CW 210 - STORY DRAFT: Billie Jean (ver 1.0)

I didn't know yet whose story to tell, but I decided to write this for Fiction Workshop 1, which is partly based on a true story. I just finished it in time for class, so forgive the lapses I may have overlooked in my haste. The story itself is 15 pages long and I don't know how to "cut" it (whatever it's called) so that you just click on the link and be directed to the story itself. Please bear with the length and possible eyestrain as well. :)

BILLIE JEAN

They all loved Billie Jean back then, tried to copy MJ’s moves (everyone liked to call Michael Jackson “MJ” that time, as though they were on an intimate level with him – after all, he belonged to the world that time, cheeky tween to angry, gyrating adult), borrowed his bizarre fashion sense and watched in awe while he slid effortlessly across the stage while doing the Moonwalk. Amid the political tumult of the regime, everybody talked about MJ’s performance at the 25^th anniversary of Motown, radios all over the city blasted his string of hits and Billie Jean was the rage of all Christmas parties, each one trying to outdo the other in executing the Moonwalk dance.

Rey Santos was a law student then, when MJ was taking the world by storm – a little shy, perpetually insecure among his wealthier, pedigreed classmates. He was rather short, and thin, his eyeglasses notoriously out of style. He scoured bookstores for cheap secondhand books that were severely outdated and difficult to reconcile with newer editions that his classmates sported. While they easily went out and bought the latest Michael Jackson album, he contented himself with listening to the radio and spirited debates on how amazing Thriller was, and how Billie Jean made pop history.

He thought of his wealthy classmates as arrogant snobs, who only had the good fortune of being born with money that masked their lack of intelligence. They were never mean to him – just a shade too patronizing, perhaps, taking in his slightly faded polo shirts that he always pressed and cleaned to look at least respectable (all in vain). They always made it a point to invite him to their parties, always last-minute invitations bordering on being an afterthought on their part. “We’re having a beer at so-and-so after Insurance class,” they said to him in forced casual tones, implying that he would, as expected, say no, because the couldn’t afford to waste time and money. “Oh, I already made plans with my girlfriend,” he offered as a convenient excuse, even when he didn’t have a girlfriend at the time. “Oh, that’s too bad, maybe next time, then,” they would answer a little quickly, a smile of collective relief ending the conversation.

He never earned their respect because he wasn’t the smartest in class, or the funniest, or even the best-looking. When called to recite, he never gave particularly memorable or insightful answers. He had his fair share of hits and misses, but even his hits were few and far between. He cowered easily once his professors arbitrarily asked him difficult questions, forgot the names and dates and legal concepts he memorized the night before. He was always doomed to answer badly. “Did you even bother to read the case?” he was asked often, sarcasm dripping from every word. Each time he nodded dumbly, resigned to his fate – a failing grade for the day. On good days, he simply received a nod of approval, nothing more. He hated his mediocre performance but did not cultivate friendships among his classmates to entitle him to complain and sigh like the rest. At the end of the day, school meant more books and more cases to read, more provisions to memorize without yielding better answers.

He envied his classmates who were children of lawyers, businessmen and politicians. At the start of every semester, Mr. David Ryan Buenafe was always asked about his relationship to the prominent Atty. Claudegildo Buenafe, former Secretary of Justice and current Presidential legal counsel. Deans lister Danny Jose, on the other hand, was simply going through law school for the purpose of attaching “Atty” to his name while waiting for his father’s congressional term limit to expire. Rich and happy-go-luck Ramon Arnaez once quipped famously in Constitutional Law class when he was asked why he chose law school over medicine (his parents were prominent doctors), “I went to law school to find me a beautiful and intelligent wife, only to find the beautiful girls were all in med school. Now it’s too late for me!”

As though a natural progression had always been in place, these prominent young men were the first to join fraternities, the automatic choice for class president and had internships at prestigious firms for the taking. His attractive female classmates always gravitated toward the likes of them – confident, easygoing and privileged. Achievers like Don Teves and Jose Madlangdiwa, on the other hand, had intellectual capital and political promise, and were next in line for access to crucial fraternity and professional networks. He envied their easy way in class, how they earned respect just by being themselves. They were invited to the exclusive gatherings of some of the professors, they organized the class parties and they practically ran student politics in the college.

