Delayed Eulogy

On July 13, 1991, I wrote a letter to Conrad Siega, one of my best friends in Saudi.  I told him of my first two jobs in 1989 – the year when we landed in Winnipeg.

EDP hired me as Data Entry Operator (keying) details printed on Air Lines Tickets. Accustomed on male office environment in Saudi, surrounded by female workers made me conscious. And I had a supervisor: stunning as Sharon Stone. She has shapely legs and milky thighs.  It disturbed me. She sprinkles magnetic field on my terminal; it choked my fingers typing. Result: my three weeks probationary period ended. I ran short uniting speed and accuracy in typing.  

Orderly is my second job at Tuxedo Villa Nursing Home. I got an orientation on day 1: about the company, building, facilities, etc.  On day 2, assigned at Station L, vegetable section, they called it. People destined here for ‘total care’. Confused. Cranky.  Dependent.  Violent. They should be up in the morning, do their personal grooming, hygiene, dress them and transfer on their wheelchair. Or walk them to the big dining room at every meal. 

‘Pogi’ an Orderly whom I didn’t see any semblance that merited that name, assigned to me as my buddy. I followed him, watched his mechanical execution.

On my third day, I am on my own. I panicked, but I calmed myself, arranged my thoughts. So … I got eight people. Up by 8:30 am. Neat. Dressed up. Sat in their wheelchair, wheeled them at the large dining room for breakfast.

I calculated each resident requires nine minutes.  None of the mechanical execution I watched from ‘Pogi’ stuck in my mind. I am more confused than the people I cared for. Distraught, I had done nothing crucial for 15 minutes. 

Mrs. Clover slapped my face when I tried to comb her hair. “You bitch…”  she mistook me for a woman. “You conspired with my siblings stealing my money. Well, you’ll never get it tart…!” Scared, I like to run and quit. 

My eight residents arrived last in the large dining room. One by one as I brought them, meaningful glances among the Orderlies; Nurses, Health Care Aides, Dietary Technicians, flew around. They whispered and talked. 

Mr. Harm had no underwear. His limping sausage dangling, lapping on his wheelchair. Mr. Moles, his flaky morning secretion glued to his upper and lower eyelids. A witch starved for blood reflected on Mrs. Mutter’s face. Unbuttoned clothes of Mrs. Donaldson peeped her entire soul. Mrs. Clover’s brassier superimposed on her blouse. 

The Charge Nurse told me to get sheet cover for Mr. Harm. A sweater for Mrs. Donaldson to hide her upper body. Took off  Mrs. Clover’s brassier atop her blouse. The other needed to fix later after breakfast. 

Toward the end of my shift, the Charge Nurse called me at her office. I am done! 

“Can I interest you to study Health Care Aid Course?” She asked. Relieved,   “I’ll be pleased,”.

I enrolled, but never lasted on that job. 

“How is Gwen?” Conrad’s wife. I say, to end my letter.

Conrad didn’t reply.  

July, this year, a certain Thirdy Siega appeared on my Facebook Account. His profile resembled that of Conrad, so I messaged him. 

“Are you in any way related to Conrad Siega,”? 

Thirdy Siega answered.

“May I know who you are?”

I said, I am one of his closest friends in Saudi. 

“Ah, I guess you don’t know. My Dad died on collision accident at Saudi five years ago with his other friends on board,”.

Shocked, my eyes moistened as my remembrance of him unfolded when we were together in Whittaker and AMG company in Riyadh.

Bible Roulette

I played Bible Roulette once. That double entendre of the phrase “Be careful of what you wished for” dawned on me.

Heavy laden with homesickness and burdened by culture shock, Rey, my co-worker at Arabian Bechtel Co. in Jubail, sympathized. 

“Go to the CR,”. He said, as I received my first letter from home. I poured out all my tears at the toilet bowl.    

