Due to its distance from the city, Los Baňos was a place that we rarely visited, and when we did it gave off the impression of being otherworldly, like a dream that never happened: bosky mountains stretching to the horizon, tiny three-floor shopping malls, the subtle incline on all the roads, sari-sari stores, the musky-sweet smell of Lolo Doming’s cigars, trips to the video rental store, a rough-painted cement ceiling, flower-patterned bed sheets, non-cable television, wood-panelled walls, kare-kare stew, marble floors and, best of all, discount bookstores with five-to-ten-peso comics.
It was there, in the Book sale beside Carmela Barbershop, that Tito Fermin began to participate in our love for comics. He was leaving for the States the next morning and had been meaning to pick up a few Filipino Komiks to take with him. James and I were simply excited to find more back issues of Ghost Rider and Wild Dog. The bargain bins were smaller, only three rows, but we commenced with our ritual anyway, thumbing through back issues, flip flip flip, until we each had our stack of comics to choose from. Tito Fermin surprised us by taking both piles and paying for them, more than 30 comics each and, as we walked out of the store suffused with happiness and gratitude, I silently calculated that he’d spent over 500 pesos on comics, which was a huge amount at the time, at least to me.
And then lunch at Nilda’s Restaurant, where we ate mushroom burgers while Tito Fermin quizzed us on our love of superheroes. A lengthy discourse ensued on the extended line-up of the X-Men, the convolutions of Peter Parker’s life, the rogues gallery of Batman, how Hulk was too boring, how the Legion of Superheroes had too many members, how the Fantastic Four had too few, how Superman and Captain America were outdated; and more besides. He shared stories of his meetings with various comics’ creators during conventions; of the long argument on the art of cartooning that he’d had with Gary Groth; the drink he had shared with long-time Spider-Man editor Tom Brevoort; and the time he had managed to procure a sketch of Superman, Batman and Wonder Woman from Jim Lee.
The last one fired me up. There we were, sitting in a restaurant in the Philippines eating mushroom burgers—and we were right next to a man who had actually shaken hands with Jim Lee. Jim Lee! The phenomenal artist’s artist, the person who’d redesigned all the X-Men costumes, the comic creator that I dreamt of one day becoming. Tito Fermin laughed at my ebullition and promised that the next time he met Jim Lee, he would ask for a signed sketch and post it to me.
As we made our way back to Lolo Doming’s house, our uncle began to relate the difficulties he’d been having with his latest project. Echo Comics was intent on adding another superhero title to their monthly line-up, and they were looking to Tito Fermin to deliver it. This was his concept: a superhero that policed the multiversal continuum, spinning from dimension to dimension in an eternal struggle with the Forces of Chaos.
“Spin-Man!” James interrupted.
Tito Fermin stopped and gave my brother a profound look. “Spin-Man?”
“Spin-Man. I don’t know. I just thought of it. Do you have a name already?”
“Spin-Man,” my uncle said, enunciating the syllables slowly, as if he were tasting them. “Spin-Man is a good name. I was thinking of calling him Omni-Man, but Spin-Man sounds much better. Would you mind if I called him that?”
“Yes!” James exclaimed, almost lost in delight. “I mean, no! I don’t mind!”
It was unprecedented—my brother’s idea was going straight into an actual comic book to be published in the States. His idea was going to be the name of the superhero, if not the title of the series. I was a little jealous of his moment of brilliance, but conceded that it was fair since he’d thought of it first. That was, of course, before things got out of hand.
“Can I be Spin-Man?” James asked, pulling on Tito Fermin’s shirt sleeve. We had just arrived at my grandfather’s house, and our uncle seemed lost in a daze.
“You mean his alter-ego? That would be a little like Shazam, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes! Please? I can be a good character. I’ll fight the Forces of Chaos.”
James made a spinning move, grinding his sneakers against the pavement, and ended it with a punch to the air and a shout: “Spin-Man!”
Tito Fermin laughed. “All right, all right. You can be Spin-Man. What about your brother?”
By that time, I was foul-tempered and indignant. James had thrown a load of ideas at Tito Fermin, including Spin-Man’s name, his costume, thoughts on potential enemies and even a love interest. My jealousy was frothing at the mouth. I was an artist; a creative; I should have had more ideas than my colourist brother, but my mind was blank. I couldn’t visualise Spin-Man. He was merely a figment, a cipher; I had no story to hang him onto. I struggled to keep my resentment in check, but when you’re nine years old it’s a difficult thing to hide. “No thank you, Tito Fermin. I think I’d rather draw Spin-Man. At least I’ll make money doing it.”
“You can draw it when you’re older. I’ll even ink you, if you’ll have me.” It was a promise that I knew would never be fulfilled. With that, Tito Fermin ruffled my hair and walked off to his room. As he moved away, I caught my little brother staring at me, and this is the face that I will never forget: James biting his lips, his eyes wide open, his expression a mix of guilt and apology, as if he had done something wrong.
That night, before we went to bed, he broached the topic one last time. I had ignored him throughout dinner and he had respected my silence, but after Lolita had tucked us in, he turned to me and asked, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I said, though obviously I wasn’t.
“You can be Spin-Man if you want. I can just tell Tito Fermin—”
“No thank you,” I said, cutting him off.
And that was that.
I awoke late the next day. The sun was shining, the midday heat had begun to settle in, and my first thought was that I’d somehow overslept and missed Tito Fermin’s leave-taking. My second thought was of James. There was no-one in the next bed, and I assumed that he must have been too bothered about my reaction the previous night to wake me. I put on my slippers and went downstairs. Santa Claus was asleep on his favourite couch, and Lolita was in the next room, sweeping.
“Good morning,” she said. “Your Tito Fermin left early. He didn’t want to wake you because it’s your vacation, but he said that he loves you and that he’ll keep in touch.”
“I’m sorry about that, Lola. Have you seen James?”
“James?” she asked. She seemed puzzled. I rubbed my eyes and thought, She must be going senile in her old age.
“James,” I repeated. “My brother.”
She stopped sweeping and eyed me with suspicion. For a moment, she seemed to be considering what I meant, though it should have been obvious. And then she smiled. “Perhaps when you sleep tonight, you will see him again. Lunch will be ready soon.”
I frowned at her. My grandmother was patronising me. Clearly, some sort of joke was happening that I was unaware of. I left the room and began to look for James. I had searched the living room, the terrace, the dining room and the balcony before I began to wonder if James was playing an impromptu game of hide-and-seek with me. I pursued him through the house. I looked in bathrooms, closets, cabinets and convenient hiding places behind doors, between bookshelves and under beds. It was only when I noticed that his bag was missing; the bag that my mother had packed for him the day before we left for Los Baňos; it was only then that I began to worry.
“James!” I called for him as I ran through the house. “Where’s James?” I yelled at Lolita as she was putting out dishes for lunch. Lolo Doming walked in on us, scratching his head.
“What is he talking about?” he asked. “Who’s James?”