Cold Beer, Warm Duck Embryo

After we met at the MRT and exchanged numbers, my former student had been texting me for a drink. I always declined as I have been busy trying to strategize how I would complete my work due next week. Last night, he invited me again. I ran out of excuses so I finally asked for the place. I figured, I have been working late the whole week, reviewing voluminous dockets, writing pleadings, attend hearings, and running after our cases in the Department of Justice, it would be quite a reprieve to down three bottles of strong beer until I feel dozy then head home and sleep the whole day to recharge.

“Seattle”, the text said.

I pictured a spanking exclusive bar, one that you can’t come in without your name on a list. I came from a mediation proceeding so, I was still in my immaculately white barong, sleek shoes and a leather bag: my dress code in every mediation in to give off an impression of power to effectively cajole the other party to submit into compromise and yield to our counter-offer. The barong is a fairly a versatile garb so I figured I would fit in the crowd.

“I need specific landmarks,” I texted back.

“The second street from EDSA. Right turn. Just opposite Aling Mamengs Carinderia, beside Triple J Vulcanizing shop. Near the bus terminal”.

The roadmap was oddly familiar. It turned out to be a street in Cubao, near Harvard and New York. I was bit startled. The scene I had in mind: clinking jiggers, tequila shots, women sucking lemons and licking salts underscored by jazz music quickly evaporated and replaced with tabloid headlines of homicide and robbery. I wanted to back out the last minute and later concoct excuses like I was abducted by aliens, or got lost and the cab serendipitously found my apartment instead, when the driver lurked into a narrow street and halted in front a noisy videoke bar . I peered though the window; before I alighted I secured my wallet, cell phone, and watch. On the second thought, when I mentally calculated that the fair market value of the properties in my person could not even buy a palayok, I said, what the heck.

I learned from a friend that in an unfamiliar territory make yourself superior. Though it sounded like it was taken from National Geographic rather than from Sun Tzu, I tried it and oftentimes it worked. My version was an authoritative suplado look and when confronted, I speak in rapid English. I do this when I enter a establishment to evade the hassle of the standard security check, interrogations and the gate pass, to get quick replacement for defective product, or when caught by MMDA for traffic violations.

I entered the videoke bar. Like in the Wild West movies, I wanted the push the swinging door and every one would freeze to acknowledge my superiority. Except that there was no door, only a wide open ingress. This means no security check, thus everyone could enter, even fugitives, arsonists, murderers and politicians. I searched for my students for the table sporadically arranged. I have a preconceived vision that each table is occupied by group of burly, pockmarked, mustached men, holding a tumbler of draft beer and laughing like mad, yes, the likes of Max Alvarado in FPJ movies. So that when I heard men arguing at the far corner, it was magnified that I half- expected I would hear a gun shot and I could almost see blood. At that moment I prayed for gas leak so that the night out be called off and I could go home and save my ass.

Just then I heard familiar hoots, I saw my former students rushing to greet me and led me to their table. One got my bag; the other pushed a chair for me. One reached bottle of pale pilsen from the bucket, and pushed a plate of pulutan: skewered pig innards (isaw).

I gulped my beer, and sighed with relief that my students did not turn in prison; in fact they did turn into responsible citizens of the world. I would like to think that I have touched their life.

We traded work experience. After the second bucket, our conversations consisted of kinky
experience, green jokes and funny anecdotes. Drama unfolded after we wolfed our third bucket of beer: Teary eyed, one went back memory lane and laid down his trials and tribulations he went trough.

It was fun to be with my students again. This time, not as teacher but a good old friend. Back then I would join them in an effort to understand their language and culture so that in that way I could be relatable. Now, I wouldn’t worry that I might have crossed the line or I might ruin my authority and credibility as their mentor. Now, I could laugh out loud with isaw in my mouth in their corny jokes. I would not hold back cursing if I have to, to express my disappointment. I could belt out Backstreet Boys’ Quit Playing Games with My Heart without worrying that it might haunt me for the rest of my life. I wouldn’t have to go to the CR once in a while to wipe off the grease in my face or check if I stink with sweat. I could pat my potbelly and burp loud in their presence.

It was riotous. Pure unadulterated fun.

It was 2:00 in the morning. Our fourth bucket of beer came when we ran out of pulutan. No pulutan can be served as the last order had been announced. One went outside and came back with a supot of five balut. I watched him cracked each balut, peeled off the shell, and put them in a bowl. Then he asked for vinegar and half filled the bowl. He crushed them with spoon and sliced them to bits. He pushed the bowl to me; I squirmed as I looked at dismembered premature parts of the aborted duck floating in the bowl, then I scooped a spoonful , shoved it into my mouth, and washed it with cold beer. It actually tasted good.

I looked at my watch and I said its time to go. I offered to pay for the bill but they insisted to pay for it. They led me to the street and flagged down a taxi for me. They cautioned the driver to take care of me, to bring me to my destination whole… because I was, in their words, their magaling na teacher. Then they all gave me high fives…

The Boss Wears Prada

I had enough. I resigned from work after dilly-dallying … twiddle-dee.