I blamed myself for making a superb resume applying for a Secretarial job. Also, for coming out smart when Gene Chalmer, a Bechtel recruiter who interviewed me at (OEDB) Overseas Employment Development Board. Because of that, I filled the position as Secretary of Michael Bishop, Head of the Operation and Maintenance Dept. Later on, I rather wished ending up as Group Manager’s Secretary. 

That’s where my calvary started. Bishop terrorized me of his demanding demeanor. And his massive responsibilities. 

For one equipped of a week office practise at the Baliwag Municipal Court, which I learned nothing, I dreaded and panicked of the monumental task ahead of me.  “Be careful of what you wish for” had it’s full measure. 

Rey, the Secretary of the Health Group Division, gave me solace and comfort. He sensed I need a coping mechanism. 

He said, he opens his Bible and pokes his index finger on the open page. To which verse his finger landed, he reflected on it. And he found peace and tranquility of its revelation. 

Despair, I tried Rey’s method. I flipped my Bible and poke my index finger on the page. My finger pointed on Matthew 27:5 which says: “Then [Judas] went away and hanged himself”.  HUH!

Not satisfied, I did it again. Bible Roulette comes to mind. 

My finger dropped on Luke 10:27. It says “Go and do likewise”. 

My third try landed on John 13:37. “What you are about to do, do quickly”.
   

Three times the Bible wove dangerous theme. 

Another “Be careful…” ran through my brain. 

That experience, however, taught me to read the Bible in context. It encourages me to dig deeper: By reading Bible Commentaries and its corresponding historical background. 

I got excited of the new discovery and insights. So engrossed, my problems dissipated. My emotions nourished no more of negative vibes. 

“Being Careful…” turned beneficial. 

Insightful Journey

Insightful Journey is a six-minutes vlog. The urge of putting the less than half an hour original video is a crime on Facebook. So I speed up the footage, maintaining its integral part.

Going to Underground River

I save the film for posterity’s sake. But the original article, I rediscovered from my WordPress Site: Tiny-Titanic Thoughts, which remained idle for so many years. 

That’s one thing good with social media. Once you get in there, it remains forever.   

Part 1 of this vlog is our departure from Winnipeg and our visits to Baliwag. On our way back to Mabuhay Manor, the hotel where we stayed, an incident occurred. 

The car we rented, cruising along the inner lane of North Diversion Road, had its rear tires losing air. We knew cars behind  zoomed at 100 kms. Abrupt change lanes or stops can be fatal. Our driver clicked the signal going to the shoulder. Minutes later, the Escort Security came out of nowhere and accosted us. Those guys helped replace the tires. 

We had our lesson. The next time we travel back home we make sure we use a rented, well-conditioned vehicle. 

Part 2 of the video is our visit to the Underground River in Palawan – a three-hour trip from Puerto Princesa. At the hotel we’re booked in, they  arranged everything: transport, banca rent, tourist guide, food.  

Lured in traveling in 2007,  before Palawan, Globe and Mail Newspaper gave us a promo for 10 days to get away to London and Paris as subscribers. Mur had planned it. That’s good.  

Miscalculation happens when you’re a greenhorn taking a trip.

From our hotel near the Heathrow Airport, we’ve learned the best way to downtown London is by taking an Underground train, called the Tube.  For three days, we took the Piccadilly line going to the heart of London. And roamed around the city using the Big Bus Tours. 

On our fourth day, we Tubed again to Piccadilly Circus Station and from there; we walked to St. Pancross Station for us to get to France. And from France we will fly to Montreal. Then back to Winnipeg.     

Mur packed our essentials in our non-wheeled duffel bag. And while walking our way to the St. Pancross, the handlebar snapped. Forcing me to use the shoulder strap. 

I remembered Clint Eastwood in the Dyango movie. its soundtrack rang in my ears, pulling a coffin, while I dragged our carry on luggage. Most male Londoners took pity on me and offered help. I am too embarrassed.  

When we got to France, we bought luggage right away.     

