SLIDING DOORS
An Anniversary Story
Home: Traders Hotel, Manila




"Pupunta daw si Allan sa Motions mamaya. May gusto sa 'yong ipakilala."

I was on the phone, talking to my friend, Tetet Dy. "Allan" was Allan Muhlach, the younger brother of her boyfriend at the time, Nino Muhlach.

"Cute ba?", I asked in curiosity.

"Malaki ang katawan" was her enigmatic reply, which said it all.



So it wasn't with great anticipation that I waited for Allan's arrival at Motions, the ballroom dance club I used to frequent at the Centerpoint Hotel in Manila, because my dance instructor, Boyet Hidalgo, worked there.

But in spite of it all, I was still mildly curious, glancing every now and then at the glass door entrance to watch out for the younger Muhlach's arrival. I had the perfect vantage point: the center table, raised on a dais, at the far end of the room. It was the table usually occupied by the hotel's owner, who happened to be elsewhere that night.

Suddenly, I felt Boyet stiffen. "Ayan na sila," he said.

I tried to look as nonchalant as possible, openly disinterested, but inwardly eager to find Allan's face from the crowd of patrons and matrons. I didn't have to exert much effort. All I had to do was follow the wake of craning necks to see the new arrivals.

Boyet's eyes were quicker than mine. "Ay Papa!", I heard him mutter under his breath, just as the crowd parted to let Allan and his friend through. And since I wasn't expecting someone particularly good-looking, I was practically bowled-over by the stranger's darkly handsome good looks, his Armani glasses failing to curb his unmistakeable sex appeal.

He was built like a god too, but I didn't find this out until later.

How much later I will leave you to guess...



At that particular moment however, I was trying my darnedest to look cool and casual while an inner voice screamed...

"Ang gwapooo!"
"Kamukha ni JEREMY IRONS!"
"Kiliiiig!"

On and on it trilled, in a decidedly irritating sing-song manner, voicing thoughts which grew progressively nonsensical by the second.

Believe me, it takes a lot to unleash my inner colegiala, especially since I didn't even know I had one, until it unveiled itself that evening.



But outwardly, I maintained a modicum of reserve, inviting them to join me at my table, the long-ingrained manners kicking in, as if on autopilot.

Poor Boyet was the only hapless witness to my inner distress, which had to outwardly manifest itself in some way or else I would go into meltdown. I pinched my dance instructor so many times that night. He was a good friend. He understood it was all I could do to stop myself from transforming into a simpering idiot.



But he wasn't as forgiving on the dance floor.

Boyet was an excellent instructor, grooming and polishing my ballroom skills for months until he was proud to call me his star pupil.

And indeed, on good days, we were a sight to behold. I was fairly decent at swing, I did a very mean reggae, and he was starting me on the Argentinian tango, where a misplaced kick could do effective damage to the nether regions, so it spoke volumes of his esteem for me, dance-wise.

He probably second-guessed himself that evening, and I don't blame him.

For indeed, I was so flustered, I kept messing up even our most basic steps, inconveniently at a time when he so wanted to show off. It was no secret in the club that he had a soft spot for Allan.

I could feel his mounting irritation, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a thought came, unbidden, that he might have been just a little bit jealous of all the attention spilling over to this newcomer.

It was a portent of things to come. Indeed. he saw less of me after that night.

And then I ceased to come altogether.



When Lorenzo first met me that evening, he told me I looked familiar.

It was something I was used to hearing, being a TV News Anchor at the time.

Little did I know it then, but there was another reason why he recognized me, and it would surface much later on in our relationship.

It was triggered by, of all things, a black outfit.

It was a casual getup, my favorite bootleg black jeans and a black v-necked sweater. But when Lorenzo saw me wearing it, he asked me a very unusual question.

"Were you in Euphoria sometime in April, and were you wearing black?"

Sure enough, I was.



I remembered that night exactly, since I don't usually go to Euphoria at all.

It was the day of my first radio broadcast in years. There I was, at the newscaster's booth, delivering the weather forecast, "brought to you by Che-Vital," for 99.5 RT.

