Ninoy Aquino's favorite song, they say, is "Impossible Dream." This certainly pertains to his efforts to attain the presidency, which whimsical fate eventually denied him. It would have been a common story about fate playing with people's lives, sometimes hurling the mighty to perdition and sometimes lifting vagabonds to wealth and power, had the tale not been broadened by bewildering events that would span decades.
The First Day Cover above, postmarked August 21, 1986, commemorates the third death anniversary of Sen. Benigno Simeon "Ninoy" Aquino Jr., who was assassinated in 1983 upon arrival at the Manila International Airport. His brutal murder led to outrage and revolt.
Even if in his solitary confinement at Fort Bonifacio, where he was imprisoned shortly after Martial Law in the early 1970s, Ninoy suffered surrealistic Kafka-Dali dreams, I think it never occurred to him that his wife, who visited him and brought him food, would eventually assume the seat he had intensely aspired and worked for. Surely not in his wildest dream did it occur that his death would propel his wife to the presidency. Only Ninoy can tell if he was teased or bludgeoned by fate.
First Day Covers postmarked Feb. 22-25, 1986, Camp Crame, celebrating the People Power Revolution that validated Cory Aquino's right to the presidency, which she ostensibly won against Marcos on February 7, 1986. Marcos and Cory both declared victory, but Marcos was declared winner by the Comelec. However, three weeks later, he and his family would flee to Hawaii when the EDSA revolt broke out.
Cory turned over her seat to Fidel Ramos in 1992. Ramos was replaced in 1998 by Joseph Estrada, who was ousted two years later by another People Power. Vice President Gloria Arroyo served out Estrada's remaining term. Later, Erap would serve a term in prison for plunder. Arroyo was accused of cheating her way to another six-year term through the 2004 election; she is also suspected of outstripping both Marcos and Estrada in the art of plunder.
Anyway, in Aug. 1, 2009, Cory Aquino passed away, setting off a chain of events that will pressure his son, Benigno Simeon "Noynoy" Aquino III to run for the presidency. Surely Ninoy could not have foreseen his son will be the second President Aquino.
FDC above shows Cory Aquino's funeral on August 5, 2009.
Postmark is Sept. 6, 2009, Feast of Mary.
Noynoy buried his rivals with a huge electoral landslide in May 2010. In June 30 he took his oath-of-office and became President Aquino II.
The Philippine Postal Corporation issued this FDC to mark Noynoy Aquino's assumption to the highest seat of this benighted land. Cory, in the stamp, seems to be waving happily to his son here. To those who are symbolically inclined, Cory in the other stamp is looking outward, towards a future lighted by the sun behind Noynoy's picture.
July 26, 2010, is the postmark on this FDC, now affixed with a set of Noynoy's own stamps. It was on this day the new president delivered his first State of the Nation Address.
What fate decrees next, I dare not speculate on. Imelda Marcos and her two children, one bearing her late husband's name, are back in power; four Arroyos have been elected by masochistic constituents to decent positions; Binay has become our first black VP, his son replacing him as Makati mayor, and a daughter serves in the House. The family that preys together stays in power forever. I have seen so many strange and cruel events to pretend to have the taste for more.
This is for friends who think that life is just a burden to be endured, that all problems must vanish, that to rest is bliss.
I offer the alternative:
Grave thoughts
Here in my loneliness
I am idle, finally at rest.
I don't fret, no one bothers me,
No problems to solve-- for eternity. -- Willian the Henry
NOTE:
A townmate to Mark Twain, who was on a sentimental journey to Hannibal: "Mr. Clemens, I was born close to your birthplace in Florida, and have been in the house where you were born, often."
Twain: "I was not born often --only once, but I'm glad to see you, all the same."
At last! Lumabas na ang unang sipi ng Kikay Magazine. P500 lang dahil collector's item karaniwan lagi ang Vol. 1 No. 1 ng kahit anong publications ngayon. Kung hindi namin bebenta ito, magiging garbage collector's item pa rin.