That travel paved the way for my wife to become a good vacation planner. Since then, she had been so itchy testing her new vocation.

We visited the Philippines in 2005, and we stayed in one place. We didn’t venture on those exciting scenic spots. That’s a disgrace!

Out of unpatriotic guilt –  here we come to the grandest holiday planned by my wife, which includes our two daughters: their first time to set foot in the Philippines after twenty years.

Got Your Trick Now

 

Early on my kids know where we’re good at as parents.   Language Arts, Issues and Idiosyncrasies are my forte. But inadequate in the practical and mechanical stuff. Mur is a Math expert, adept in check balancing and watching sales. So my kids learned who to ask their studies, growing up, life, and allowance.

 

Farrah, my youngest, for two Saturdays – playing smart or dumb posed questions which ignited us to a long debate till nine in the evening, then said, “Got to go guys, my sleeping times”, leaving us with her all-knowing smile.

 

She did it again! Avoiding her turn to wash the dishes. Come Sunday morning, since, it’s my turn, the dishes waited for me to do them.

 

I must stop her style! Came next Saturday, I waited for her M.O. It came. Her query, heavier.

 

“Pops. Two questions.”  I crunched drumstick chicken then. “Why do horses walk on their hands?” A thumb size bone shoot down in my throat, and, “what’s the difference between testicles and tentacles?” I fell from my chair.
Laughter exploded. I looked at Mur seeking help. Her eyes said. That’s yours! Good for you!

 

Faye, 12, my eldest daughter, focused on Farrah’s second question. During the last two debates, her Kuya won on man-woman issues. This time she prepared her munition. Ferdie do the same.

 

I started my twenty minutes speech why horses walks on their hands, which made Farrah more confused. I sensed her desperation, regretting she asked. Mur pissed off. too. “Can’t you explain it, simply.

 

“The simple answer is, horses don’t, when they fight…”

 

“You’re right, Pops.” Farrah said.

 

I got problems with Farrah’s second question. I could say that testicles is that pair of a ball hanging out in between a man’s legs, and it’s a sperm storage. But this can prolong the discussion. She can ask, if she can play with it?  If that sperm can shampoo her hair to make a perm? I’ve no idea, how to answer that!

 

Good, Faye came to my rescue.

 

Faye stood up, walked to the fridge and took out two cantaloupes, holding it as if endorsing a bowling lane to go to, aiming the ball at her Kuya’s head – “Farrah, these are testicles. And she rolled the cantaloupes in our dining room floor. Faye returned to her seat, smirked at her Kuya, confident she made a striking statement.

 

Ferdie retaliated. He stood up sneered at Faye, and said: Farrah, tentacles are Faye’s busy tongue, he stuck out his tongue, pulled and coiled it as a rope to his neck. Then said, tentacles can kill same as Faye’s tongue. Trudge back to his seat. Victorious!

 

“Why can’t you just say, it’s the one that dangles in men, carrying it with dignity. Mur said. The children kept quiet.

 

“Farrah, testicles are little pouch in a man’s body that stores male hormones,”. I said.

 

“Are we Mormon Pops? Are we not Catholics?”

 

“HORMONES not MORMON,”

 

“Oh!”

 

“Now. Tentacles. They are long, slender, flexible, snake-like boneless growth on the head on mollusk animals,”

 

“Pops. You’re not answering my question very well.”

 

“Okay. Farrah. For now, I’ll do your dishes. But for next Saturday, even if you come up with outrageous questions. Do your dishes Okay!. Got your trick now,”

 

 

 

The Sound of a Broken Dish

Unmindful of her dishwashing, Faye my daughter, slipped a bowl from her hand, it crashed on the floor. The shattered sound thundered in my brain. It woke up my childhood memories.

 

It’s Faye’s first time to break a dish. Her face pale. She spun around poised herself in front of her Mom. Mur, not distracted.

 

“Don’t worry. Careful.  Picking up the shards,”.

 

Faye expunged a sigh.

