Four Students 8

RENE

Rene chose to major in Economics, with a minor in Political Science, because of his hunger for power, politics, and money. Who in Maliwalu didn’t dream of those things? The best way to learn the tricks of the trade, he believed, was through higher education—specifically at Maliwalu State University, the country’s most prestigious institution.

State U didn’t just teach theory. It embodied the reality of social stratification. Maliwalu itself was a perfect example of what people often described in discussions about developing nations: a rigid divide between the poor, the middle class, and the elite. There were the educated and the illiterate, the proletariat and the bourgeoisie—each group existing in its own world, yet constantly aware of the others.

To borrow a line from Dickens, it was the best of times and the worst of times. Maliwalu was both Paris and London—alive with all kinds of people and social classes. But unlike those cities, it lacked a culture of independent thinking. Instead, its citizens prided themselves on imitation. They tried hard—sometimes too hard—to look, speak, and behave like New Yorkers, Londoners, or Parisians.

For Maliwalans, visiting the Eiffel Tower or London Bridge was a badge of status. Meanwhile, foreigners who came to Maliwalu were often seen as either criminals escaping justice, missionaries tending to the poor—or worse. Still, many locals didn’t mind. As one student casually put it, “Let them take care of our poor. I’m leaving for New York after graduation anyway. Better to be a New Yorker than a Maliwalan.”

This was the essence of class in Maliwalu. While the urban poor rallied for better housing in Tokando, the wealthy expanded their mansions in Follows Park. The middle class lived paycheck to paycheck, stuck in place. The poor got poorer, the rich got richer, and the middle class remained trapped in between.

“We’re living in a capitalist society,” professors would remind their sociology students. “Inequality is expected. What matters is economic growth.”

But the benefits of that growth never reached the poor. International observers pointed this out—London magazines wrote about it, Paris analysts criticized it. Human rights violations, they said, were part of the system.

At State U, social class wasn’t just tolerated—it was reinforced. Even the campus building reflected it. Each floor carried its own social meaning.

The first floor belonged to the upper class. It was the perfect stage for showcasing the latest fashion, flaunting wealth, and speaking in a hybrid language—a mix of English and Tagalog, twisted into something unrecognizable. From there, students could watch everyone entering the university and judge them instantly—based on clothes, looks, and mannerisms.

The criteria were shallow, but absolute. Anything Western was considered stylish; anything local was dismissed as cheap. These students—small, brown-skinned, yet dressed in punk-inspired outfits—desperately tried to resemble Western celebrities. They wanted to look like movie stars, like Tom Cruise or Madonna.

“Come on, man, you’ve got to be in style,” one of them once told Sonny. “Those bell-bottoms? That’s so outdated.”

Hollywood was their standard of perfection. They dreamed of becoming supermodels, beauty queens, or rock stars—anything that could catapult them onto the global stage. They followed celebrity culture obsessively, even admiring the extravagance and corruption of political elites.

They were modern versions of Doña Victorina—imitators who masked their identity in hopes of being mistaken for something else. They wore heavy makeup, experimented with flashy hairstyles, and covered their natural features with colored contact lenses. They spoke in borrowed slang—“damn it,” “oh shit,” “son of a—”—as if language alone could transform them.

They were the children of politicians, businessmen, doctors, and lawyers. With their wealth and appearance, they felt superior. Anyone who didn’t fit their mold became a target of ridicule.

Rene belonged to this group—but for very different reasons.

He carried a deep resentment toward his father, Germiliano Santos—known simply as “Germs” to his American employer, Robert Clarke.

After World War II, Clarke had acquired vast lands in Maliwalu through favorable agreements. Germs worked as his caretaker, managing the land and sharing in its profits. Over time, Germs became wealthy himself, acquiring trucks and businesses. By all standards, he had succeeded.

Yet to Rene, his father remained a slave.

Despite his wealth, Germs never shed his subservient behavior. Even when Clarke began treating him as an equal, calling him “Mr. Santos,” Germs continued to bow, laugh, and act like a man desperate to please.

As a teenager, Rene couldn’t understand it. Why couldn’t his father step out of the American’s shadow? Why cling to a mindset of submission?

Everything changed one day when Clarke visited and Germs proudly declared that Rene would someday take his place in their partnership. To Rene, it wasn’t praise—it was humiliation. A future as his father’s replacement felt like a sentence.

From that moment on, he rebelled. He abandoned his studies and threw himself into drinking, drugs, and reckless living. Eventually, he was expelled from school.