In his early days as a freshman student, he was befriended by Tony Marquez, his classmate, a self-proclaimed champion of the Tondo slums. Tony caught up with him after Criminal Law class, just as he was quietly walking towards the jeepney stop.

“Pare, where do you live?” Tony asked him.

“Oh, a rented room over at Balut street,” he replied evasively.

“I’m just a few minutes away from your place then. Why don’t we commute together?” Tony suggested. “It’s been three weeks since the first day of school and what do you know? We’re practically neighbors.”

“But I’m not from Tondo, you know. I came from the province,” Rey said rather sullently, suddenly conscious that the frayed edges of his battered denims must have been obvious to everyone.

“But of course you are from the province,” Tony winked. “But you’ve got some Tondo blood in you now, just like me.”

They took a jeepney to Philcoa, a bus to Manila, and another jeepney to Tondo with Tony doing most of the talking throughout the fairly long but uneventful ride.

“Say, do you remember Gerry’s recitation in Crim last week? His analysis of the decision was all wrong, the RPC doesn’t apply because of the anti-fencing decree. Idiot. I suspect he did not even read the case and was bluffing the whole time. I wonder why Prof. Garcia didn’t call it. If I had half of his family’s money, I certainly wouldn’t waste it on nightly drinking sessions with my brods. Ah, but Prof. Garcia is his brod, too, how could I forget. Anyway, one day we will all be attorneys and therefore equal in the eyes of the law. One day we will be earning as much as Ryan’s father. Ha? Ha ha ha. Why don’t we stop for some lugaw at Manang Betty’s? Her place is on the way, anyway.” Without waiting for Rey’s reply, Tony hopped off the jeep and started walking toward Manang Betty’s Carienderya and Logawan.

Rey followed Tony resignedly. He became painfully aware of how easily he blended in his suroundings, unlike in school, where he stuck out like a sore thumb. The merienda for him was excruciating, cramped in the dingy carenderia with rowdy construction workers and tricycle drivers elbowing their way to the front table closest to the tv set. Tony, on the other hand, was comfortable in the place, he traded jokes with Manang Betty and flirted with her daughter, Bettina. “Atty. Tony, don’t forget us when you become rich and famous, ha. We might need your services!” Manang Betty trilled. He looked at Tony, who clearly relished the admiring glances from the construction workers and tricyle drivers who overheard the exchange. In the carinderia, Tony was the little god even strangers sought counsel with. After that “bonding session,” Rey studiously avoided going home with Tony and gradually Tony stopped inviting him to have lugaw at Manang Betty’s.

He didn’t know then how to wear his poverty as a badge of honor, to exoticize his provincial roots and tell them, “Look at me. Look at me,” the way Tony commanded the attention of his classmates. Tony enjoyed embellishing stories about life in Tondo, dramatizing for maximum effect, how dangerous and poor it was, with all the daily dose of crimes and shady dealings lurking in every populated corner.

Now and then, Tony would include Rey in his fictional world of murders and crimes, and would suddenly blurt out: “You know, Rey lives in Tondo, too. You tell them Rey,” but Rey would shake his head, mortified. The curious glances from his classmates, especially the female ones, would haunt him for days. On the other hand, Tony made his poverty attractive, his stories a novelty to some of his sheltered peers, and earned himself an invitation to the most prestigious fraternity, which he joined almost immediately.

Though he was never late for class and always looked decent enough, attended mandatory social gatherings such as the class Christmas parties, and his grades ranked somewhere in the middle of the batch, unlike Tony, he was never invited or considered for these exclusive groups.

Rey, like Tony, was the hope of his family, and monthly harvests subsidized his tuition and books, but he wanted no reminder of the doleouts. He was content to be invisible and to shuffle along with the mediocre ones.

His plain, cheap shirts and worn shoes didn’t stand out any more than his equally financially challenged peers, but he didn’t want to join their group either and be branded as the homogenous group desperate for stipends and scholarships. Tony didn’t need the scholarships anymore, he was climbing up the proverbial social ladder thanks to his newfound fraternal family. He started dating the pretty, wealthy girls in their batch, and not too long after, his colorful stories of Tondo became a historical footnote to his newfound identity.