 

The props I saw, the dialog, the impression I kept, flash backed. The scene exposed the cruelties of the old times. It anchored on the broken dish.

 

The scene between Faye and Mur occurred in our century old kitchen when we lived at Victor Street. The same scene took place in our dysfunctional hut between my mother and sister when we lived in the Philippines.

 

My mother dubbed our house as the Dove’s house. Often, she spoke of it in spite.

 

Mur pitched to Faye caring and unblaming words. While my mother then, ranted off indignant barbs.

 

“It’s not shard-money we buy those dishes,”.  Her favorite.

 

“You want me to necklace you with that broken pieces?”. Her second favorite. My mother shivered in anger. She pinched my sister’s groin. My sister cried in pain.

 

My sister did not intend to break that dish. Neither my mother wanted to get high strung or hurt my sister. I blamed it on time. The creator of spirit to go awry.

 

My mother, to help with my father’s scrimpy income, she slaved up with our relatives whom she thought are rich. Little did she know, she’s being exploited.

 

In my mother’s absence, she designated my sister as the mother in charge. At age nine, she skipped her childhood, and jumped to motherhood. And being a mother, she usurped her power dividing our breakfast, myself getting the little ration, yet I am the eldest. I couldn’t dare question her authority.

 

When my mother got home, if she found things not to her liking, she lectured my sister. My sister couldn’t just let it passed. She answered back. She challenged my mother’s verbal assault. And she got my mother’s palm on her mouth.

 

Such a big job my mother laid on my sister’s shoulder. At her tender age she knew why our mother had been that way.

 

My mother wanted a decent home stripped of the indignities of a cave dweller. She aimed to live beyond food.

 

She wanted other things; toothpaste, soaps, towels, pillow cases, furniture and other civilized things. Whenever she scrimps  money, she bought these things beyond food. And if those civilized things got wasted or broken, it devastated her. Blinded by rage, she ignored how my sister make up a home out of a Dove’s house.

 

My sister worked as a kitchen-helper in a small kitchenette near the Baliwag Academy School. Her purpose: for us, to live beyond food. She got paid one peso per day for ten hours work. The kitchenette had a leaking sink. As she wet her feet most of the time, she developed a swelling legs.

 

When my sister handed in her thirty pesos earning to my mother, she looked up to our Nipa ceilings, to cover her eyes. But her tears fell.

 

She bought my sister a Wintergreen, a twelve pesos ointment to appease my sister’s swelling legs.

 

Then asked my mother to buy herself a curtain, a new sleeping mat for us and another pillow, so that my third sister not share with my fourth sister. Mother never let my sister worked on the kitchenette again.

 

I hated recalling these scenes.  But it always comes back whenever a dish crashed.

 

A “Tule” Tale

Mur talked about Rico, my one week old grandson should have his circumcision early. So, it shouldn’t be as painful when it gets done.

I chuckled as I remembered when I had mine.

I considered myself as a slow bloomer. Kids my age at Riles grew taller and faster. I envied their mischief. I drooled over their truancy and escapades. If I get circumcised, I passed the rites of passage. That’s one step to adulthood.

The boys in our neighborhood circumcised at Grade 4. I had mine in 6. So eager to have it done. I feared not of the pain: slicing off that sheath cover of my penis head.

I asked Gara, a Jueteng bet collector who conducted circumcision in our barrio, if mine is ready. He looked at it.

“Not ready yet. Exercise it.” He said.

“How?” I asked.

“Keep pushing inward the sheath covering of your penis.

“What?”

“The ‘burat’ make it show!”

Every day I exercise my pecker.

During my summer break, I showed my prick to Gara.

“Hmm Okay, prepare my Kingscup.” That’s his smoke – his fee.

“Do dressing.” a square of cloth with a hole in the middle.

“I’ll see you at the Irrigation Canal together with the other kids.”

At the Irrigation Canal with three younger kids, Gara told us to get naked and soaked ourselves to the water. I wondered… Why do we do that?

