“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.
