Robbed

Despite all these bad news, we still hope that safest place in the world is our home: our domicile we rightfully call our own, where we can peacefully watch TV, dine, sleep, and indulge in whatever little comfort we have after our a day-long painstaking toil.

What if one day you go home, you find your dwelling violated, ransacked, looted, and emptied by criminals? Can you live in peace when you are in constant fear for your life and property, knowing that the authority does nothing to prevent it?

Hear this tale fellows and draw valuable lessons from it.

“Kain ako sa labas. Bahala ka na dyan” (Will dine outside. Take charge). My terse text message went.

After office hours, a friend invited me for two-bottle drink, a general term he used for a quick booze although without fail we end up downing five bottles each. This usually comes with a plate of ox brain or isaw: those chows that you know would effectively clog your arteries but you gobble it anyway. During this time I was unaware that an apartment with the exact address as mine was being forcibly opened and robbed (What do you expect, I have psychic powers?).

My sister does not cook. I on the other hand have almost magical culinary gift; I could turn leftovers into gourmet food (try me). When our maid eloped with her construction-worker boyfriend, leaving us on our own, I capitalized her inability to cook to get away with the other domestic chores I loathe doing. I argued that since she is entirely dependent on me for her daily subsistence, she should be in charge of dish washing, house cleaning, laundry, doing the grocery, paying the bills and making my bed. This, she found perfectly reasonable; she conceded and the contract was sealed.

So the text message meant that there is no food. In the meantime, she is responsible for her existence. Meaning, she would settle for canned goods, or instant pancit canton, left-overs, or dine outside. The latter is rarely the case considering her prize-winning kakuriputan (stinginess).

Unfortunately, like a sit-com plot, my text message was received shortly after she texted me that our apartment was ransacked, all our valuables taken (thank you Globe for the wonderful service). The earlier text turned out to be reply, which did not come out right, telling her that that I am a terrible terrible brother. Hence, my text message sounded no different from: “brother, the house is on fire!” “for chrissake kid sister, snuff it out while I trim my nose hair.”

Now that I think about it, when a person is under emergency situation, the most reasonable thing to do is to call the person. You don’t have the luxury of time typing several characters to form a sentence or at least a phrase with the proper punctuation to convey that you are under distress, hoping that the receiving end would respond pronto, hoping further that the person is always on guard with his cellphone as if something bad might happen anytime soon, unless one is in a war zone or well, his job description, which is why I have already consumed the entire plate of ox brain when she finally called me, probably enraged with my earlier text.

I was guzzling my San Mig Lights, washing down the grease and the morsels left on my mouth, when she called: frantic, shivering and crying. My sister being the youngest, and well protected by us, has become the most nervous and panicky person on earth even under the most manageable scenario. I knew something bad had happened but it took sometime before I calmed her down, and prod her to relate what happened. The lawyer in me instantaneously came and blurted question like gunshots. I realized I was cross-examining her to establish the elements of robbery with force upon things.

“What was the entry point?”

“Were the locks destroyed?”

“Doors and drawers forcibly opened?”

“Things stolen?”

I wasted no time; I harrumphed home. I found my still frenetic sister with other neighbors, who are once victims themselves of robbery or theft, comparing notes. Our door mutilated and house in complete in clutter: cabinets wide open, clothes spilling from opened drawers, empty bags, wallets and jewelry boxes scattered, and furniture in disarray. Having watched a few CSI episodes, I applied the basic rule: Do not move or touch anything from the crime scene or you muddle the evidence.

Then the apartment caretaker emerged, shortly after I came. Under the circumstances a normal tenant would shift the blame to the caretaker who supposedly is responsible for the security of the apartment. But the Lessor is smarter, brilliant even. He appointed an ancient and arthritic caretaker so as to appear blameless: How dare you blame an old and frail man? Where is your heart?

