by Glenn Diaz
Muted laughter erupted from the room, and Jen and I looked at each other in a split-second moment of connection. The door opened, and she looked up from the computer. Carolina called out, “Four cappuccinos, three brewed coffees, and a latte, please. Don’t forget the Splenda this time.” Carolina looked at me, eyes expression-less. “Hello,” she said, looking unsure.
I waved, exactly one flick of the wrist, like a demure singkil dancer.
“OK, Ma’am!” Jen said as the boardroom door closed with a thud. She scribbled on a pad then called someone via intercom. Kuya Johnny shuffled inside and Jen handed him the piece of paper. “Don’t screw it up this time.”
“But your handwriting—”
“Go.” Jen sat back down. “God,” she mumbled under her breath.
The door to the boardroom creaked open again. Carolina handed Jen a Post-It, which she wordlessly handed to me after a quick look.
21F pantry. 11:30.
—C.S.
Why didn’t she just tell me herself? I looked at the digital clock on Jen’s table. How long, this day, and it was not even ten o’clock. I went back to my cubicle. Libby called out from her desk: one of the treasury group head candidates had been waiting at the lobby for half an hour. “Wonderful,” I said, opening the bottom drawer of my filing cabinet. I dug into the pile of manila folders filled with people’s contracts and disciplinary records and career paths. My emergency stash: a couple of frayed sticks of Dunhill lights. On the fire escape on the twenty-third, I found a few figures leaning on the steel rails. None of Makati’s glittering skyline here. The ostracized smokers had a view of the soiled backside of buildings, rusty, cobwebbed generators, spindly, near-lifeless trees. I sometimes imagined the cast of Cats emerging from behind the dumpsters to do an impromptu number.
I can smile at the old days. I was beautiful then.
I nodded my thanks to the kind stranger who handed me his lighter. The first puff was always a soothing warmth in my throat. After a couple of sticks, I went down to the lobby, exited the building, and hailed a cab. I told the driver to head to this nice, wonderful mall on the other side of Metro Manila.
The interiors of the office pantry followed the palette of the company logo, orange on the walls and white on everything else, tables and chairs and counters, a stylish hospice. Most noons, it was filled with people chatting over hot meals. Caucasians and Filipinos, Koreans, a lot of Indians. Baby back ribs, kare-kare, and bibimbap. Basmati rice and masala dhal for the weird vegetarians.
The lunch crowd had gone by the time I got there. I smiled at Ate Stella, who, along with her assistants, were transfixed at the afternoon telenovela on their portable TV.
“Late lunch, sir?” she asked when I came up to the counter. “You’re normally the first one here.”
“Thank you, Ate Stella.”
She told me to sit down, my food would be ready in a few.
When I looked around for a seat, I found Carolina waving from a corner table. I had to hold on to a nearby chair for support. She removed the coat draped over the chair across her and motioned for me to come and sit down. Her auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders, over an avocado green dress.
“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve started,” she called out, checking her watch, “two hours ago. Lumpia gets soggy really quick.”
I walked to her table. “I’m sorry I forgot.” I asked, trying to discreetly put the shopping bags under a nearby chair. “You like lumpia?”
“Is there a sale somewhere I didn’t hear about?” she said. When I didn’t answer, she went on, “Yes, lumpia, one of the few Filipino dishes that isn’t swimming in oil. No offense.” She stifled a yawn.
Ate Stella arrived with my plate of Pad Thai and a glass of ice-cold Coke.
“Oh, that looks yummy,” she said. “But weren’t you in Bangkok recently? I saw it on Facebook.”
“What?”
“Why don’t you finish your meal first then we’ll talk about how to sort it out, OK? But please take your time. Don’t mind me.”
“Sure,” I said.
“Lovely,” she said. For the next minutes, her eyes followed every flick of my chopsticks, every chew, and movement of my jaw. Her stare did not waver, not when she took a phone call or shared a joke with Ate Stella. I looked at her to register my discomfort, and she met my eyes. I finished quickly, and when I was done, she asked me if I would join her for a smoke, up from her chair even before I could say yes.
