Unhappy Incidences

A novice newspaperman in Minnesota hitchhiked 1,947 miles to Key West Florida to meet Ernest Hemingway to ask a few questions about writing. Discovered he’s also obsessed with sailing, Ernest hired him as his boat night watchman before going to Cuba. Their conversation  became an essay: Monologue to the Maestro published in Esquire Magazine in 1935.

 The young lad asks: What is the best early training for a writer? 

Hemingway responded: An unhappy childhood!

That strike a nerve. It shriveled my heart as plastic in flame. I’ve had unhappy childhood incidences. Each time they surface, emotions flare up: upset, frustrated, agitated, dismayed, crushed. Experiencing these can be a gold mine for writing. That maybe what Hemingway meant: Ingredients for good writing.  

At age of 10, being the eldest, I witness how hard food came by for our subsistence. I thought of helping by selling popsicle (ice drop). 

I did errands from our neighborhood and able to save up 20 cents as seed money. I put my merchandise on a salvaged Magnolia ice cream box. I covered them with an old newspaper, freezing them longer. I got permission from my mother. Reluctant at first, but agreed. Then I went to Selegna, the ice drop factory. My 20 cents bought me four twin popsies, which I can sell for 5 cents apiece, so it doubled my money.    

Ice drop selling is a tossed up game. One cannot do an honest to goodness sale. Most buyers are street urchins adept in (Pitik) toss coin. Your sale dependent on twice guessing right when the coin landed.  

I didn’t go for it, but realized my ice drop can get melted inside the box. For that I got sucked up by a crooked system. 

 Dealing with street urchins and pitching ‘ice drop’ on top of my lungs only gained me 20 cents the whole day.  

That’s not the hardest part. 

    When my mother ignored me when I walked by at Vena’s Sari-Sari store wailing my ice drop song, my mother waits her turn to get dealt with, as she’s buying on credit. That disheartened me. She averts her eyes to something else unappreciative of my effort. I made myself closer. She swung her head. In one instant moment, seeing her eyes watery.  

I solve the puzzle of my mom’s averting watery eyes 35 years later. 

When I vacationed from my job in Saudi, and tending our grocery store at the Baliwag Public Market. I instructed my then 9-year-old son to pick up a tricycle and go home ahead of me. I got home. He’s not in yet. I found him still walking, covered four kilometers, drenched in sweat, and exhausted. I pitied him. Didn’t want to look at him. A repeat of the scene when my mother averted her eyes, had a glimpse of me selling ice drop.   

Scammed!

Three requirements to be a scammer’s victim. One must be dummy, greedy, and needy. 

Dummies are heavy favorites of the scam artist. The scammers would rather dental floss than pick their brain for them. Easy money. That’s their inspiration.  

Of the greedy, they sweat a bit. It required a bait to lure them.

The needy are dumbbells for the scammer. They are weights to thicken up their skin. Hardens up their hearts. Toughen up their soul. 

They cared less about the despair inflicted on their victims’s psyche. 

Naive of how the actual world operates, and desperate to finish college, I wanted a job. I answered a small want ad in the Manila Bulletin. 

I couldn’t forget that Tiaoqui Bldg, in Plaza Sta Cruz Manila at Avenida, my first incursions to the city’s jungle to look for a job, and being wolf down by a pack of wolves in 1970. 

15 people queued up when I reach Room 504. When it opened, 20 people rushed out, each of them holding paper.

A respectable man, wearing a Barong Tagalog, introduced himself as Mr. Astrologo. As he accosted us, it reminded me of our Office Practise room when I am taking up Secretarial Course. 

“This is our processing center,” boomed the authoritative voice of Mr. Astrologo. 

30 pairs of eyes engaged on the pomposity of his gesture ala Jimmy Swaggart, preaching. 

“Our plant in Sucat Paranaque needs clerks, factory workers, and supervisors. To process your application, we’ll give you two tests: Theoretical, that’s 30% – an exam. And Practical, you’ll sell our products outside.    

The earnestness of his approach projected he means business. 

Another staff with thick glasses distributed application papers and examination sheets. 

Mr. Astrologos’ booming voice overwhelmed the room again.

“Get your picture taken at the adjacent room, pay five pesos to attach your picture on your application.”  

The questionnaire reads…

Fred wants to paint his house. If Fred’s house with 5 rooms requires 20 gallons of paints, who killed Magellan?

Is this a trick or what!? 

I went to the photo session 15 minutes earlier than we supposed to hand in the exam. I paid the five pesos. A hooded camera perched on the tripod…No clicking sound of shutter heard. Had they shot me…? 

When I came back to my sit along with others, Mr. Astrologo explained the practical examination. Meanwhile, the man with glasses distributed a bunch of mimeographed paper. 

“That’s the Family Savings Plan Coupons. Sell those. Your buyer entitled for 40-50% discount from GoodEarth Emporium, Uniwide Sales, Shoe World, etc.. Youl’ll be getting 10% commission. As you may not come back, you must leave your Residence Certificate to locate you. Those who don’t have handy, an office on the ground floor sold birth certificate for five pesos. 

It had me thinking, Who’s going to buy this piece of crap? Though I feared they can trace me if I didn’t come back, I returned those coupons. 

“I quit. Just give me the picture taken of me. I paid for it.” 

The man with glasses escorted me to a different passage door. I met Mr. Astrologo again. 

“Why quit? You had 30%? He showed me the result of my exam. 

“It’s hard to sell a crap of paper.”

“Don’t son. You have potential.”.

That boosted my hope. 

“Visible products are what you need.”.

He left the room. Decent looking man came back with him and handed me the netted plastic bag with bottled Choco-Vim. 

“There. That’s not a piece of crap.” Astrologo said. 

I peddled those Choco-Vim. And I sold two more boxes of it. 

“Happy?”.  He said.  

I am hired as supervisor.  

So excited! I can finish college now.

Goons loitered around by Monday, at the Tiaoqui Bldg, Room 504.

No company holding office by that name. And who the hell is Mr. Astrologo?

The coldness of the hand grenade on my clenched fist breathes fire. 

Cruel… I said to myself.