Rey found himself a girlfriend in the second semester of his first year as a law student. Together with his hormonally charged classmates, he lusted over Lennie Chua, the prettiest girl in their class and the entire batch, who also happened to be very well-endowed. Although she tried her hardest to be appreciated for her intellect and not her breasts, even Lennie’s professors were often distracted by her dimples and curves. Just as he was mustering the courage and the finances to invite her to a movie, she was soon seen holding hands with Danny Jose, floating around the college. People in law school who pair up usually end up together for good, Rey rationalized.

Myra Generosa was a college junior then, majoring in education. She lived in the boardinghouse across his. She was fairly attractive then and wore her uniform with pride. Rey would watch her walking home alone, he noted, always at 6 pm, balancing books close to her breast. He thought to himself, well, she is a girl just like me, living in this hole, she’s in my league. He started visiting her at the boardinghouse with an acquired confidence that allowed him to make sharp pronouncements and long-winded explanations about law school, how difficult the law was and how knowledgeable he was compared to her.

He kept her away from the obligatory get-togethers, reasoning to himself that she would look unformed and pathetic compared to his sophisticated, self-assured female classmates. He imagined the easy conversations about this professor and that exam, and if Myra happened to mention that he got the highest score in class, or that he was among the top of his batch, then his cover would be simply blown. Miraculously, Tony did not say anything to him or their classmates about Myra. Perhaps Tony sympathized with him or even felt sorry for him. After all, he was dating above his station and from the looks of it, he was going to marry into middle class wealth, at the minimum.

He did not know then whether he really loved Myra, or whether he simply needed an emotional, physical and sexual outlet to help him cope with the pressures of law school. Maybe it was the torment of lusting after unavailable women, or maybe he needed a convenient excuse to shy away permanently from his classmates’ friendly overtures (sincere or otherwise).

Myra was devoted to him, she made him feel good about himself and she never complained or fussed over his busy schedule and the fact that she never met his friends or family in the province. He similarly cherished his unshakable sense of loyalty and fidelity to her and never doubted her love for a moment. They spent evenings in his room, studying, talking about the future, and making love. Six months later, Myra would become the perfect reason for him to put his studies on hold.

They were having a late dinner at Manang Betty’s. Myra’s hand crashed down on the bowl of lugaw in front of her, sending the contents of the bowl to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled, while Rey, a little annoyed, called Manang Betty’s daughter to mop up the mess. Myra saw Rey’s darkened look and she started to cry.

“I’m not myself. I haven’t been coming to school… My period hasn’t come. I think I’m pregnant. Do you hate me?” she sobbed.

Her words made him lightheaded. He gripped the edge of the table, wary that Myra would send it crashing down, too.

“We’ll get married, then.” He answered tonelessly.

“What about your studies?” she asked, toying with her spoon, tapping it against the empty bowl of lugaw.

He answered almost immediately, barely pausing for breath, his words collapsing into each other. “I can always come back when we have enough money saved. It’s a privilege, you know, for the top students in the batch. See, all I have to do is write them a letter, apologize for leaving the school temporarily, yes, that’s the word, while I see to our baby. It’s easy; it will take me five minutes. When we have enough money saved, I’ll finish my law degree.“

“What about my studies?” she whispered.

“Well, then, you should’ve done something to avoid this situation we’re in,” he muttered.

“Maybe I will do something about it,” she said, lifting her chin. She looked at him, and he never forgot that look. She seemed in possession of a great secret, the secret to his ruin.

“Maybe I will do something about it.” She repeated, a little more loudly. “Maybe I will leave you,” she said defiantly.

“Oh Myra,” he laughed. “You’re being ridiculous. Who will want you now?”

She never did leave him. They married quickly and with merely two witnesses in attendance, Myra’s sisters, dressed in formal clothes they occasionally used for relatives’ funerals. Rey did not inform his classmates. Tony only learned of the news when Rey and Myra moved to a slightly bigger room. Myra’s belly was swollen by then, and she looked tired of motherhood.

She gave birth to Ramir, their eldest, in a nameless room in a dingy public hospital, the first of many children.

In the end, Rey dropped out of law school during the second semester of his second year. He applied for paralegal work in small firms all over Manila, but none of them showed any interest in his earnest job application. “Your background in the law is not sufficient. You only have a few subjects to your credit,” they always told him, shaking their head and wishing him luck on his future endeavors. Meanwhile, the baby was growing and Myra needed an endless supply of milk, diapers, bottles and clothes. When he learned the college was putting up its own bookstore, he immediately applied for the position. He was still young then, and thought the job was respectable enough. Besides, he had nowhere else to go.