“You can leave your stuff,” she said. “I’m sure Ate Stella doesn’t mind keeping an eye on them.” A wink and a wave to the sniggering woman.
It was the worst time to be outside unless one was trying to lose consciousness or die from dehydration. I could feel sweat quickly forming down my back, my chest. From time to time, a gust of wind blew from the north; absent this, the air was heavy, unmoving. Carolina handed me her pack of cigarettes.
“Oh, I’ve quit,” I told her, returning the thin white box.
“Don’t I see you on the twenty-third?” She gave me a look, perhaps catching a faint nicotine scent from my fingers, a flicker of ash on my shoulder. “Anyway, suit yourself.”
We walked over to the gated entrance of a nearby park and stayed beside a metal trash bin rimmed with a circular ash tray. “My contract is only for two years,” she looked at me, eyes half-closed. “They said three and I wanted one. These days I can’t even see beyond six months. Thank god they were OK with two. I can’t wait to go back—”
“Where?”
“What do you mean ‘where’?” she asked. “Home, of course.”
“Which is where?”
She looked at me and laughed, a tubercular, wheezing cackle that turned into hoots and which caught the attention of a passing group of office workers, who quickened their steps.
As far as company lore went, a sort of mythic aura surrounded Carolina. I heard that prior to this assignment, she had gone MIA, and speculations abounded on what really happened during the “lost years.” Some say that she lived with a Filipino lover somewhere in the slums of Manila; others, that she had been hypnotized by a millenarian cult in the Sierra Madre mountains during a surfing trip to Baler; others still, that her terrible divorce in Australia caught up with her here and she finally snapped, after which she was committed at an upscale psychiatric facility in Tagaytay where she met a popular ’80s singer, her first girlfriend. When she “came back,” the regional office in Sydney still hired her for a consulting job because they said she did great work. She devoted all her energy to her current project and knew how to prioritize, to focus on the important things.
“I’ve lost my bloody tan,” she said, inspecting her arms. “Damn it.” She slowly tapped her cigarette over the trash bin, looking beyond at the manicured lawn and the towering trees in the middle of all the grays and lifeless chromes of the complex. “Anyway, this thing with the projector. Would you agree with me that it’s such a silly thing?”
“What? Why are they blaming that on me? Not my fault that thing doesn’t retract to the ceiling. Unbelievable.”
She nodded. “Most things are.”
“I mean, I can pay for it, fine. The money’s not an issue, but it’s the principle of the thing, you know? It’s the principle.”
She looked at me. “What principle?”
What I wanted to say emerged as a disgruntled shrug. “You know what I mean,” I said.
“It’s a projector, for Christ’s sake. They’re making a huge deal out of what? A couple thousand dollars? It’s not like you leaked a formula to a competitor.”
“I think they’re suing so they can finally defund CSR,” I said. I looked down. “Those poor kids—”
“Stop.” She raised one hand. “Just stop. Don’t bring the kids into this. That’s just rubbish, is what it is.”
“What?”
“I see you look at those poor children. You smile then roll your eyes and your tiny nose dilates and you’re always biting your lips so you won’t say somet
hing mean.”
“That’s not true,” I said. I touched my nose.
“It’s OK. It’s not your job to be charitable. That’s irrelevant. That doesn’t matter. They should just leave you alone, these grumpy old men. Hard to think they can get any work done with all these absolutely dreadful, useless meetings.” She let out a yawn, then took a final puff on her cigarette before extinguishing it against the ash tray. “I just thought you should know so you don’t come in there blind later.”
“Thank you,” I told her.
“Can I?” she asked, lighting another cigarette. When I nodded, she started to blow a string of perfect smoke rings to the air.
“That’s amazing,” I said.
“Why, thank you,” she said. “It took me years of practice. Years.”
36
I n my cubicle, while waiting for Jen to amiably order me back to the boardroom, I found a follow-up story on my ill-fated namesake.
Police are now considering the possibility of suicide in the death of the fast food crew member who was fatally run over by a bus yesterday in Makati.