His final year of high school was spent at an obscure institution, much to his father’s embarrassment. His allowance was cut off. Their relationship deteriorated completely.

Not long after, Germs died of a heart attack. He left nothing to Rene. Everything went to his younger son, Ramon—the obedient one. Rene’s mother remained indifferent, more concerned with maintaining her social image than her family.

Rene grew up determined to become the opposite of his father. He wanted to be like Robert Clarke—the powerful, the dominant, the one in control. He vowed never to be a servant.

For six years, he worked relentlessly. Construction jobs, hauling lumber through mountain roads, selling anything he could—he did it all. His goal was simple: earn enough money to buy his way into education, influence, and ultimately, the upper class.

He believed that adopting Clarke’s mindset—aggressive, assertive, even ruthless—was the key. In a country built on imitation, it wouldn’t be difficult.

That was how Sonny first noticed him—standing among the upper-class group on the first floor.

Rene smoked a Marlboro cigarette, looking like a caricature of the Marlboro Man—an “Oriental” version of a Western icon. At twenty-six, he stood out awkwardly among the younger students, yet tried hard to blend in.

When Sonny walked past, dressed in simple clothes from a flea market, the group stared. Their laughter echoed long after he had climbed to the third floor.

Sonny paused, wondering who looked more ridiculous—himself, or Rene trying to belong where he didn’t quite fit.

Sonny belonged to no class. He moved through campus indifferent to judgment.

Back on the first floor, the group mocked him openly.

“How would you rate that guy?” one asked.

“Negative ten,” another replied.

When someone pointed out that Sonny was Rene’s roommate, the ridicule intensified.

“Don’t worry,” Rene said casually. “I’ll get rid of him. He’s got money—but no class.”

Laughter erupted—until it was interrupted by the arrival of Minnie.

She was stunning—tall, elegant, with the body of a model and the face of an angel. The pride of State U, she had just won Maliwalu Supermodel and was preparing to compete in the United States.

The boys immediately shifted their attention.

“Minnie, you’re a perfect ten. Sit with us.”

She smiled, fully aware of every eye on her.

Their admiration, however, quickly shifted again when Rose arrived—a recent beauty queen. The two women exchanged polite but insincere greetings, masking their rivalry.

Rose bragged openly about a date with a wealthy man from one of Maliwalu’s elite families. She spoke dramatically, romanticizing the encounter, dismissing studies as trivial.

Minnie listened, forcing a smile, but inside she felt something else—disgust.

Not just for Rose.

But for herself as well.
2026-07-07 00:06:06
4students

Four Students 7

The Long, Boring Monologue of Mod’s Dreams

When Sonny woke up, Jaime was gone. So was Rene.

In their place, taped to the wall above the study table, was a small sheet of bond paper with a message written in thick black marker:

THANKS A LOT, GUYS. —Jim

Sonny smiled, rolled onto his side, and hugged his pillow. The morning air was cool. The room, for once, was quiet—much quieter than the chaos of the night before. Still, something felt different.

The faint sour smell of Jaime’s vomit lingered in the air. The drawers that had been yanked open in last night’s commotion were now neatly closed. But it was the fourth bed that caught Sonny’s attention. Once empty, it now held a trunk, a bundle of clothes, pillows, blankets, and a cardboard box filled with novels—classic titles, their spines worn from use.

The fourth roommate had finally arrived.

Sonny felt a flicker of excitement. And a cautious hope.

Maybe this one would be better than the first two. Jaime and Rene were colorful, loud, volatile—too volatile. They carried tempers like loaded guns. Sonny had imagined college roommates who were serious, studious, perhaps even refined. So far, reality had disappointed him.

From the small kitchen area came the hard dragging sound of slippers across the cement floor.

The sound reminded him of Lola Sabel.

Back home, Lola Sabel rose before dawn every single day, determined to “beat” the sunrise. Her wooden clogs were worse than an alarm clock—sharp, loud, relentless. By five in the morning she would already be sweeping, tending the firewood stove, setting water to boil. Smoke would drift through the hut, forcing Sonny to wake up whether he wanted to or not.

She believed people must rise before the sun to receive God’s morning grace—even during typhoon season when the sky stayed dark and swollen. Dawn was her sacred hour. Her shrill voice would join the roosters’ crowing, pigs’ grunting, horses’ snorting, and Sonny’s reluctant groans.