The college librarian interviewed him. She vaguely remembered him, the quiet boy in the corner, studying by himself. “Why do you want this job, Rey?”

“To earn for my family while I save enough money to go back to school,” he lied.

“Well, no one else wants this job, so I suppose you’ll do,” the librarian said and promptly stamped “received” on his job application.

Work meant the air-conditioned shoebox cramped with decaying academic journals published quarterly by the college, the grossly outdated textbooks churned out by long-dead professors and legal primers nobody touched. Barely a handful visited the bookstore on any given day and out of the casual lookers on, only one or two actually bought anything. Myra stayed home, brought up the children and for additional income, washed other people’s clothes until her hands cracked and became leathery.

Tony visited the bookstore once for materials while reviewing for the Bar examinations. He was surprised to see Rey there. So were their other classmates who occasionally dropped by sniffing for older but more reliable textbooks and review materials they might have missed. Through their brief exchanges, Rey pieced together what had become of his classmates. Ramon was delayed by a year. Lennie did not pass on her first try, as with David Ryan and even Tony. Soon the list of passers and examinees faded with time, until most of his batchmates moved on to mysterious careers that were invisible to him. As the books and journals went untouched and growing by the number, he patiently wrote an ambitious letter to the college dean proposing changes in the management of the bookstore. Rey anxiously anticipated a personal audience with him – after all, his letter was carefully written, its propositions well thought out and explained, a letter that begged a face-to-face meeting to discuss its contents – but the meeting never came. He received a perfunctory letter of thanks from the Dean, and the usual promise of discussing the proposal when more funds and manpower were available. The experience disappointed him, and evoked the days of being a student essentially invisible and useless. He decided to grow a moustache to look smarter, more finished, to be noticed.

He was five years late when he bought his first Michael Jackson tape with his holiday bonus. By then, democracy was in place; an era had ended. He had three mouths to feed, a bigger rent to pay, but his thriftiness paid off. A few stolen textbooks from the bookstore sold to law students boarding near their apartment helped pay some of the bills. Myra became as worn and shapeless as the clothes she washed, her hands smelling strongly of detergent soap. Rey made love to her the same way he always had, carelessly and quickly, until months after Ramir was born, Paolo followed, then Glenn and finally Mari Rose.

Going back to law school became Rey’s favorite topic of obsession. Alone in the bookstore most of the time, he played Thriller on heavy rotation, enjoying the respite from staring blankly at the walls. Once in a while, he pretended to be a returning student to the college, the prodigal soon welcomed back to the fold.

Every semester, he surreptitiously copied the class schedules posted on the corkboard, eavesdropping on conversations of students wondering which professor to take in which subject. He drew up his own class schedule, allotting time for the daily commute and study hours after work. He would be older than most of his classmates and he would be smarter. He had enough connections among the staff and acquaintances among the few professors who stopped by the bookstore to check on the books they themselves had published. Reviewing for the Bar and daydreaming about court appearances became his favorite pastime.

Over the years, he endured the polite greetings and falsely cheerful questions from his former classmates who popped up to buy a few academic journals here and there for the pleadings they needed to write. “So good to see you here,” they would invariably say, for lack of anything to prolong the awkward chitchat while he wrapped up the books and journals they purchased. He learned to wear an equally polite and cheerful expression on his face, asking a few questions about a common acquaintance, family, work, work and work. They tried telling him about the cases they were handling, but once they delved into the details, they stopped and remembered that Rey did not make it that far into their studies for him to relate to what they were saying. “Oh, it’s just a procedural issue, nothing important.” they often said vaguely, but Rey knew deep down it was what was important, the heart of the matter. Rey would pretend it was nothing, and that he understood anyway.

There was something in his manner of asking that always made his former classmates uneasy, even apologetic, and in the few forced conversations that occurred between them in the bookstore, they would always say: “You’re lucky you were smart enough to get out before the rest of us! Ha ha ha!” At end of each exchange, he would mull over the conversation – or the semblance of it, that transpired. What did they apologize for, really? What was there to apologize for? Sure, the women became less beautiful, crows feet showed around their eyes, and the men became fat and indolent. They all reeked of money and influence, saturating his tiny corner with their sporadic intrusions. What was so insufferable to them, really? He wondered. The cars, the successful careers, the private school reared children, the title next to the name?