Bakit Kikay?Kasi cute yang si Kikay nu'ng puppy pa lang (di ba?). Maliban pa sa mga kontrobersyal na tsismis tungkol kina Ellen at Marlin, na pinilit kong lumabas sa cover. (Sabi ko sa kanila: "Pano'ng bebenta ang magasin kung aso lang ang nasa takip? Pumayag din after binigyan ko ng load ang mga bruha.)
Isinama ko na rin sa Page 2 yung mga Hainaku ko kay Marlin. Alam n'yo yung Japanese 17-syllable poems? Well, iba sa haiku itong mga kalikot-diwang sumusuksok sa utak ko tuwing may insomnia ako. Hainaku ang bansag dahil pag di ka makatulog, mapapabuntung-hininga ka.
Por eksampol:
Hay naku! Wasak na naman ang tulog ko,
Parang lagi akong nilalaro.
Madilim ka lagi, aking umaga;
Katipan kita, mahal kong Insomnia.
At eto naman ang mga Text Poems ko kay Marlin tungkol sa kanya. Ipinadadala ko sa kanya bawat isa tuwing madaling-araw noon:
1.
Gabi na naman,
Bilog na ang buwan,
Lilipad na ako uli,
Hati ang katawan.
2.
Umaga na naman,
Wala na ang buwan.
“Marlin, sa’n mo dinala?”
“Aba, Kuya! di ko kinuha.”
3.
Si Marlin nangungulangot,
Ay naku, nakakakilabot,
Kung anu-ano ang nasusungkit,
May bilog, may itim,
Cute pa raw yung maliliit.
4.
Ang kilikili ni Marlin,
Gustong paputiin;
Ibinabad sa suka,
Gumamit ng papaya,
Ayun, nag-amoy atsara.
Para sa mga pumatol sa magasin na ito, puwede rin kayong magpadala ng kulo ng inyong utak para (1) masaya, (2) magkaroon ng Vol. 2. Yun namang walang kakayahang sumulat, magpadala na lang ng P500 para tumanggap ng bago, malaki, matingkad, marubdob at brand new na "Thank you!"
In my recent deal with a stamp dealer, I saw in his stock this old picture showing the scene of Rizal's execution. It's not the original picture, I know, but it was obviously developed from the original film. It now hangs above my bed to remind me how alone we really are -- at birth and in death.
This stamp was based on the photo above
Very few people in this world, mostly martyrs and criminals in Death Row, know the exact date when they will die. In a recent survey, people were asked whether they'd rather know or not. Only 5% answered yes.
Last Farewell
A long, long time ago, long before men searching for gold desecrated FortSantiago, a condemned man stirred in his cell inside the fort.
That morning, a Monday, he was told the verdict of the court – he would be executed at 7 next morning, 30 December 1896. The trial had ended just a few days ago, and the sentencing was immediate. He would not even see the new year unfold.
In the afternoon he was visited by members of his family, a newspaperman, his defense counsel, and some priests. Soon after, the sun went down, allowing the darkness of his last night to enter his cell.
It would not have mattered, because a light had been kept burning in his cell. The light was not allowed to go dark as there was a standing order to keep the prisoner in sight all the time.
Guards were posted outside his window, not only to keep watch but also to keep him from committing suicide, should the thought enter his mind. But the prisoner just spent the night in front of his table, bare except for an alcohol burner, inscribing his last thoughts. He kept on writing as the shadow of a guard looking in fell on him from time to time.
What he wrote would survive and become part of his country’s recorded history. It was a magnificent verse expressing the man’s love and aspiration for his country, of his dreams when he was young, of his prayers for widows and orphans of war, for mothers who weep in sorrow, and for those submitted to torture.
He also wrote of places “where there are no slaves, no hangmen, no oppressors; where faith does not kill, where he who reigns is God.”
At 6 o’clock in the morning, he wrote his final letters to his father and mother. Then the guards came and bound his hand behind his back.
Outside, the sky was bright and blue in the best season of the year. The prisoner felt the slight chill in the air. Streets and buildings outside the fort were hung with flags. Even before first light a dense crowd had already gathered. People lined both sides of the route leading to the grassy expanse of the Luneta de Bagumbayan, the grass still damp with the dew of tropical night.