An hour later, under the shade of a Guava tree, Gara told us to chew the shoots of the Guava leaves. What’s that for?

Circumcision is one of the great spectacles in the barrio. It draws a big crowd and make fun of the kids who cry harder and who pass out because of the pain.

Gara drew out his instrument. A glistening barber’s knife and a twig of a tree shaped small letter “r”. called “batakan,” used to snug in the foreskin covering the head of the penis.

I cringed at the sight of the barber’s knife. Two of the spectators took hold of my arm. Meanwhile, I chewed that shoots of the Guava leaves. Gara snugged my pecker to the “batakan”.

My eyes closed tight.

“Ready?”

I quit. Tempted to say. But I had been waiting for this. The knife touched my skin. It went deep slicing my foreskin.

“OUCH!” I tore apart the heaven above. I spat the chewed Guava leaves on my prick. The crowd jubilant.

Then Gara dressed it up.

“You shouldn’t look at girls”, Gara told me. “it will make your penis swollen.

I had four sisters in our household. How can I do that? And besides, how mere looking cause my pecker to swell…?

I am puzzled. Apart from bathing in the Irrigation Canal and the spitting off the chewed leaves.

My pecker swelled as big as a ripe tomato!

Two weeks bathing my penis with boiled Guava leaves and dress changing, it started to heal.

When I get older, it reminded me of the traditional circumcision method. I found an answer to my juvenile questions. The dipping of the body in the Irrigation Canal is a substitute for Anesthesia. It didn’t do any good. The chewing of shoots of the Guava leaves and spitting it to the pecker after the cut is infectious. The advice is a myth. A cover up for infection.

Today circumcision is painless and easy. How lucky Rico be, depending if her mom followed the Filipino Tradition.

Teapot Trail as Punisher

In 2017, while visiting my sister-in-law in Langley BC, Malou, my sister in Chilliwack, convinced us to take a hike on Teapot Trail, near Cultus Lake in Chilliwack.

 

We reached the Lindeman Lake at 5:00 pm., claiming our prize of scaling the 1.4. Km. Mountain of rocks of the Teapot Trail.

 

We ascended at 2:30 pm. For us, novice, the climb took two-and-a-half hours compared to regular climber clocking in 45 minutes.

Dante, the husband of Malou, my sister, they conquered this trail three times. They knew which part are steep for us to trudge. They teamed up to assist; either gave their shoulder for us to grab, steadying us to make a st

ep, or hold our hands to pull us up. Also, they are the great motivator.

For every twenty feet progress I made, I asked Dante: “Aren’t we there yet?”

“We’re near. Hang on. He’s lying, but he sounds convincing. My 65-year-old feet wanted to surrender. I slithered uphill over jagged stones, protruding roots of trees, and trunks of felled logs in an amazing speed of 5 feet per minute.

People coming down inspired us. Most of them in their thirties bringing with them their kids; 10 or 12 years old,  zoomed in an amazing speed, unaware of the cliff beside the trail. The mother scolded them, “I will not pick you up, guys. If you fell.”

The kids ignored the warning.

There were parents who made their kids as their backpacks. They  encouraged us, saying: Gorgeous up there. You can do it.

Our team always gave way to people passing us. “Go ahead”,  I’ll say.

“Thank you,”. They will say, and smile

Three of us used the cane. Mur, me, and a Chinese guy with his family of four. The Chinese guy is my age.  I rejoiced. He looked paler than me.  If he didn’t back out, his tongue swinging out, too, with foam of suds, as horses do.

“Congratulations. You made it!  My sister gushed, overwhelmed with joy. A feat I never imagined I could do as a 65-year-old man.

And looked at our prize trophy. The undisturbed serene lake bordered with white mountain rocks, and trees.

Scenic and beautiful.

The Dusty Book Collector

 

The Library is my natural habitat. Wherever I am, I have to find one, and savor the pleasure books offered. I am always excited surrounded by books. I loved being drifted into different realms of stories, places and ideas.