With Lola Sabel, the world felt secure in its repetition—sunrise and sunset, birth and death. A beautiful monotony. The air would be cool and damp, carrying the scent of fishpond water and wet soil.

While the rice simmered, she would step outside with a rake and sweep the yard clean of plastic wrappers, fruit peels, dried mango and guava leaves from her sari-sari store. The pile would grow like a small hill. The yard, marked with neat rake lines, would look reborn—as if its sins had been gathered and cast aside. She would burn the pile in the corner. Neighbors would gather around the small bonfire, trading stories before the day began. By sunrise, her store would be open and the village alive.

“Good morning.”

The voice startled Sonny.

His new roommate stood at the doorway, grinning from ear to ear, a steaming mug of coffee in hand.

For a moment Sonny’s vision blurred with sleep. The young man seemed almost ghostlike, emerging from the kitchen light.

“I’m Mod,” he said.

Sonny gave a drowsy salute and buried his face in his pillow again.

If Sonny was an ordinary provincial boy, Mod was even more so. Rubber slippers. Shorts obviously cut from old trousers. Hair slicked with what looked suspiciously like pomade. The very fact that he had come to Maliwalu City—worse, to the State University—dressed like this made Sonny shiver.

If Sonny, with his bell-bottoms and barrio fashion, already felt out of place at State U, how much more would this boy?

Mod moved calmly, unhurried, as though he were simply passing through. Not nervous. Not excited. Just… present. He looked around the room with dreamy eyes, as if expecting to read invisible graffiti on the walls. And yet, he had clearly cleaned the entire lodging before dawn.

“What are you taking up?” Sonny asked, mostly out of courtesy.

“Literature,” Mod replied.

Sonny instantly regretted asking.

There are people who spend their whole lives waiting for one question. And when it finally comes, they unleash years of accumulated thought.

Mod exploded into speech.

He talked as if delivering a lecture at a symposium. Sonny lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, trapped by politeness. As Mod’s voice droned on, Sonny imagined animals startled into motion above him—snakes slithering, lions pacing, tigers prowling across the ceiling. You don’t startle animals. And you don’t ask certain boys simple questions.

Mod spoke of thoughts gathered like pebbles from brooks. Thoughts formed while riding water buffalo across rice fields. Thoughts carried from muddy barangay classrooms to the concrete towers of State U.

“I’ll write about our country,” Mod declared. “I’ll write stories that come from the heart of the Filipino. Our literature today sucks.”

Sonny’s jaw dropped.

“It’s full of romantic fantasies disconnected from reality. Our nation carries billions in debt, yet our fiction parades rich lovers vacationing in Europe. It insults me. Literature should reflect its time. I can’t write about the past or the future. I can only fix today—this hour, this minute—into words.”

Sonny blinked.

“My goal is to fix time,” Mod continued. “Because tomorrow, today is forgotten.”

He went on about relevance, realism, and truth. He attacked sentimental love stories, elite historical sagas, anti-American novels, obscure poetry. He jumped from literature to film, criticizing actors with foreign features who became instant stars, filmmakers who relied on plastic fantasies, writers obsessed with prestige degrees instead of readers.

Sonny was lost. Literature? Movies? Rizal’s intestines? Tandang Sora’s sex life? A boy making love to a buffalo? A grasshopper turning into Saint Francis of Assisi?

Mod’s ideas tumbled over one another.

“I want to write about ordinary dreams of ordinary people,” he said passionately. “The youth. The streets. The church. The jeepneys. The way we talk and fight and laugh. These are beautiful.”

He spoke of aging, of using his strong arms and sharp mind before they faded. Of refusing to grow old filled with regret.

“Every day I ask myself—did I do something good? Did I write something true? There must be something good in our time. If no one sees it, I will.”

He invoked Dostoevsky, Dickens, Balzac. He compared Maliwalu to Petersburg and London in their suffering. He spoke of poverty as furnace-fire shaping gold. Of hope in hardship. Of gratitude in suffering.

Sonny’s temples throbbed.

Mod’s voice filled the small room like an overinflated balloon.

Finally, Sonny couldn’t take it anymore. He clamped his hands over his ears and shouted,

“SHUT THE HELL UP!”

Silence.

Mod stopped mid-sentence. He stared at Sonny, wounded but composed, then quietly turned toward the door.

Sonny sat up, exasperated.

“I just asked what your major was,” he muttered. “Wow.”

He sighed deeply.

And just like that, the fourth roommate had arrived.
2026-02-16 13:32:25
4students