Local people, dressed in their best, had come to join the Spaniards in uttering patriotic cheers. Despite the tension in the city and the extra security measures taken, there was an exhilarated atmosphere of fiesta. As the minutes drew near 7 a.m. the noise of the crowd were hushed. The beat of an approaching drum announced the arrival of the condemned man.
First came the drummer. After him, flanked by tall Spanish Jesuits in black soutanes and shovel-hats, came the smaller figure of the prisoner, followed by his lawyer, Taviel de Andrade, and a military escort.
Aged 35, shorter than the average Filipino, and pale after two months in prison, Rizal was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and tie, and a black derby. His expression was serene as he scanned the faces in the crowd; his eyes, compelling and intelligent, locked with those who looked at him. As he passed, silence reigned as people stared with the uneasy sense of being controlled by something only a man about to die would understand.
The crowd was so dense and there was so much jockeying for position that the escort had to force a way through to the place of execution, which was some distance from the wall of Intramuros, nearly in the center of Luneta.
An open square has been formed, where on three sides soldiers held back the crowd. The fourth side, facing the blue of ManilaBay, was empty. It was the direction in which the shots would be fired. It was where Rizal would stand.
To kill a Filipino, a firing squad composed of Filipino soldiers was formed. But behind them stood a row of Spanish soldiers, prepared to take over and shoot the squad itself should anything go wrong.
Rizal stood facing them. The Spanish captain in charge approached and directed him to face the sea. Rizal said he wished to die facing the firing squad. He should not be shot in the back; he was not a traitor. The captain expressed his regret: he had his orders and must obey them.
Rizal asked to be shot in the small of his back, not in the head. The captain agreed. Did the prisoner wish to kneel? No, he will die on his feet. He also declined to be blindfolded.
It was now 7 o’clock. The sun was up, a bright and silent witness to his execution. With the trees and ornate lamp posts of Luneta casting long shadows across the grass, Rizal stood facing the sea.
A preparatory word of command was barked; Rizal braced for the impact. Another word of command; in the next second would come the shot.
In the last moment of his life, Rizal, in a clear, steady voice, with his last breathe, uttered his last words, the cry of Christ on the cross: “Consumatum est!” Then the volley of shots followed; Rizal tried to turn around as he fell.
Since the execution was on a December day, there was no rain to wash away the stain of dried human blood from the grass of Luneta. Time would eventually erase the stigma of the execution, but Time could not secure the Filipinos' fervor for freedom.
Speaking through his character in El Filibusterismo, Fr. Florentino, Rizal observed: “…We must secure [our liberty] by making ourselves worthy of it. And when a people reaches that height, God will provide a weapon, the idols will be shattered, tyranny will crumble like a house of cards and liberty will shine out like the first dawn.”
Are we to be enslaved by ignorance and corruption throughout our short life? Rizal died, but he was free.
The romanticized narrative of Rizal's execution above -- edited from an article in The Angeles Sun, April 1989 issue -- was heavily derived from books by Austin Coates, Austin Craig, etc., and from newspaper and magazine articles. Imagination, plus a sense of deep indignation from reading Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo, provided the impetus to post this blog, with a spark of hope that Filipinos will realize that they still are not worthy of freedom that only people who love their country deserve.
You know you are reading a masterpiece when the very first sentence grabs you by the collar, and hurls you into thoughts of your own, then impels you to write them down. You wish you can narrate, by even a smidgen, as well as the author, at the same instant knowing the impossibility of the task, which requires a gift seldom bestowed upon mere mortals.
The windy rhetoric flings me back to Earth, my ears ringing -- Hello, Willy, well, hello, Willy, it's so nice to have you back where you belong. I ignore the dust on my face and pride, thinking more of the disapproving glare of Mencken, a fearsome mentor and idol from way back when. He taught me that poetry and reality can never mix. T.S. Eliot may be resurrected by Andrew Lloyd Webber in "Cats" -- where his verses form the backbone of "Memories" -- but his efforts at prose have faded into the wasteland of literature. Louis Armstrong's and Webber's compositions live on -- the dust that covers me will nevermore touch the works brought to life by those who are given the key to immortality.