 

Once, I disturbed the peace of the Student Assistants and the GAUF’s Librarians. I became a pain in their asses.

 

The Gregorio Araneta University Foundation (GAUF) is an Agricultural School. It offers Liberal Arts and Accounting on the side.

 

On the third floor, tables and chairs occupied half of the GAUF’s Library. The other half, a steel railing perched on a long horizontal countertop. Bookshelves as high as 7ft lined up. In a corner, housed the Library Office. Beside it, is the Catalog Room which has cabinets full of index cards.

 

For one to borrow books, one has to get the Call Nos., at the Catalog Room, arranged by category, subject, title, author, etc. Student Assistants or the Librarian will pick the Call Nos., and get the book while the borrower waited at the counter.

 

I always get at least five Call Nos. These books are neither Sciences nor books on Agriculture. But Liberal Arts and Literature.

 

So ironic because my course is Agricultural Administration.

 

On my first time getting five books the Student Assistant who fetched my Call No. disappeared for 15 minutes.

 

She came back pissed off. Her eyes fiery as she dropped off the books making a loud thud. Fountain of dust shoots up, emits musty-moldy smell.

 

I observed that the dustier and moldier books are, more gems buried in them.

 

That’s how I discovered the complete works of Edgar Allan Poe, Somerset Maugham, William Thackeray, Charles Dickens.

 

The secret lies in the Call Nos. look. If they are uncrumpled and without creases, it seldom picked by the borrower, therefore, the books collect tons of mold and dust.

 

One week, I became the “Dusty Book Collector”. among the Library staff. When they see me standing at the counter, they pretended to be busy. Or hide themselves from the shelve. When they see other students waiting, they run towards their direction. Not on mine. Meanwhile, the Librarian on duty avoided my stares.

 

I thought of reporting this discrimination to the Student Affairs Office. But I didn’t want to disturb the hornet’s nest yet. So, instead of giving four or five Call Nos. I limited myself of giving one at a time.

 

One new Student Assistant noticed I’ve been waiting long enough. She took my Call No. The other Student Assistants gossiped on her of my notoriety.

 

My waiting time reduced. Although,  every two hours I come back to present another Call Nos. That arrangement posed, as a compromise.

 

One day the Librarian approached me. His bushy eyebrows straightened up. Ridge on his forehead got deeper.

 

“When will you graduate?” He asked.

 

“In five years,”.

 

The male Librarian hunched his shoulder. Walked slow. Defeated. He went back to his office.

 

HE JUST ONE TERRIBLE NEWS!

Thing Called Determination

 

DETERMINATION is my wife’s harsh incantation on obstruction that might get in a way for me to finish a household chore. Her enunciation of each letter of the word DETERMINATION expresses of one who has just taken Buckleys that disfigure a face. Once my wife spelled out, delaying or stopping means EXTERMINATION.

 

“DETERMINATION” to my wife, means don’t dilly dally the lawn mowing, vacuuming, or mopping. It has to get done, now! Short of it, DETERMINATION is EXTERMINATION

 

EXTERMINATION means – my ass never get the peace it deserves while I am in front of my laptop. Or I couldn’t switch on the TV, read a book or newspaper.  Worse, forget about my meal. She eats by herself. Not inviting me because she knew if I eat before I get the job done, I’ll get lazy as hell. And to get her point in my brain, she scratched her belly as she performed an oink… oink scene of a pig after a heavy meal.

 

Not only she made me a political prisoner but force me to go on hunger strike. She wants me to get EXTERMINATED.

 

So, that has been my great motivation. Get the chore done! DETERMINATION: My wife’s DETERMINATION

 

I do not blame my wife for being such a tight guard. I have this unusual ability to stall, dodge, delay, or abandon a household chore. My creativity to invent excuses is exhaustive. And it only ends, when my wife’s big eyes going to bulge out of its sockets in exasperation. Compunction or guilt – I will get the chore done. Chore to me is wiping my shit, that I don’t want to deal with – using a “tabo”, instead of toilet paper.