This, after it was discovered that Philip Manabat, 21, had figured in a viral video that his family said may have finally driven the young breadwinner to the edge.
The video spread last week, briefly overshadowing the Hayden scandals. It featured a fast food mascot doing something that no amiable bee should be doing, not in that style and not to the clown mascot of the rival food chain. It was all funny in a subversive and disturbing way up until the two-minute mark, when both mascots removed their heavy suits, first the heads, then the body, then the huge footwear. They then took off their real clothes and proceeded to do the deed, for real this time. After around five minutes, all the viewers—1.32 million after just a week—saw the erstwhile bee notice the CCTV camera and, in panic, disengage from the supine former clown. Both scampered out of view. A few seconds later, an oversized boot hit the camera lens, ending the clip.
My extension rang. “They’re ready,” Jen said.
“I have a question for you, Jen,” I said.
“Yes.”
“What will you do if someone gave you a ton of money?”
“How much?”
“I’m not sure. Just hypothetically. Some extra cash falling on your lap absolutely no questions asked.”
“So now it’s ‘some cash’ and not ‘a ton of money,’ ha?” she asked. “See, that’s a dumb question if you don’t know these details.”
“Never mind,” I said. “One more question.”
I put the phone down just as she asked, “Yes?”
On my way to the boardroom, I tried to shrug off the pesky nervousness. Which was easy enough because I didn’t need this job and had absolutely nothing riding on it. At this moment, I knew I could head down to the lobby and go to the mall. Again. I could book a flight and be in Boracay by dusk. Besides, if there was one thing that the last season of The Apprentice taught me, one needed to stay calm in the face of extreme pressure, or else a borderline misogynistic British tabloid editor with a foul mouth and bad hair would win. It was as simple as that.
“Philip,” Carolina asked, “do you know how much that projector costs, darling?”
“High tide or low tide?” I almost asked.
“Yes, Ma’am Carolina,” I told the Home for the Aged firing squad sitting around the conference table. “P159,000.”
“Call me Carolina,” she said, “please.”
“You’re new here, Mr. Manabat,” said an old man who I recognized as an AVP or SVP but for sure an acronym. “From what we hear you’re quite invested in the CSR side of things, aren’t you? That’s great. Don’t get me wrong. That’s great. LCF will be proud. Is Ditas still chair? Last I heard—”
“I take full responsibility for what Christian did,” I told the panel.
“Christian?” Carolina asked. “Is that the name of the kid?”
“Yes.”
“What a lovely name, no?” she said. “And those kids!” She looked around the table. “I was absolutely gobsmacked. What a wonderful show. Did you see it? I wish there was a recording. Better yet, someone should write something about it. Nothing major, maybe five hundred words or so. We can put it in the content plan for the website next week. Someone take note, please. We have nothing there except that bit about the new asthma therapy anyway. Great work, everybody.” She started to slow clap; only I followed her lead.
“Anyway,” said the same old man. “Let me be candid with you, Mr. Manabat. You see, after that dengue outbreak—I’m not sure if you’ve heard about it—we wanted to sustain the momentum so we decided to broaden our CSR program. That was what, two years ago? Three? Something like that. Unfortunately, for one reason or another—”
“The stupid new legislation on affordable medicine, for one,” a woman said.
“Please,” Carolina said, lacing her fingers. “Let’s stay on topic, thank you.”
The old man continued. “Unfortunately, the Philippine country office wasn’t able to fully take advantage of that and with budget planning coming up again, it’s getting harder and harder to justify CSR. It’s worth revisiting, I think. And unless you can start another epidemic—”
The other old men laughed.
“It was an accident,” I said. I channelled Ivanka Trump and titled my head slightly to the right and felt the American accent coming to the rescue. “You know,” I said, “it’s really difficult to measure the benefits of CSR. As you know, it won’t appear on any chart or ledger. It is not a figure you see in the analysis of bottom lines or profit margins. If our goal is for these learning centers and medical missions to generate a return, we might as well drop the whole thing.”