The light of the torch borne by Mencken, laid low by stroke, was rekindled in their own way by sardonic columnist Mike Royko; Raymond Chandler, who created suave and patient private-eye Philip Marlowe; and Mickey Spillane, whose tales of savage Mike Hammer (who I think was the forerunner of today's Dark Knight) are hardcore literature, like Chandler's, like Ian Fleming's James Bond novels and vignettes. The blessed can really live twice: once when they are born, and once when they are resurrected by their own creations -- all connected to each other, in a circle in a hoop that never ends. They can paint with the color of the wind.
Running through all the masters' work is their mordant disdain of the safe and mediocre life, an existence shielded from the coarse, visceral, cruel, indifferent but colorful way of the world. Clerks, accountants, greengrocers, salesmen and other like-minded members of the herd are but glorified servants; their petty dreams, their dismal endeavors and lives of drudgery, in the long run, don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Rick Blaine is more alive than billions today who sacrifice their youth, their ambitions, their lives to mundane pursuits; no lofty thoughts stirred their minds, unperturbed to the end that there is an alternative to mediocrity, that there is delight in life, pride in achievement, poetry in motion and music for chameleons. But to surmount their fate, the fire in their minds and souls must be ignited; they must have at least a portion of the gift the gods heap upon the artists of the realm. But they do not listen, they're not listening still -- perhaps they never will. It is the timeless dust of those lost souls that covers me.
When a cat curls up and sleeps for a long time, it is contented with life. I’m not. Not sleeping long hours; not contented.
I wake up in the small hours of the morning and I think of tasks left undone in the measly 24 hours allotted per day. Can’t the Earth slow down, lax as a cat, and make its orbit 48 hours to make our day twice as long?
Sometimes I lie awake in the dark, constructing stories in my mind, everything flowing into place. I finish, only to see my work melt in the morning sun.
So I compose silly ditties, hoping the mind game will summon the Sandman. No such luck, and the Gudam poems are born. They are short and easily retained in memory, so they exist.
I email them to friends. I explain:
Gudam is short txt for gud a.m.—good morning: very early morning, when sleep wouldn’t come and the darkness of the night mingles with the false light of dawn. It isn’t as noiseless as we think; and the images are so different in perspective they tend to morph when the sunlight pours in and dispels the somber thoughts molded in the throes of the birth of a new day.
I hope you understand that, because I’m still figuring out what that exactly means.
Anyway, here’s a sample of what is bred when moonlight through the window churns my mind:
The moon is lunatic,
Sending beams to break my sleep.
Ay, buwan, tinimbang ka ngunit kulang,
Di mo ba alam, insomniac ako, hunghang!
There are times I drift back to sleep, but it’s still early when I reopen my eyes. Then I realize what wakes me up.
The sun is shining,
The bird is chirping,
Soon it will be crispy.
My breakfast will be ready
When it is crunchy.
I think cats have it easy because they don’t need much to make them happy.
Cats are happy, people are crazy. When we don’t have money, we set our goal to gather wealth. Billions of our species use their lives to accumulate money, stressing out their lives to old age so they can give their hard-earned money to doctors, who treat them for arteriosclerosis, stroke, or psychosis.
But there are a few cat people who take everything in stride; they accumulate and use money to enjoy life. Money is the tool to a good life, they know, and life is the precious spark that should not be spent for money’s sake. But the majority in this planet knows otherwise. No wonder this planet is a mess.
At my age I have learned what brighter and younger people have grasped earlier, and what most people will never understand till death -- to pause for the right priorities in life.
This morning, I noticed that Cordell sitting inside the bathroom, silently waiting for me to finish washing my face. When I reached for the towel he stretched a paw to call my attention -- "How about some rubbing and stroking?" was his message.
I woke up early because I had to do some last-minute browsing of my emails, to see if some clients had sent in payments so I can add their eBay parcels for today's shipping. The packing that follows is usually fast-paced, hectic. But Cordell was looking expectantly at me. I know I can just pat his head and say, "Later," and he would not insist; he would just sit and look as I walked away. That is not acceptable.
Am I so frivolous that I can take for granted chubby Cordell's dashing up the stairs to meet me when I emerge from the bedroom in the morning? As if I, one who doesn't believe or care about the afterlife, can afford to ignore the precious events this messy, earthly life provides. Money and business lost can be recovered, but interspecies communication is, indeed, priceless.
