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…
“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…
3 comments:
so you taught too? yup, it's really fun when you meet your former students, now as equals. i hope i could do the same when i get home this year-end.
yup, bro. i taught while in law school for about a year. it was fun and fulfilling. ill do it again if given the opportunity.
I didn't understand the concluding part of your article, could you please explain it more?
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