I looked at the faces around the table, stopping at Carolina’s, expecting a look of support, of encouragement. But she was staring into space, her lips an oval, like she was blowing smoke rings again. There was no sound in the boardroom except the hum of the air-conditioning. Someone cleared their throat and took a swig of water.
At the Grand Palace complex in Bangkok last week, the crowd was thick and restless. They made goofy poses in front of gold-studded columns and weird mythological creatures. Chinese tour groups and Australian backpackers. Japanese businessmen and Russian families. I thought I saw someone I knew from a long-ago screenplay writing class. I was all set to follow the suggested itinerary on the brochure but it meant braving the Emerald Buddha temple, and I wasn’t in the mood for a solemn commune with half of humanity. Walking away, I found myself in a secluded courtyard, away from the crowds. I sat on a low wall to rest my feet. Moments later, an old Asian woman wandered close by, looking tired. With slow steps she made her way to the wall and sat around a meter away from me. From her bag she took some crackers. She turned to me and offered the small packet. I smiled at her and shook my head. A minute or two passed in silence, then a huge Chinese tour group spilled to the courtyard. Spotting their run-away member, they screamed and decided to take a group photo right there and then. As they assembled amid shouted instructions, I caught the old woman’s defeated eye, the packet of half-finished crackers clutched in her hand.
All that we did in this world was to salvage scraps of freedom.
There were ambiguous grunts at the boardroom when I closed the door on my way out.
As in anywhere in Manila, the nearest Jollibee was five minutes away. I ordered all the things I remotely enjoyed in the menu: Chicken Joy, spaghetti, Jolly hotdog, fries, a hot fudge sundae, Coke. My table was right by the window so of course a street urchin soon flattened himself against the glass to add a dash of salty guilt to what I was eating. After my meal, I walked to the jeepney stop, passing by a familiar cylindrical skyscraper and the intersection where my namesake had died. It was two hours before the home-bound influx so the roads still breathed. I saw a near-empty jeep and got on.
It was too early for the LRT station to be so packed; must be a mall-wide sale nearby. The stairs to the platform were like mosh pits. The s
mell of labor drifted in the air, countered by the usual whiff of Axe from the just-showered construction workers on their way home. From time to time, the mixture of odors became too cloying and I had to look up, lest I suffocate. The horde funnelled to the two openings to the station, where security guards poked sticks inside backpacks and purses. The line for tickets was as long and winding.
By the time I got to the platform, at least an hour had passed. It was already dark in the peripheries of the station, away from the lights over the rails. Trains arrived like clockwork, but each one was fuller than the last, so few people could go on. Faces and contorted torsos were pressed against the glass doors of the coaches. “Let people get off first!” a voice would scold over the PA system, then an expletive, whenever waves of passengers would crash into half-opened doors before anyone inside the trains could alight. The disgorged people gasped for air, like roughed-up newborns.
From where I stood, I saw the familiar billboard on a nearby building. On it, a meadow was set against a clear, blue sky, and a woman with red hair in a blazer and pencil skirt was reclined on the grass, legs crossed; below, the logo of a pharmaceutical company and two short words: “Join us.”
It was also rush hour in the trains when I saw the billboard for the first time not too long ago. I liked its inviting simplicity. That same night I looked for my old psychology textbooks and sent out my résumé. During the interview, I told Carolina that after college I was side-tracked for five years, doing something that was comfortable, something that I was good at, but in the end I realized didn’t really fully express who I was. “I want a fresh start,” I said.
“A fresh start,” she repeated. “I like that.”
An empty train, thank god, soon arrived, and I scampered to get inside. I found a spot near a pole and staked my claim over that three-square-feet of space with all the energy that I had. Somebody settled behind me, and a head of sweat-smelling hair positioned itself just below my chin. I didn’t budge. An arm brushed my right cheek en route to an overhead handlebar, and a heavy backpack was placed on the tip of my left shoe. I gently kicked the bag aside, avoiding its owner’s eyes. The train gave a shudder then started to move.