I bent down and rubbed his chin, eliciting some throaty Urkk-Urkks from him, which means something like "You're doing fine; I might promote you or give you a raise." Brisk rubbing is equivalent to sniffing catnip to Cordell. You cannot hurry the pace, you just share the time and affection until Cordell is satisfied. Then he walks away, expecting to see me tonight for another session.
Cordell, Maine Coon with a big, big heart.
Cordell likes me, and I can easily throw eBay and stamps to the winds for signs of affection from cats, who do not feign affection (They must be heeding Max Erhmann's admonition in Desiderata). Most of the high values I once expected from people I have earned from cats. You have to earn their trust because their instinct against falsehood and pretense is sharp. No amount of bribery or cajolery can make them approach if they don't like you. They are honest, they are regal -- as the Egyptians found out 4,000 years ago.
From kittens I have learned the value of play: "Let's have fun, thinking about money and bills only makes you grumpy."
One morning I found some stamps scattered all over my work room. Obviously, during the night, some of Mau's kittens managed to get to the folder where I kept some stamps for postage use. We picked them up from under the bed, from everywhere, and sorted them to see if some can still be used. Torn and heavily crumpled ones were tossed to the trash can; those missing one or two teeth were saved (they are not collectible anymore but can be used for mailing). I have to laugh when I saw one or two were Year of the Rat issues. "Kaya pala parang kinagat nang husto ito," I remarked. http://www.pogiforlife.com/2011/02/maus-babies.html
Mau's cuties: Chomper of stamps
Sometimes I wonder about myself. I know I'm quick-tempered, super-meticulous with a high distrust level. Certainly not a pleasant person to strangers. But never have I been like that with our pets. "Oh, how adorable, you rummaged through my drawer and folders and scattered, chewed and torn many stamps, not discriminating between the high denominations and cheap ones. You had bundles of fun, I see, so you must be hungry now. Here, have some Iams." No scolding, no cussing, no hot-tempered me at all. This is something I still have to figure out about myself. Sometimes I like myself.
I noticed that we like ourselves without doubt when we are happy. We are happy when we feel good about ourselves, perhaps because we have been good to others or have not been too harsh to ourselves. But how long does the happiness last? Lucky are those who can claim being happy for entire days, for many hours within the measure of a day, or even briefly every day. Dealing with cats, I have learned to think about happiness. That's a lot.
Bottom slats of the jalousies in the windows of our bedroom and kitchen have been detached to widen the space where the cats like to perch -- to bird-watch in the early morning and to catnap (what else to call it?) in the afternoon. I admire the cats' ability to stretch and relax fully. I read somewhere that fear is fostered by feeling of not having enough. "Look at Chester," I think as he curls up under the cool midday sun, "doesn't care about having a house bigger than of his peers; money is never a problem because he doesn't have any, doesn't care, anyway." I will learn to be fearless.
Chester's catnap, peaceful mind: Priceless.
Sometimes they just sit all afternoon while I wonder if they are not bored at all. Then I think of the big errors we dumb humans fall into when making crucial life decisions. Having survived some of my biggest mistakes, I conclude that the alternative to boredom is seldom excitement; usually you get misery instead.
"It's better to be bored than be miserable," I have cautioned many young househelps who left us because life in our home is too quiet: no glamorous visitors, no young men to flirt with, no travels to beaches, just cats perched in the windows and kittens wrestling in play. Of course, you only get to appreciate the quiet life when your life gets messed up -- unplanned pregnancy, a shiftless spouse whose good looks you realize cannot even buy a can of milk or a pack of diapers for the baby. It's too late to go back to being bored: you have to find money to feed, bathe and clothe the baby; you have to wake up whenever the baby cries; you have to clean the house, cook meals, wash the dishes, do the laundry, iron the clothes -- without getting paid. You see a cat sleeping peacefully, and that's when you realize that some mistakes in life are irreversible.
Cordell and the other cats can have a share of my time anytime or, to be precise, I hope the cats let me share their time.