A day after, I was hired, thank God for connections, in well, another government agency. I am in a division called Civil Case Monitoring Group; my present job involves prosecuting civil cases, largely collection cases, in behalf of the government.

“Perfect timing” said one colleague, a former schoolmate, who later I learned was the chief of staff during my first day.

“We are flooded with cases. These unscrupulous persons are robbing our government with impunity. Go run after them. Here…”

He shoved me voluminous folders. I reached the documents, placed on my desk and flipped the pages.

“Draft a position paper due tomorrow… per order of the director”

He sounded like a sheriff imposing a writ. Quite stunned with the strong directive - I reckoned that the stack of folders obstructed his view of me - I gave him a dirty finger. In my mind, I was chanting. Asshole. Asshole. A.S.S.H.O.L.E.

“Motion to reconsider.” I said as I craned my neck to communicate with him.

“On what basis?”

“The order is arbitrary, whimsical, and capricious. Oppressive even. This voluminous record requires…er voluminous time.”

“Denied.”

“Hey, you can’t rule on my motion. Lack of jurisdiction. Permission to approach the bench.” I said referring to the director.

“Go ahead kiddo and you’ll be in contempt.”

I rose from my seat, about to proceed to the director’s office to raise my concern, when another colleague approached me and he whispered in a manner that he almost nibbled my right earlobe. He whispered something like:“Bro, off the record, ha. A word of advice: The druid occupying that office wears Prada everyday.”

He said as if I have been taping the conversation. Though I would have been discombobulated with the peculiar remark (Only much later that I realized the allusion to the movie The Devil Wears Prada. The director is a Meanie:Once, in a meeting, he verbally lashed his secretary until she came out of the room a pile of bones.) , I was more concerned with his inconsistent statement that I highlighted it in my mind with a Stabilo Boss. I mentally noted: He said a word of advice but he actually spouted eight words. Aha. I wanted to object for inconsistency of the statements.

“Don’t you have like, some orientations for new hires? Like welcome speech or Champagne toasts? Or giving them less pressure during the first day, the very least?”

“Actually, no. What we have here is baptism with fire.”

Had I not known more than half of the people here, I would have tendered my resignation right there and then and run to my previous employer to recall my resignation.

Conversations With Peter Pan

I was consumed with work and preoccupied with my life. I felt guilty that I never asked how my best bud who is taking the bar, was faring along during his review. Last Saturday, before the first Sunday exam I called to boost his spirit.

Buti naalala mong tumawag. Nagtatampo na ako sa iyo.

Under normal circumstances, I could have given him an upper cut and told him to grow up and have a life. But he is taking the bar exam… again for the third time so I allow him to indulge in his own version of soap opera. Been there, I know the feeling: the mounting pressure could be a swirling vortex that could make you sick, nauseous, and make every food you shove into you mouth taste bland. Among many things, the first thing you need is a support group.

Don’t worry bro. bar ops kita for all Sundays.

In our fraternity, the barrister is King. In our language, bar ops mean, you become slave for him. You grant his every request and submit to his every fancy during the duration of the bar exam: What he likes for breakfast, lunch and dinner, and you deliver them pronto; you pick him from the hotel and bring him to the testing center; or give bar materials and last minute tips. I remember during my time I asked for warm milk before bedtime and it was brought to my room. My friend asked for an inasal na manok for breakfast at 4:30 in the morning and it was delivered. One may ask for an ox testicle soup just for the heck of it and they will make a way.

After realizing what I just said, I wished I could take it back.

I was thinking of some inspiring words that could motivate him but I’m a lousy motivational speaker. Instead, I blurted out: “No turning back bro, give your hundred percent. Kaya mo yan. Kaw pa?”

Of course. Siguro kamatayan nalang makapigil sa akin.

Where did that come from? Did his entire clan turn their back on him? Is he taking the bar at gun point? Had I not known him better, I would be taken aback and harrumphed to his rescue for his suicidal remark or I'll be forever responsible. Instead I just rolled my eyes and wait for his litany of whines. This person has a doctorate in whining; he never takes responsibility for his mistake and failures. He is thirty, already with children of his own, but with a maturity of a twelve year old. When we were in law school, during bad recitations he would blame the professor for asking him a difficult question. When he flunked the bar he attributed his failure to Karma because of his father’s casino habits. I learned that didn’t talk to his mom for months; he deeply resented his mother asking him to carry a gallon of mineral water into the dispenser: a chore which involve minimum strength considering the measly 90 cm distance. This silent treatment between him and his momI learned later has its moorings from his mother snubbing his request to hear mass in Basilique Notre-Dame-des-Victoires in France before the bar exam. As if God is having His sabbatical in France and this was his only chance to meet Him.

Bro umihi na naman ako ng dugo.

I would be insensitive and ungrateful friend if I did not feel concerned. He damaged his kidney when he was shot in a frat rumble. He is still under medication and under stressful conditions, he would pee with blood. Last Saturday, I came to his hotel brought him cranberry juice and apples which the doctor says are good for his kidney and his favorite Hap Chan siomai.

Hope and pray he'll make it this time.