If that was his objective, he succeeded with flying colors. The first time I met the caretaker, I nearly got his hand and put it on my forehead. He has this aura of geniality, an almost saintly calmness, like your lovable and compassionate lolo who clandestinely hand you candy or penny over the objection of your mother. When he came, he asked how we were in genuine concern that it did not invite a sarcastic remark. I would have said: “Oh, we are perfectly fine”. Don’t mind this little inconvenience. I would have demanded a burglar- proof ingress and egress, two security guards with 12-hour shifts, alarm system and a CCTV camera, but I ended up making sumbong like a child to his lolo, after he was punished to “stay in the corner” for breaking an expensive vase.

I called up the police station to report the crime. In our phone book, emergency numbers, were almost etched in the cover page, thanks to my late aunt, who took to heart the girl scout motto: Laging handa (Be prepared). I dialed the emergency number, anticipating that within a few minutes the police mobile in full-blast siren would pull over, the police would come out heavily armed; they would cordon the crime scene with those yellow thingy, interrogate everyone and investigate with the help of forensics. To my dismay, the goddamn phone just kept on ringing even after I furiously pound the redial button hundred times.

I had to scan the yellow pages to secure another contact number. As luck would have it someone picked up the receiver, but the voice told me to dial the hotline. Annoyed, I told him that I just did and apparently, I said emphatically, “Your f*cking E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y line just kept on ringing”. Good thing the voice got the subtext of my remark, passed the phone to someone who introduced himself as COLONEL so and so, the surname did not quite register, because for some reason, the voice in my mind kept on chanting pulis patola…pulis patola, in reference to Jimmy Santos' slapstick movies portraying untrustworthy policeman. The Colonel part was said in capital letters, highlighted, underlined, in case I don’t get it. I communicated that we were robbed and very scared for our safety. The officer asked my name, address, and the details how the robbery happened as if I was there filming the whole action.

I expected a more reassuring response from the authorities like say, “Stay where you are. Our team will be in a minute to assist you.” But the only response I got was “NOTED”. I was taken aback. You often hear this response only for suggestions during board meetings or annual reports. That sort of thing you say to appear nice and then deliberately forget about it. It is a euphemism for: “your suggestion is idiotic, we know better than you”. You CANNOT, under all circumstances utter this response when the safety of life and property are in jeopardy.

Great. It was stupid of me to have asked for their help so soon. I should have investigated on my own, find leads for possible suspect before reporting. I thank him profusely for the great help, and said that I now feel very safe just by talking to him and apologize for the inconvenience I have caused, as he is apparently very busy preventing crimes.

I was advised to call the Barangay. In all fairness, they responded immediately; they send in a group of tanod, armed with nothing but their sense of sight, hearing, smell; not even the serviceable batuta. I appreciate the help but my misgiving is that, they were not properly trained with crime detection/prevention, much more apprehending criminals. It was like asking the help of a quadriplegic to carry your heavy stuff. They inspected our destroyed locks and took note that while the padlock was mutilated, hardly the doorknob was scratched, implying that it was an inside job. Having said that we do not have anyone except us, with our cousin who is abroad right now, I told them we are not that stupid to rob ourselves, leaving this mess which we ourselves would fix later. At this point, he is probably waiting for us to say: “you’re punked! Or wow mali”.

There is nothing more frustrating than seeing the “smoking wreckage” left by an unfortunate incident. My sister and I picked up the remaining pieces and made an inventory of the damages: generous amount of cash, some expensive jewelry and gadgets. We do not have some insanely expensive art collection, gold bars, diamond studded heirlooms, but those were our “precious property”.

Months before, when we learned that our neighbors were robbed, we had this standing joke that given the little properties that we have, no sensible robber would risk being caught robbing our home. We never thought that those little properties we have, when put together could sustain a family of five for half a year. Looking things the “half-full-glass way”, we consider ourselves still lucky as we still have the more useful appliances, the two laptops, our phones, clothes and more importantly, we are safe.

We learned that in dire situation like this, we only have ourselves to rely to, that we are entirely responsible for our own safety. Ask help from the authorities if you must but do not expect; if in the event that they decide to help you, thank God.

