up too much space that could have been given for a grandma and her little girl. 

The pipe organs resounded. “Veni, veni, Emmanuel!” chanted the choir up the loft. Incense invaded Joshua’s nostrils and sent his soul to the holy of holies. And there in the wide nave, walked with utmost devotion, the ministers, acolytes, lectors, priests, and finally, the monseñor.

One of the priest had a deep set of eyes which made his face a handsome one when in a good mood and a tired one when not. This time, the gauge turned to “Tired.” Joshua thought he looked familiar, and so he rummaged the obscure parts of his memories. He failed. He leaned against the pillar, letting the ceremony and the prayers pass by his consciousness. He had been dozing off from time to time. Finally his body was begging for a good rest. 

“Go in peace,” said the monseñor. Joshua came round from his deep slumber. The faithful who were moving out quickly while the choir was rushing through the recessional hymn. 

Joshua rubbed his eyes and yawned. He walked over to the side chapels by the church door where people were lighting candles and saying a few prayers to a myriad of holy images. One that caught his attention was a statue of a Dominican priest holding a ciborium in one hand and a statue of the Virgin in the other. The pedestal bore the name San Jacinto de Polonia, Urreta’s patron saint. 

“Making a wish, Josh?” 

He turned around. Before him approached the padre with a familiar face. He was two inches taller than Joshua. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt tucked into black slack pants, both oversized and made him look skeletal. His face screamed exhaustion. 

“Josh? Figueroa?”

“Padre!”

“Please, just Gío would be fine. Gío Castañeda? San Alberto Magno High School?”

And then it him. Did he use play basketball? Was he that close friend of jock star Harrison Alvarez?

“Oh, yes! Gío!”

“Wow, man! You’ve gotten really big. How much can you bench?”

A middle-aged woman approached the padre. She was carrying an image of the Santo Niño which looked too heavy for her little frame. She pressed her forehead on the padre’s hand and asked him to bless her statue of the Child Jesus.

“Of course, Tita Tess. I’ll be in the grotto.” 

Tita Tess smiled and left. 

“It’s good to meet you here, Josh,” Gío said. “But I need to go. Duty awaits. See you!” He smiled and walked through the left aisle followed by more women carrying their icons, rosaries, and prayer books. Joshua noticed that the padre had a slight limp.

He thought of Gío’s handsome face which triggered in him an unnamable desire. He brushed it aside. He was in a holy place after all. He turned his gaze back to San Jacinto. People said that if you complete all the nine Misas de Aguinaldo, your wish will come true. He never believed an ounce of it, but it sure filled the church to the brim during the holidays. 

He dropped a five-peso coin on the box that stood beside a jar of candles. He took one candle and lit it at the foot of San Jacinto. He rubbed his fingers on saint’s robes and made a sign of the cross. He then walked home, eager for a good sleep.

[Hialmar]

Amazing! You allow readers from all around the world have a peek into Filipino Christmas spirit! The scents! The tastes! The music! 

I believe I read somewhere that a custom resembling what you call Missa de Aguinaldo existed in Central Europe in the late middle ages and late renaissance, but it fell out of fashion at some point during the Enlightenment Era.

Quite a different flavour of Advent-Christmas from the Americans' red-nosed reindeer, the English Holly and Ivy, Austrian Krampus customs, and our Swedish weird mix of gnomes, St. Lucy, saffron buns and gingerbread. 

[citizenies]

Great start ~ already eager for the next parts 

[growthfan96]

This was very nice 

[SamuelBarbado]

4 hours ago, Hialmar said:

Amazing! You allow readers from all around the world have a peek into Filipino Christmas spirit! The scents! The tastes! The music! 

I believe I read somewhere that a custom resembling what you call Missa de Aguinaldo existed in Central Europe in the late middle ages and late renaissance, but it fell out of fashion at some point during the Enlightenment Era.

Quite a different flavour of Advent-Christmas from the Americans' red-nosed reindeer, the English Holly and Ivy, Austrian Krampus customs, and our Swedish weird mix of gnomes, St. Lucy, saffron buns and gingerbread. 

Thanks for the cultural appreciation. I also heard we had to do Masses at dawn because the farmers would have been too tired to do in the evening and they had to wake up very early in the morning before it would get too hot during midday. 