Go placidly amid the noise and the haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence... Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection... But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself... Strive to be happy. -- Max Ehrmann, 1927
1. Ilang buwan na palang sarado ang Electrolux branch dito sa Dau di ko nabalitaan agad. Wala na yung mga Fierang tagahatid-sundo sa mga nakakurbatang ahente nito. Kunsabagay nag-resign na sina Matt, Joey at Ranel – mga limang taon nang nakalipas. Alam ko, dahil nauna lang ako ng konti sa kanila.
Makisig ako noong ahente pa ako -- naka-long sleeves at kurbata din ako. Ang nakakasira lang ng porma ay yung hila-hila naming blue bag. Sa halip na mapagkamalan kang executive ay bistado agad na ahente ka lang ng vacuum cleaner. Kaya sa halip na taas-noo ang lakad mo ay nakatingin ka lagi sa lupa. Mahirap na, baka may masalubong na kakilala.
Isa pa, dahil nga kulay asul yung aming bag, tulad ng gamit ng ahente ng Yakult, napagkakamalan pa kami. Ito ang kuwento minsan ni Laverne: “Tinawag ako nu’ng isang ale, tuwang-tuwa ako at isip ko eh may prospect na agad ako. Paglapit ko eh ang tanong ba naman sa akin, ‘Miss, magkano ba yang Yakult?’ Naku, kung hindi lang mahirap ang buhay ngayon…”
At yun ang dahilan bakit pumasok kami sa Electrolux, mahirap ang buhay – noon at ngayon. Kung wala kang perang pantustos sa iyong pamilya, maghahanap ka kahit anong trabaho.
Bibili ka ng Bulletin at susuyurin mo ang mga anunsiyo. Ang una mong mapapansin ay napakaraming kompanyang naglalakihan na nangangailangan ng empleyado. Hindi totoong walang mapagtratrabahuan! Malalaki pa ang pasuweldo.
Pero hanep! basahin mo ang ang mga requirement: dapat ay college graduate ka, at kung maaari sana yung pinanggalingan mong university ang pangalan ay UP (yung sa Diliman, ha), Ateneo o UST. Kung ipagmamalaki mong galing ka sa Angeles University o Holy Angel College, sasabihin sa iyo: Meron bang ganu'n?
Sakali naming lusot ka sa unang kundisyon ay papatungan ng isa pa. Este, may job experience ka na? Kahit tatlo o limang taon man lang? Ayannn, experience daw. Iisipin mo, Papaano ako magkaka-experience eh nag-aaral ako noon?!Wawaratin mo na sana yung diyaryo sa matinding inis, pero napansin mo yung Electrolux ad. Management trainee (Tuturuan akong maging manager agad!). No experience necessary (Ako ‘yon! Ako ‘yon!). Yahoo!!
2.
Si Management Trainee, ayun, alas onse na nang gabi nakaupo pa sa isang tipak na bato, kumakain ng Sky Flakes habang inaamuy-amoy ng mga asong katulad niyang naliligaw ng landas sa buhay.
“Shoo! Uwi ka na, gabing-gabi na nasa kalye ka pa. Ano ka ba, tao?” angil niya sa isang pangahas na idinikit pa ang malamig na ilong sa kanyang braso. “Putragis na Chris yan ah; alas diyes daw ako susunduin, hanggang ngayon wala pa.”
Habang wala pa yung susundo sa kanyang Fiera ng Electrolux, inilabas ni Mr. Sales Rep yung kanyang Demo sheet. Siya ‘yun, official Sales Representative ng Electrolux Corporation. Kung ayaw mong maniwala ipakikita niya sa iyo ang kanyang ID.
Ang una niyang natutuhan nang mag-apply siyang maging manager ng Dau branch ay (1) Meron nang manager; (2) Ang mga manager, naging supervisor muna; at (3) Yung mga supervisor, nagbenta muna ng sangkatutak na vacuum cleaner.Kaya ayan siya, isang ahente de kurbata. May suweldo naman, minimum wage. At kung may magoyo siyang bumili ng vacuum cleaner na mahigit P10k ang halaga, may katapyas na komisyon. At least mataas nang konti yung ranggo niya kaysa du’n sa janitor nila.