 

One time I gave my wife her own dose of medicine.

 

This movie “Social Network” is available free in Shaw’s Video on Demand. When I see it, something gets in the way to finish it. Determined, I watched it again while mopping.

 

I switched on the TV. My wife’s aware of what’s going on. I waited for her to explode. I’ll use her DETERMINATION technique!

 

When she’s about to yell, I enunciated DETERMINATION ghastlier than her. I tried with might to bulge out my Japanese eyes from its tiny sockets. The strained effort made my wife see the whole “Exorcist” movie in my face.

 

She let me finished the Social Network.

 

My mopping can wait.

DETERMINATION worked in reverse.

3 Pinoy “Stooges” Gets in the Army by Flukes

 

Three army trucks screeched to a halt in a Y-shaped dirt road fronting the houses along the Irrigation Canal where we live in 1974. Soldiers in full battle gear armed with an Armalite climbed down: rushed their way in each of the houses looking for insurgents.

 

“Any ‘Tapaks’ – that’s how they called the insurgents then – sleep over here?”

 

One of the two soldiers asked my father, the barrel of his gun pointed on his bare chest while he changed his shirt for work clothes as Irrigation Ditch-tender. Ashen white, my father unable to open his mouth. One soldier grabbed me and my father and carted us out.

 

All males in the neighbor ushered in a vacant yard in our underwear:  sat low, hands clutched our heads. We asked ourselves.  What’s happening?

 

We eyed one squad of soldiers crossing the Irrigation Bridge on the West side toward Pagala, the barrio after Rilis.

 

Tabog, Pepit, myself, and five others huddled together. I glanced around and saw a mustachioed huge man in civilian clothes with a mangled right arm – his left hand caressing his M.H. Del Pilar mustache. I panicked.

 

“Hugo!” I hushed.

 

“Don’t look up. Hugo is with the soldier.”

 

“What!. He survived. ” Tabog mumbled.

 

“Oh my God!. The end of us, if he spotted us,” Pepit said.

 

We bowed our heads.

 

Prayed.

 

We heard ratatat of gunfire from the distance. An encounter ensued. Lasted in 15 minutes.

 

I saw Hugo talking to one of the soldiers. The soldier and him looked at our direction. I nibbled Tabog and Pepit.

 

We’re toast!

 

He recognized us, I whispered.

 

My body squirmed. Pepit’s eyes asked me, what shall we do?

 

“He will mangle or kill us”. Tabog said.

 

The squads of soldiers came back with their capture. Two men; one, 5.10” in height and the other, 5. 5”. Their elbows tied at their back. The soldier roped them up to a lamppost to display their medal.

 

“This is Kumander Pending, our target,” referring to the tall guy. “The other, unknown”

 

As the soldiers climbed up with their prisoners on the truck,  the soldier who talk to Hugo picked Tabog, Pepit and myself.

 

Our parents rushed to the soldier.

 

“Where are you taking our sons? They chorused.

 

“Your sons are activists Mam. They violate the law.” The soldier said.

 

“You can’t do that”. My father said.

 

“Plead your case at our Philippine Constabulary Detachment Office in Sampaloc”.

 

“Give us a minute. We’ll get clothes for them”.

 

“Why did we get this far? That party jinxed us!

 

“Sir, Hugo said, to Capt. Sabwatan. The name of the officer who’s in command of the Sampaloc PC Detachment in San Rafael.

 

Here are the boys I told you about who mangled my arms,”.

 

Capt. Sabwatan lit up his Phillip Morris.

 

“Hmm!. UP students, KM, SDK. Okay. I’ll let them taste what Sampaloc hole is. Tomorrow, I’ll dispatch them with the batch for Fort. Magsaysay in Laur, Nueva Ecija.” Capt. Sabwatan said.