Undo Ondoy

The magnitude of havoc wrought by typhoon ondoy was unprecedented, like a catastrophe caused by the fury of a vengeful God in the Old Testament. The large part of the metropolis was inundated claiming lives and ravaging millions of properties. As expected, tongues wagged, finger pointing ensued as to who’s to blame. The moled midget, with the congenital smirk and her minions were blamed because of the snail-paced response. Even Jesus, who is rumored to be coming soon, was blamed by the doomsayers.

I was lucky I am living in an elevated part of Quezon City surrounded by trees; I was unaware that the other part of the city was under deluge. That fateful Saturday morning I was awaken by the unusually heavy downpour and the incessant banging of my window which I left open the night before. It was cold. I got up, anticipating a hot and steaming coffee, and I could almost see myself huffing and puffing a cigarette in bliss while looking at the window, underscored by the rain and the wind. I was sipping my strong instant Nescafe when I reached out my menthol lights from the cupboard; I was horrified that it was empty.

My greatest fear is being trapped in place without a cigarette. Imagine my utter frustration. I went bonkers and I had to restrain myself from throwing china. I wanted to run to a nearby store but the heavy rain cast a seemingly impenetrable wall, while ghastly wind started pummeling the trees. As my system was aching for a nicotine fix, I cursed whoever is responsible for the heavy rain, and my own idiocy of not saving cigarette for the rainy days.

Until I opened the TV set and watched the special coverage of ABS-CBN. Pedestrians were stranded on the streets in water waist deep. Houses, flyovers and bridges were submerged. People were already on their roof crying for rescue. I watched people and vehicles being washed away by the violent torrents. Trapped children crying for help. Later on, dead bodies were recovered from the debris. Unidentified corpses were scattered on the streets.

While the rest were at their existential reckoning, gripped with the most harrowing human suffering, here I am throwing tantrum over the lack of cigarette. I wanted a little puff and I curse the world for not giving me any. Please flagellate me now.

The horrifying images I saw were indelible. I started to get worried for our safety. The rain never stopped, the more it intensified. Then the power went pfft. The faucet only gurgled, sputtered and spit a murky droplet. I checked our potable water supply, but all we have was half filled pitcher. I called the water refilling station but the lines were dead. Water everywhere but not a single drop to drink. I made an inventory of the food in our ref in case the flood would reach us but all we have were three pieces of wrinkled tomatoes, few anorexic beef slices, fast-food ketchups, a pack of Lucky Me Pancit Canton and a bottle with traces of what appeared to be peanut butter. A rat would not even survive given the present logistics.

The following day the news was foreboding. The after math: 240 dead and still counting. An entire city virtually wiped out. We were lucky we were spared, it could t have been us.

It’s time we look at the big picture. It’s time we worry about ourselves. The entire human race is in danger. Let us rebuild our Earth. We know what to do.

I envy the unfeeling, the unthinking.

MADNESS

I didn’t report to work today. Had migraine attack.. . Or more like I willed myself to be sick in order to escape work pressures (and life pressures in general). Work deadlines are knocking my door… (and some self- imposed deadlines) .

Talk about …the mind wills and the body adjusts…

Any way, I was at home. I put my cell phone off. I told our maid “I am not home” so none would bother me. I shot myself off from world, and let it pass behind me, at least momentarily.

It’s uncanny how life would unwittingly remind how you suck even in the most random moment.

I was lazily surfing the TV channel when I caught the final episode of the Survivor Tocantins, Brazil. You know, that hit reality TV show that throws strangers in an island; they try to outwit, outplay, outlast each other and the last man standing would win a million bucks. Yes, Charles Darwin in 38 days. After the immunity challenge, one “survivor” was interviewed, or was it just a voice over. Any way, he said something like…It takes madness in order to live… or something to that effect. I did not really hear the whole quote but the terse phrase was highlighted in my mind.

You know those moments when your brain pauses, and then it automatically replays something very important that had just happened? It was one of those. Suddenly, you realized you have just been whopped in the head with a sledgehammer. Then you say “whoa, that was intense man!”

MADNESS. Indeed, that is what I lack in my shitty life right now. I don’t have that intense guttural MADNESS in order to live the life I have always I wanted. I have been living a mediocre life. Too comfortable with my lukewarm existence. What is frustrating is that I am not even excellent in what I do best.