Yung tinatawag na Demo Sheet naman, yun ang nagpapatunay na kumakayod ang ahenteng isinasalpak sa mga subdivision na pugad-mayaman. Bawat Electrolux Man may quota araw-araw: tatlong bahay ang dapat ma-knock-knock niya bawat lugar; sa tatlong knock-knock ay dapat makapasok siya kahit sa isa man lang. Sa tatlong mapasukang bahay, dapat makapagdemonstration siya kahit sa isa lang; at sa tatlong bahay na pinagpakitaan niya ng galing ng Electrolux, dapat makapagbenta siya – hah! – kahit isa.
Yung demonstration ang mahalaga dahil yun ang itinatala sa Demo Sheet. Tatlong demo bawat araw ang quota ng ahente. Yung pagpasok sa bahay hindi problema yun dahil tinuruan siya ng MICI (May I Come In) technique ng Electrolux. Lalong hindi mahirap mag-demonstrate dahil payag ang mga maybahay na linisin ang bahagi ng bahay nila. Pag nakita ni misis ang galing ng vacuum cleaner, maeengganyo iyan at itatanong: Magkano ba iyan?Sa puntong iyan hihinga nang malalim si Electrolux Man at ipapakita ang Price List.
Matapos mahimasmasan si misis, ipapaliwanag naman sa kanya ng ahente na hindi naman kailangang bayaran nang buo agad – puwedeng installment plan! Kung hindi sinungaling si Management Trainee, hindi nalalayong ganito ang sales talk niya, lalo na kung hamak na de-suweldong titser and kausap niya:
“…Ayan, ma’am, matapos niyong isanla ang inyong bahay – malinis na bahay – may pang-down payment na kayo. Ngayon, kung tumigil-tigil muna sa pag-aaral itong inyong anak, at iwasan ninyo ang luhong kumain ng tatlong beses bawat araw, malaki ang pag-asang mabubuo rin ninyo ang kabayaran sa taong 2029…”
Kung tila nahihindikan pa rin ang ginang at halatang ayaw magsakripisyo, papipirmahan na lang siya ng magiting na Sales Rep sa Demo Sheet, bilang pagpapatibay na siya nga ay galing sa bahay na ito at nagpakitang-gilas.
At yan ang problema ni Mr. Demo nu'ng gabing sinisinghot siya ng aso: dadalawa pa lang ang napapirma niya at kailangang umimbento na naman siya ng ikatlong pangalan na pipilantikan ng pekeng pirma. Habang lumilikha siya ng fictional character, naisip niya kung laging ganoon na lang ba ang takbo ng buhay niya.
“Di bale!” bulalas niya sa nagulat na asong umaamoy sa tuhod niya. “Lalayas na ako bukas.” Naalala niya ang nangyari kahapon.
3.
Tapos na akong mananghalian: tulad ng dati, Sky Flakes at Pop Cola. Dighay ang meryenda. Hila-hila ko na naman ang blue bag sa trolley kong pang-Grade One. Dalawa na ang nagtanong kung magkano ang Yakult. Wala pa akong Demo.
Oops! Tinatawag ako ng hardinero sa kabilang kalsada. Pag humingi ito ng Yakult, uupakan ko na.
“Ano 'yon, bos?”
“Ah, ipinatatawag kayo ni Ma’am. Kung puwede ka raw makausap.”
Pumasok ako. Sa bakod pa lang ay napuna ko nang sinakop nito ang buong bloke. Doon sa dinaanan kong hardin, yung taniman pa lang ng rosas ay puwede nang isalpak yung apartment na inuupahan namin ng misis ko. Mamahalin ang hagdanang marmol na hinakbangan ko. Yung sala maliit nang kaunti sa NAIA.
Nasa tabi ng mesita ang nagpatawag sa akin. Antique pareho – yung mesita at si Ma’am. Tantiya ko may isang daang taon na yung mesita; si Ma’am mas bata nang konti. Puti ang nakapusod niyang buhok, itim ang kanyang damit. Matangkad siya. Payat. Hindi titser si Ma’am.
“Please sit down. Maupo ka.” Nakatayo pa rin siya, hawak ang isang papel. “I hope you don’t mind at ipinatawag kita. Wala akong makausap. May gusto sana akong itanong sa iyo.”