 

Hugo’s bulged eyes sparkled. So, delighted.

 

In the hole that night, I imagined the worst scenarios that could happen to us; it reminded me of lurid tales of torture the military did on big shot political detainees. Tabog  never had traces of fear on his face. And Pepit, more worried of our kite fight for tomorrow.

 

Tabog’s eyes roved. He assessed and gauged the place moments we disembarked from the truck that took us to Ft. Magsaysay.

 

“We will escape here!, he announced.

 

“No. We’re not” Pepit and myself said.

 

“Look. We will not escape from the camp. We’ll just get out from our batch. Our batch meant for the hole. Others are batches for army training.

 

They are with their parents or relatives. Talks in Ilocano from  Marcos country. If we can get into the training batch, it’s better than the hole”.

 

Tabog had a point. We’re convinced. So, we left our batch and mingled with the other group.

 

We confirmed Tabog’s notions is correct as officer coming in with the clipboard on his hand. The merged group stood in awe. Stunned. And wondered as we saw him approach.  He had an aura that can vacuum anyone’s attention. His whole body gleamed. So impeccable is his cleanliness. Dust afraid to settle on him.

 

But I am dismayed when he started talking. He patented English he alone can boast.  It sounded pidgin. Erap Style!

 

“My name, he boomed, was Master Sergeant Antabay. As long as you below me, I teach you clean room, clean gun, clean your person. Everything clean. You became army eight months, And you is ready clean fighting.”

 

Tabog sneered. He wanted to enroll to where Antabay studied. For me, Antabay embodied the Martial Law. Shiny-clean outside. Shallow-mean to the core.

 

Antabay taught us to clean; barracks, bedding, latrine, nails, hair, everything as if it’s the most complicated things in the army’s life. So clean freak, he inspected us every four hours.

 

When we mastered Antabay’s style of cleaning, we tackled obstacle courses. For Tabog and Pepit, and a few others, it’s easy-breezy. For me and many others, it’s heavy.

 

Our training became strange. The Army is not serious for us to be a soldier. Most of us are mediocre.  We could not even pass as Boy’s Scout. Yet, we stayed. Words flew around that after eight months, we are destined for Mindanao, which we heard barbecued human’s ears get eaten. And chopped human head given as a gift. That life is dispensable.

 

I passed these thoughts to Tabog and Pepit.

 

“That’s easy,” Tabog said. “Let ourselves get kicked out.

 

“I did that. I failed.

Except the cleaning part. And I am still here.

 

“Peanut Butter will do that for us.” Tabog said.

 

Again, Pepit and myself dismissed that as one of Tabog’s outlandish ideas.

 

Inspection time.  As usual the mirror-shine freak Antabay with hawk eye for dirt checked the three of us in Section C. So particular with little orifices of our body, he inspected the inside of our nose, ears, eyes, mouth. Then our uniform, shirt, socks etc. Thereafter he targeted our bunk bed, bedding sheets, pillows. He smiled. The last, our latrine.

 

The three of us stood at attention. I nibbled at Pepit because I spotted an object on top of our latrine. We waited for Antabay’s reactions.

 

Sargeant Antabay freaked out.

 

“WHAT THE FUCKING THAT!?  Antabay shouted we thought Apollo 11 crashed at our side.

 

Tabog stepped forward, smart as the PMA Cadet and marched towards the offending object. He scooped a chunk with his finger, and put it inside his mouth, rolled it to his tongue, and swallowed. Tabog went back to our line and made a sharp snappy salute.

 

“IT’S SHIT,  SIR!”

 

That night, Sargeant Antabay hauled us to an army jeep and dumped as on the fringe of Sierra Madre Mountain.

 

When we thought Antabay had gone far back to the camp. He said.

 

“So what do you say. Aren’t you two happy we got kicked out”.

 

“You’re right! Eating your own shit. So gross,”.

 

Tabog laughed. “You two are never get smarter. That’s peanut butter. You two owe me your life,”.