MADNESS. I miss those times when I KILLED in everything I do.

Prometheus in Narcissus Complex

“Another bullsh*t!”

My brother spouted fortissimo, while dragging his deep-red luggage towards the queue for our terminal fee. The flight to Manila has been delayed from 10: 15 am to probably 12:00 pm, we were informed. The airline, thanks to its prize-winning idiocy decided to change to a bigger plane the last minute because, in their words, the passengers turned out to be more than what they expected. The Christmas before, with the same airline, his trip from Manila to home was cancelled and he had to endure the long and torturous trip by land so as not to miss our cousin’s wedding. He came home bruised and harassed. The cancelled trip caused a series of unfortunate events which resulted in a rift between my sister and my aunt. How it happened, the details of which I will not discuss as it is a worthy plot for a soap opera, complete with confrontational scenes, raising of thin eyebrows, high-decibel voices, name calling, and intense lachrymal outbursts… in the midst of a wedding celebration.

The sudden rupture of self expression has its moorings from the perennial bad experience with the airline. He’s been complaining for the PAL domestic services but he has no choice as it is the only airline operating in our place. Being well travelled, thus used to first rate services, my bro is aware of the services that are due him. Give him a service less than what he deserves and he would launch into tirade at unsuspecting victims. On the other hand, treat him like a king and he would rave about it in your presence. One time we dined at restaurant with a first rate service. He complimented it with a glowing review of the food. At every bit of the morsel he would utter aloud “oh, this soooo gooood!” two to three times. I had to remind him that he only ordered clams.

His reference to the gross human dung was so palpable that everyone in the airport could smell the stink. Like a bomb joke, I was concerned that he would be arrested or blacklisted as a potential threat, or the least declared persona non grata. From my view, an airport personnel kept looking at him while talking to his walkie. I was afraid that he has alerted the security giving information of his identity: "Roger... Roger...subject identified… over…short, dark complexion, in tight shirt, skinny folded shorts, and leather slippers; hair stylishly messed-up to conceal a receding hairline”.

Before we left home noting the overcast sky, he dreaded for delay or worse, yet another cancelled flight. He is leaving for Chennai the next day and his schedule is as tight at his lacoste shirt. As a corporate animal every second counts and a millisecond difference could wreak havoc. With the delay, he had to run to OWWA before 4 pm and spend the remaining hours for shopping for pasalubongs.

It is the pasalubong that excites us. Like Prometheus who brought fire from the gods and gave it to the mortals, my bro is often obligated to bring home stuff for us whenever he goes home: leather products and spices from India, teas from Vietnam or Sri Lanka and chocolates and branded clothes from Duty Free. His home-coming is always an Event. From my parents to our youngest nephew, we would gather in our sala all in suspended animation as he opens his large suitcase. There is always something for everyone. The same way when he goes back, he would shop for pasalubongs for his friends and colleagues. Their favorites include Goldilocks sweets, Cloud 9 and Choc Nuts chocolates, statements shirts from Green Hills, Bench underwear, Island Souvenirs and Ilocos cigars.

In exchange for the airfare I would be his slave. Before leaving abroad, I am always the official alalay of my brother as he scours Manila for his pasalubong and personal needs. I wouldn’t mind because it has its perks: I get to swipe his gold credit card for branded clothes and skin and hair products, dine in fine restaurant, swill loads of star bucks fraps. Except the part where I get to be his photographer.

It’s the picture-taking part that I dread. Unless you’re both tourists, two grown man taking pictures with each other is unsightly. He would take snapshots of anything that catches his fancy. I would take snapshots of him everywhere. In these times of facebooks and blogs, he documents everything in pictures. Judging from his files, I think my brother is the world’s most photographed man…. by himself. In fact he has mastered his best angle which involves slight body contortion, as if constipated, with his patented semi-smile look.

My bro is leaving the country again. From the NAIA waiting area I wave at him goodbye. He drags his large red suitcase, this time filled with pasalubong for his friends and colleagues.

Our Prometheus will be back in three months time.