[Bjort]

Lovely, evocative and very well written!  I look forward to more!

[Hialmar]

3 hours ago, SamErgule said:

Thanks for the cultural appreciation. I also heard we had to do Masses at dawn because the farmers would have been too tired to do in the evening and they had to wake up very early in the morning before it would get too hot during midday. 

That make sense, but I believe its earlier Central European counterpart began before dawn, too, and was celebrated in candle light. This cause a certain appealing mood, I guess. "Hot" is not how I would describe December anywhere north of the Alps, so there is more to it than just the additional reason you give. Perhaps regional conditions in the Philippines were favourable to the survival of this particular custom in warmer conditions.

Edited December 18, 2022 by Hialmar
"in warmer conditions"

[50smuscleman]

Engaging and engrossing story so far.  Excellent start!

[OldFashioned]

6 hours ago, SamErgule said:

Thanks for the cultural appreciation. I also heard we had to do Masses at dawn because the farmers would have been too tired to do in the evening and they had to wake up very early in the morning before it would get too hot during midday. 

We still do the Aguinaldos in Colombia! We refer to the nights colloquially as Las novenas. Except we move the celebrations to more normal evening times I can’t really remember what Christmas is like in Colombia, but since they definitely don’t offer nightly masses anywhere in the states, families just host at their houses. There’s eating, drinking, dancing, singing, and a small amount of prayer

[SamuelBarbado]

PART 2

Joshua woke up at 4:00 in the afternoon. He went to the comedor where Felicidad had left him a lunch of cold menudo and rice under the rattan cloche. He was on his last bites when he remembered about keeping a yearbook somewhere. He ran back to his room and found it tucked in his little bookshelf. And then he found the name: Giovanni Ismael Tiongson Castañeda. Within the two-by-two-inch frame was the face of this morning’s padre, albeit younger and healthier, standing on a thicker, meatier neck. 

He looked at Gío’s other photos. In most of them, he was either shooting or dribbling the ball or just hanging out with the rest of the team. He wondered how such a popular guy escaped his mind. But then, Joshua realized he did not care much for school sports, especially for those in the basketball team—save for Harrison whom Joshua’s girl friends used to drool over. 

He had thought then that the school jocks had a slight arrogance, but they had the money and looks that everyone just brushed it off. Only their bodies interested him. After every game, they would lift their shirts up to wipe their forehead, revealing their cut eight-packs. 

Joshua looked again at Gío’s photos. He indulged his eyes not only with his broad shoulders and well proportioned chest but with his vitality and youth. He thought how the present padre retained only a shadow of his former self. Life had taken a toll on him. Nevertheless, Joshua was glad Gío finally found his calling. And he was glad to have met someone he “used to know” in Urreta. Maybe time was urging him to rediscover his childhood if he wanted to survive this small town. 

Joshua found Gío in the side chapels the next morning. He was standing before San Jacinto, his hands caressing the saint’s robes. Joshua noticed that he looked healthier today. A glow appeared to surround the padre’s body. He filled up his shirt fit better, which proved the importance of a well-tailored wardrobe. Gío crossed himself and turned to face Joshua. 

“Josh!”

“Padre!”

“Just Gío, please.”

“Nice sermon.”

“Thanks! How’s Tito? Still busy with his cock?”

“You mean dad? He sure is.” They laughed. 

They exited the church doors, out into the yard where kids were running around and hawkers sold quick breakfasts. 

Meanwhile, Gío told Joshua about the time he went to Manila for college. He enrolled in a business program and was getting straight A’s like in high school. He got into a varsity team and he was winning his university trophies for the first time in decades. He was on his way to become a basketball star, but an injury undid him. He was forced to stay in the hospital for days.

The doctors had told him he might never recover fully. As he lay in his bed, he thought about his future now denied to him. For years, he had made basketball his passion and source of identity. Gío had been indifferent to fame, but he still wanted very much to play. His heart had always possessed a competitive spirit. Who knows what would become of him now?

A few days later, he was sent home where he spent most of his days playing video games and watching porn. What use was his body if he could not move? But one 17th of August, he had the urge to leave the house. He opened the jalousie window and heard the festive ringing of church’s bells. So it was today, he thought. It was the town fiesta when every family in Urreta, including the Castañedas, would hold a feast in honor of San Jacinto, a fact that had escaped his mind. 