At home, he rarely mentioned these occasional encounters to Myra. For the last twenty-five years over dinner, he always boasted to her that he was one of the best in his class, and only, if only he had the money to continue schooling, he would’ve made a great lawyer, too. “Watch me,” he said at the end of his occasional monologues. “I will be a lawyer just like I’ve always wanted.” His growing brood of children and captive audience simply listened to him, exchanging glances while toying with their half-finished food. Meanwhile, his paunch had grown and his hair thinned considerably. He still wore his moustache, wavy and thick, paired with his horn-rimmed glasses, to give off an aura of distinction.

Tony dropped by the bookstore once, accompanying his niece who was an incoming freshman. He was casually dressed in a short-sleeved polo shirt and slacks, exuding the confidence of a man secure in his wealth and success.

“Rey! Is that you? Pare, it’s so good to see you again!” Tony shook his hand vigorously.

“Tony, it’s been how many years since we saw each other last,” he said formally and briefly nodded to acknowledge Tony’s companion.

“Rey, this is my niece, Lyka. She graduated from MassComm last year and now she’s going to law school. She needs a couple of books. Lyka, this is my classmate from law school, Rey. O Rey, you give her a discount ha?” Tony winked.

Rey smiled stiffly. “Unfortunately, our dean is very kuripot and he does not give out discounts. I’m sorry, Lyka.”

Tony guffawed. “How come our college deans are always the kuripot, stuffy ones? It’s alright really, I’m sponsoring Lyka’s books, so I’ll even give you a little extra. In other words, keep the change.” He smiled and pressed on. “So where do you live now – still in Tondo? How’s Myra? How many kids do you have?”

“Well, we’re moving to a bigger house soon in Paco, maybe by the end of the year. Myra has a small business that is doing well. How about you, where do you live now? How is your wife?”

“We live in Makati, very near the office. Did I tell you I put up my own firm? The missus and I are running it with some of our classmates, mostly brods. It’s doing very well. In fact,” he whispered conspiratorially, “we are helping a certain high-profile bastard move his pile of money outside the country before the government finds out. He he he. Money’s good. You and Myra should visit us one of these days. Gina needs a secretary.” He took out a card from his wallet and handed it to Rey. “Just tell them you’re an old friend of Atty. Marquez, back in the day when he was still Tondo’s pride and hope.”

“Thank you, Tony. It’s good to see you Tony. It was nice meeting you, too, Lyka. I hope you enjoy your stay here at the college.” Rey bowed stiffly to the departing pair. He tore up Tony’s professional looking calling card with gusto and threw the pieces into the trash.

“I saw Tony today,” he said to Myra over dinner. “He’s an arrogant bastard now, you know. Well, come to think of it, he was always full of hot air, even when we were classmates. He actually had the nerve to ask me to talk to you and ask if you wanted to work as a secretary for his wife.”

“He’s just being kind, Rey.” Myra answered, a little exasperatedly. “Why don’t we accept his offer? We badly need the money, anyway. The kids are growing up and school is expensive.”

“We don’t need Tony’s doleout,” Rey spat out. “We are doing perfectly okay here. All I need is some more money then I can go back to law school.”

“Law school?” Myra laughed shrilly. “Please Rey, you’ve been talking about it for the last twenty years. You’ve been a few steps away from the college but you never even tried.”

“Do you think it’s easy? School costs a lot of money. Do you see the books I catalogue for the store? They’re worth at least –“

Myra stood up. “Spare me the drama, Rey, you don’t intend to return, and you never have. All you do is sit in the bookstore all day, playing your stupid tape over and over. I’ve never met your law school friends or colleagues from work. I used to believe you were ashamed of me, but over time I’ve come to realize you were just lying to me all along. Your own children laugh at you. They ask me, ‘Mama, why does Papa always say he’s going back to school? Isn’t he too old already?’ and I don’t know what to tell them. Maybe next time I’ll them how crazy and stupid you really are!”

