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.

i carry your heart with me

We are bubbles in the cosmic soup, so says one philosopher. I have constantly revolted against this idea although, circumstances oftentimes lean towards it. Life is random. Life is ephemeral. One day we burst and vanish in thin air to oblivion. Yet, we humans have the capacity triumph beyond our mortality. We carve momentous victories. We spread good deeds.

…and we establish relationships that could defy time and distance ; even endures in the afterlife: Be it filial, romantic, or friendship.

Ok, that is heavy. Blame it on the booze. Its depressant effect is now taking its toll on me. As I type this, my head is swirling and feel my shoulders slowly dissipate. I feel there is big lump in my throat. I just came from friend's despedida party with her family. What started out as fun party became emotionally charged and exhaustively lachrymal soap opera.

Please allow me to indulge. My best friend, the only one left, is leaving for US for good and I must admit, it breaks my heart. So Kathy, my dear, my best friend, this is for you:

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

---e e cummings

Going Nietzsche Over Myna

I just realized why I have always been cranky. I never had enough sleep these days. These past few days I easily flare up at the slightest provocation. I just felt I wanted to punch people in the face, or hurl them at the speeding train, or imagine hitting their head against a concrete wall: those stupid people I randomly meet at the MRT, at the bus, at the jeepney, on the way; those who unwittingly disturb my peaceful existence.

It’s that bird our neighbor has; it’s the culprit. That little pesky and loquacious talking Myna. The little devil has effectively disrupted my biological clock. At 5:00 am it would launch its loud senseless prattle. The caged bird is kept adjacent our apartment; imagine being pestered early morning with the Myna’s shrilly version of boom tarat-tarat, alternated with a blasting sneeze, or loud tootles, or repeated call for ate Ems (the name of the maid) , or Theodore (their pet dog), or what appears to be its version of car alarm or tire screech or whatever sound the bird has mimicked from the street. Burying my ears with my pillows wouldn’t help; before long I realize I am already wide wake yet unwilling to get up. Fine, it could be a potent alarm clock, but for me who sleeps at 2pm, is a major nuisance.

Thus, it’s the bird’s fault, why I berated a young student whose IPod bled loudly from his ears. I told him to keep it low as we do not want to be tortured by his poor taste of music. It’s the bird’s fault why I obnoxiously and adamantly did not yield my seat to an old woman at the LRT. I took the idea from a friend (or did I read somewhere?): Why do I offer my seat to someone who do not even acknowledge or embrace her old age? Taking the cue from his colored hair, tattooed eye brows, heavy make up and botoxed face, I snubbed her. Also, it’s the bird’s fault why I threw a dirty finger and expletives at a driver when he almost sideswiped me, though it was my own fault. Why my mind was capable of conceiving murderous thoughts, I attributed to the bird.

I decided that the talking Myna is dangerous to human relations. Before I could murder someone or the very least cause pain to a fellow human being, I decided to take the matter in my own hands. Corollarily, did someone say that a mere flutter of a butterfly’s wings could radically alter the course of the universe, like, it could cause a tornado that could bring great havoc?

Option A was to buy a gun with a silencer. From my window, I have a perfect view of the bird, I could aim the gun there and presto, its sorry little head would splatter on its cage. After careful thought, a gun would cost a fortune plus the hassle of securing license and permit to carry, so I decided against it. Option B was to build a scare crow and stealthily install it beside its cage. Some said that birds could die of heart attack, so to maximize its freight effect, the scare crow would be in the image of Osama Bin Laden or Lolit Solis or Madam Auring. Again after careful thought, I would run the risk of being sued for malicious mischief. That would be a major bane considering my profession. So, I was left with option C, (like any burden in life that I am powerless against) that is, to adopt the Nietzschean philosophy: What does not kill you will make you stronger. Lest, I would suffer the same fate of the dinosaur, Tasmanian wolf, dodo or the quagga, I had no choice but to adapt myself.

Last time, I didn’t have to report for work, so I decided to listen and entertain myself with the Myna's drivel. I was told that the Myna was kept inside the house before. My cousins whose room was adjacent the caged bird, was charmed the then very sweet and courteous Myna whose talk mainly consisted of, “hello po”, “salamat po”, “kuya pau”, “ate ganda”, and “good morning” which reflects the character of the owners. I wonder what made them bring the bird outside. It was a bad idea as bird turned uncouth (walang modo).

Then I sneezed. The bird sneezed back, loud too. I tried to listen to every sound the bird made; I was taken aback because it was us the bird has mimicked all along. You see, we (I live together with my cousins and my sister) are a noisy lot. We come from the province and we are used to loud talk. We do not know what subtlety means and we were raised to speak our mind, loud. I realized that the “loud sneeze and the curse in our dialect” is me, the “shriek and eewwwee” is my colegiala cousin, the phrase that sounded like “ate, paabot ng panty ko” is my sister, and the “Boom tarat-arat” is our kasambahay who is always tuned to WOWOWEEE. I never knew that the bird has picked up our expressions.

The noise created by the Myna which I loathe with passion was actually US.

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…