Hindi ako kumibo. Di ko alam ang sasabihin ko.
“Nasa States na ang mga anak ko; nag-iisa na lang ako rito. Ako si Mrs. Buan, at siya –“ Itinuro niya ang isang litrato sa dinding. “Siya si Mr. Buan, half-owner ng Philippine Rabbit Bus Corporation. Namatay na siya. Last year.”
Tiningnan ko ang litrato. Tiningnan ko si Ma’am.
“Dito na ako lumaki,” patuloy niya. “Dito rin ako nag-aral. In fact we are holding a class reunion. Dito sa bahay gagawin. Bukas. Ang gusto kong malaman – kaya kita ipinatawag – why is he still poor? Bakit hanggang ngayon mahirap pa siya?”
“Sino, Ma’am?” Ako, naghihirap din: di ko masakyan ang kambyo ng usapan.
“Mayroon akong kaklase noon, he’s the school principal now, si Mr. Bulalacao. Darating siya bukas.” Ipinakita niya sa akin ang mga pangalang nakalista sa hawak niyang papel. “Kilala rin siya ni Mr. Buan. Sa mga nakalipas na mga taon, nagdo-donate kami, my late husband and me, ng mga blackboards, desks, books sa school. Almost 40 years na ang lumipas, hanggang ngayon ay ganoon pa rin siya – poor.”
“Baka maraming bisyo si Mr. Bulalacao, Ma’am…”
“No. Hindi siya naninigarilyo, hindi siya mahilig sa alak o babae, everyday he gets up very early and works and works and…works. Alam mo, he’s almost 70 now and he still comes to school on his bicycle. Aside from that, nag-aahente rin siya, like you, pero insurance ang kanya. Napansin ko yung bahay ng pamilya niya, it’s very small, kahoy. Masipag siya, pero at his age kumakayod pa ring ganyan. Why?”
“I think I get your meaning, Ma’am. Siguro noong naging principal siya naging kuntento na. Siguro para sa kanya mataas na ‘yon, like being a manager. Ang hindi lang niya naitanong eh – manager of what?”
“Hmmm. You think so? By the way, what are you selling?”
“Ah, ano ho, complete cleaning device ng Electrolux. Gusto niyong makita?”
“No, never mind. I already have those, ipinadala ng anak ko from the States. She’s married to an appliance shopowner. Siyanga pala, would you like to have a snack? Merong Sky Flakes…”
“Ah, di bale na, Ma’am, thank you. But I would like to ask you a favor…” At inilabas ko and Demo Sheet.
4.
Nag-resign siya sa Electrolux matapos niyang makausap si Mrs. Buan, naalala niya. Limang taon na ang nakalipas. Umutang siya sa magulang niya ng pagpundar sa bookstore sa Dau. Sa tulong ng salesmanship na napulot niya sa Electrolux, lumago ito.
Sa loob ng tatlong taon nakabili na siya ng sariling bahay. Hindi naman kasinglaki ng kay Mrs. Buan, pero hindi ito kahoy. Laging malinis ang bahay dahil may vacuum cleaner. Siya ang nagturo sa misis niya sa paggamit nito. Marami silang alagang aso.
Sa tindahan niya sa Dau, meron siyang mesitang pinagpapatungan ng paa tuwing nagpapahinga siya at minumuni ang landas ng tadhanang naiwasan niya noon. Paminsan-minsan ay may maliligaw na Electrolux Man na may hila-hilang blue bag sa harap niya.
“Psst!” Tatawagin niya ito. “Magkano yang Yakult?”
*** Ito ang una kong short story. Unang nalathala ito sa weekly The Angeles Sun sa Pampanga nung 1992. Nang magsara ang Sun, ipinadala ko sa Diyaryo Filipino para malaman ko kung papasa sa mahigpit na editor nitong broadsheet sa Maynila. Pumasa naman, at itinuring kong board exam ko sa pagsulat sa Filipino iyon. Lumabas din ito sa Philippine Graphic magazine na ang Panitikan editor noon ay si Jose Lacaba, na isa kong idol sa panunulat.