So on his crutches, he walked out his bedroom, past the dining room filled with guests, across the plaza mayor, and into the church. There, in one of the side chapels, stood San Jacinto dressed in newly embroidered robes, surrounded by flowers. 

He recalled his Catholic education. Legend said that when Mongols invaded the city of Kiev, San Jacinto or Saint Hyacinth of Poland ran to the monastery to save the ciborium that held the Blessed Sacrament. But then he heard the voice of the Virgin to take him too. He tried lifting a large statue of the Virgin that was obviously too heavy for him. Nevertheless, he was able to do so, and for that, he was named the patron saint of weightlifters.

Then and there, he realized that his strength came not from him but from the Lord. Hope had filled his spirit. He vowed to rebuild himself, not for his own glory but for God’s. He prayed. His prayer renewed his soul. The following semester, he enrolled in a theology program. 

“Padre!” An old man walked toward them. He was carrying across his shoulders a bamboo pole with an aluminum bucket hung on each end. “A good morning for tahô, huh? This one’s on me.”

“Thanks, Tay Angelo, but I already had one earlier.”

But Tay Angelo’s hands were too quick. Before the padre could even say more, he had already handed him a plastic cup of hot, soft tofu with syrup and sago pearls. 

“You’ll be needing lots, Padre,” said the peddler. “Lots! Protein does the body good.” And then he left. 

Gío devoured the tahô. He drank the whole cup in one go and then wiped his messy mouth with a handkerchief. “I never knew I was this hungry.”

“You were busy during the whole liturgy,” Joshua said. “And that hardly counts as a proper breakfast. You need to eat a real meal.”

“Thus says the bodybuilder. I actually gained weight this morning. I was 154 pounds yesterday and 167 earlier. That’s 13 pounds of rice cakes and hot chocolate!” Gío laughed, rubbing his “round belly” that was just not there. “But I’ll take your advice. I’m sure they prepared some eggs and rice in the convent. Sorry Josh, but I have to go.” 

Gío crushed the cup. Josh noticed his forearms bulge. The padre tossed the crushed cup toward a nearby trash can. A perfect shot!

———–––––––

Three days in Urreta, and Joshua began to feel more energized, his body adjusting to the moods of the tropics. He looked for Gío after Mass. He found he liked the padre’s company which made him comfortable. It did not ask from him the most groundbreaking ideas he could think of. He could just be his old big self, tightly snugged underneath his Pearl Jam t-shirt. 

Joshua found him in the churchyard, holding a big paper bowl of congee in one of the stalls.

“You didn’t have to Vicky,” he said. “I don’t deserve two free bowls!” 

“You need all the carbs, Padre. You gotta get that energy from somewhere.”

Joshua walked toward Gío who was now helping himself with boiled eggs and a bag of peanuts. As he got closer, Joshua noticed that he has gotten slightly taller, perhaps two inches more. Joshua was not sure, as the padre had always been the taller between them, having been a basketball star. His chest seem to protrude further today, pushing against his cotton shirt. Perhaps he was standing more upright. Indeed, there was no sign of a limp when he walked up the pulpit earlier. 

“Hey, Josh!”

“Hey! Still hungry?”

Silence. Gío was too busy munching on a bag of chicharrón—no, two bags! He washed down the pork rinds with a cup of sweet, iced drink of tapioca pearls.

“Sorry! I’m starving. I don’t usually eat this much, but today’s a bit different.”

“It’s okay. You’re a growing boy,” Joshua joked.

“I am?” Gío flexed his arms. There bulged a 17-inch bicep which Joshua stared at for a long time. 

“I need siopao,” the padre said who rushed to the steamed bun vendor. 

Joshua excused himself, and walked to the comfort room. He wondered if some devil was playing tricks on him or Gío was indeed growing. For the past three days, he had a hard time recognizing the padre if it were not for his face. 