It was the hand that struck her face that ended their marriage. The hand took on a life of its own and struck hard many times. There was a ringing in Rey’s ear while he stood there, wordless. Blood crept downwards to Myra’s swollen lips. Ramir, their eldest, crept outside and watched his mother, stunned, stumble to the sink and slowly and deliberately wash her face. Rey turned to his son, ashamed, and recognized the look on his face. Ramir inherited his mother’s contempt for him, that angry look when he blamed her for his own carelessness. He wanted to strike Ramir too, but Ramir ran off to wake his brothers and sisters, and they ran out of the house – Ramir in his finest moment, dragging his mother with him, and they ran all the way to the kapitan, Myra’s brother-in-law, and all the way to the police station where Myra reported to the sympathetic policeman that she was an abused woman that her husband became violent to her when she had done nothing but sacrifice for him, for the family.

An hour later, Ramir returned with the kapitan and his men, the tanod in tow. As soon as he opened the door, Rey babbled with various excuses – work was increasingly difficult, his wife was blaming him for things he was not accountable for, and that a man had the right to discipline a loudmouthed, ungrateful woman he provided for. The kapitan ignored his entreaties, simply answered, “We need to talk. Let’s go to your room.” They followed him to the master’s bedroom and advanced upon him without another word.

Ramir listened outside the door while he begged and begged for forgiveness and apologized many times over. The kapitan and his men were silent and only answered with blows. When they left, Rey looked at himself in the mirror, soiled with blood and bruises. He was alone.

The apartment was empty in the weeks and months that followed. Myra spirited off their conjugal possessions while he was at work, leaving him with his clothes, books, the broken tv, cassette player and loose change. He stopped playing Michael Jackson in the bookstore, and instead filled the empty apartment with the maniacal yelps of Thriller and Billie Jean. He bought MJ’s other albums, and occasionally listened to them for variety. He started buying magazines, too, that chronicled the bizarre exploits of “Wacko Jacko” and his descent into madness. “It’s a shame,” he said to Manang Betty, now graying and stooped. “He really was a great entertainer until he turned into a crazy white man.” Manang Betty nodded, pretending she understood. She had gotten used to him lingering in the carinderia, looking for someone to listen to him. She only heard about what happened to him and his wife, it was sad how their marriage turned out, she confided to her daughter.

“They say he was one of the brightest in his class, and if he had not stopped his studies to raise a family, he surely would have been a Bar topnotcher or something,” Manang Betty whispered to the Erning, the carpenter who was also a regular at her eatery.

“Why does he talk about Michael Jackson all the time?” Ernie asked, scratching his head. “I know he was really something back in the 80’s but no one really knows him now. He’s just a crazy rich man.”

“Nobody really understood MJ,” was now the standard way Rey began with his lectures about the life and times of Michael Jackson. He deftly parried assertions from his audience that MJ abused children, prurient stuff from the tabloids anyway – why, look at the Filipino couple who worked for his Neverland ranch, the children said. “They just took advantage of his kindness and money,” he replied angrily. At times, he introduced himself as the Filipino spokesperson for the MJ fan club. At work, he prepared numerous statements about the true nature of pedophilia, answered questions about MJ’s civil and criminal cases, and shouted for joy when the “Wacko Jacko” was finally acquitted of his criminal charges.

To inject more variety into his lectures, Rey made up his own dance routines and learned how to moonwalk. He used his savings to buy a DVD player and bought DVDs of Michael Jackson’s live concerts, rewinding and pausing endlessly, memorizing every step, every turn.

Rey understood the importance of maintaining illusions. He practiced his moonwalk routine, gliding forward while being pulled backward. There were many ways to moonwalk, but less ways to skin a cat, and he only knew one way, the Michael Jackson way. Every weekend for months on end, the house was crowded, the cheering people numbering thousands, arms outstretched as the legend defied gravity under the glare of the floodlights.

Rehearsals for his grand tour were underway, he needed to practice. He needed something better than a powerhouse performance, a move so amazing and unexpected that it would move his audience to tears and send thousands to their feet. He needed to defy gravity once more.

With Billie Jean at full blast, Rey made his way to the chair that was waiting for him, glowing and ethereal under the spotlight, confident in the illusion that the tricky dance step required. Up the chair and into the noose, make it tight, just a little tighter, then ready, kick back the chair and voila. Manang Betty will have something to talk about for weeks.

The house rocked with thunderous applause. The moment was as perfect and inspired as finding that turn of phrase to sum up an emotion, a moment, an originality that was effortless.