He went back to the yard and found Gío drinking a pitcher-full of tahô. Then, before Joshua’s very eyes, the padre’s body inflated slightly, filling up the empty spaces of his clothing. His sleeves rose up gently to make way for his meatier arms being pushed to the sides by his widening back. His pants were filling out. And did something swell behind the zipper? Joshua would have been rock hard if the scene had been less bizarre.

“What was in that thing?” he thought. He suspected Tay Angelo whom he found exiting the church gates. Joshua ran toward him. 

“Hey!” he was panting. “Hey, please! Wait!

Tay Angelo stopped. “That would be 10 pesos for a small cup and 20 for a big one.”

“No! I mean, what are you?”

“I am my name. I fulfill desires, if God so wills.” 

And the peddler left. 

Joshua walked home puzzled. Did it have something to do with his silly wish? It was spontaneous decision. He might now believe that the Holy Spirit had been in him. Or had it been the Devil? When he saw Gío’s limp, he felt not pride nor pity but love, a sincere human connection built on the foundations of life experiences. For the first time in his life, he prayed, and it was a prayer for others: “As soon as I complete all the nine masses plus the final Misa de Gallo on Christmas Eve, may God grant the padre strength.” Those were his words.

When he reached home, he went straight to his bed and slept soundly. 

He was  walking alone again through the halls of his high school. He heard juvenile laughter coming from the locker rooms. He peeked. There stood the basketball team, topless and in their boxers or white towels wrapped around their waists. There was Harrison Alvarez, the basketball star, tallest in Urreta, owner of the school’s broadest shoulders. There was Gío Castañeda, whom he finally recognized now. There were three others. 

“You think I should lift weights?” Harrison said, flexing his arms in the mirror. “Fuck basketball. I’m gonna start bodybuilding in college.”

“Whatever you want, bro,” Gío said. “Girls would love you anyway.”

“Ain’t doing it for the girls, bro.”

The whole room was filled with the scent of boyish sweat and musk infused with bath soap and deodorant. It overwhelmed Joshua’s senses and drew him inside unnoticed. He grabbed the sweaty jersey from the bench. Its back bore the words “Alvarez, 31.” 

“You sure you ain’t doing it for him, Harry?” one of the boys said. 

All eyes were on the newcomer. 

“What are you doing here, faggot?” Harrison pushed Joshua against the lockers. The handles and locks poked and hurt Joshua’s back badly.

The other boys laughed, but Gío went to calm his best friend down. 

Joshua was standing at his usual place as a water boy. The Magno Manatees had won the game against the rival team, the San Javier Juggernauts. The players were taking their shirts off, showing off their abs—a mere result of being lean. The girls’ whistles and cries resounded throughout the gymnasium. 

The now topless Gío walked toward him. Why was he here? He looked bigger, like a gymnast. His muscles visibly bulged and danced at his slightest movements.  

“Josh! Water!” 

He gave him an ice-cold bottle. Gío guzzled it, his biceps pumped to the max. He poured the rest of the water onto himself, cooling his sore and scorched body. He crushed the bottle which and threw it away.  

“Thanks, Josh!” he said. And then he whispered: “Meet me in the gym!” 

Josh woke up, sweating. It was 3:00 in the afternoon. He rushed toward his wardrobe. Still there. His body was still there. It was a long time ago. He had moved on from such humiliations and impossible dreams. He possessed something he had worked hard for and was now reaping the goods. Even now, he still could not believe how that lanky chess master—he never was a water boy, that he knew—would turn into a god that he was now. The contrast between time periods made the reflection all the more exhilarating. He was hard in seconds. 

He rubbed his dick. His eyes darted among the sweet mounds and lines and crevices that decorated his body.  “I’ve become a man. I’ve become more than man.” The pleasure increased. But his mind pictured Gío’s head atop his own body. He came, his cum dripping off the mirror. He was panting. 

He looked outside his capiz shell window. The day was getting shorter. He better get moving.

“Dad!” Joshua said, entering the comedor. Domingo was having his usual snack of hot chocolate and caramelized plantains. “You know a good gym here?”

“None in Urreta for your size.” His father eyed him from head to toe. “Pathetic equipment, all of them! But my friend Luis opened a new one in Nueva Infanta. He swears it’s miles better.”

“But that’s next town.”

“Yes, a three-minute tricycle ride. We have small towns, you know. You sound like you never grew up here.