I was pinch-hitting for Lily, who was on vacation in the U.S.. Later that evening, the on-air staff would go to Euphoria for a remote broadcast, coinciding with the launch of some vodka or another, I don't particularly remember which brand since I don't drink.

I went home after my last newscast to change from my TV clothes to something more casual. I also invited my dance instructor, Boyet, to come along. It was hard to forget the color-combination he was wearing that night: chocolate brown slacks and a purple polo shirt, way before Albus Dumbledore made the palette fashionable.

We entered Euphoria, quickly heading for the RT table, trailed by my bodyguard, Ed. Everyone was there, friends and former colleagues from my radio days: Dicky Aracama and Eric Eloriaga, Dada Carlos and Thelma Bowlen, and the remote jock on board, Boo Mayuga.

Boyet and I hit the dance floor, not knowing a familiar pair of eyes were already sizing me up.

Of course, they were still stranger's eyes back then, but incredibly, Lorenzo also happened to be at Euphoria on the very same night!



How do I know?

Because months later, he would recognize my black outfit and tell me exactly who else was with me the last time he saw me wearing it, down to my bodyguard in the navy-blue safari suit, my flamboyantly dressed dance partner, and the tall, bearded fellow I was talking to (Dicky A). He even remembered the exact spot where I stood to greet Dada and Thelma.

Obviously, my future husband was much more familiar with Euphoria's interior than I was.

I was flattered that he had noticed me back then. More flattered still when he told me that he wanted to ask me to dance with him that night, more than three months before.

But somehow he didn't.

Perhaps it wasn't the right time for us to meet just yet?



Indeed, I was still married to my ex-husband at the time, with no inkling whatsoever of our impending divorce, which would ironically come less than a year hence.

And now I ask myself: what would I have done if this incredibly handsome stranger (who, by some funny twist of fate, was also dressed all in black) would've approached me and asked me to dance?

I would've probably said yes, danced awkwardly to a song or two (I don't do disco well), and then properly said goodbye.

It would've been the polite thing to do.



I sometimes wonder how different our lives would be now if we would've met back then, in Euphoria. Certainly, the right ingredients were there: him and me. Heck, he even saw me and actually took notice, enough to recognize me and remember pertinent details, many months down the road.

And yet, I guess conditions weren't really conducive for a first meeting back then. Indeed, things would've certainly been a lot more complicated.

But somehow, I have a feeling that, convoluted or not, our paths would've still met at some point in time, whether past or future. Just like that Gwyneth Paltrow movie.

Because I believe that we were meant to be. And I take comfort in that knowledge, looking no further than my three beautiful children for The Lord's undeniable stamp of approval.



And on Sunday, July 31st, we will be celebrating our fifth wedding anniversary, which means it's been five years since we last saw our good friend Allan Muhlach...

...who also happened to be our Best Man.


(PLUGGING: "School Daze", the latest in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

MANG BEN
Home: 87 Gentle Street

His name was Ben.

He always smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen.

And Green Cross Rubbing Alcohol.

He was a former boxer, I was told, and a good one too. But all that was left when I met him was a man who walked with a slight limp and looked too old for his age. He was also poor, but he carried his poverty with a certain dignity which commanded my respect.

I always referred to him as Mang Ben, even though my younger sisters and the maids sometimes called him "Ben-tot".

This was because he had a speech impediment. Mang Ben was what was known as "ngo-ngo" in Filipino parlance. It was very difficult to understand what he was saying, so most of the time we would just let him talk and pretend to understand.

He also developed the habit of laughing at his own jokes, probably because he was the only one who could understand the punch lines.

Mang Ben was way into his forties when I first met him as a little girl in my grandparents' house. He was my Lolo Maning's masseur, or masahista as we called it back home. He came regularly at a certain day of the week, I now forget which, but I always knew when he was there from the unmistakeable odor of alcohol and wintergreen emanating from upstairs.

And then I knew my Lolo would be laying in the massage cot in his room and I would make myself scarce, knowing he was just in his karsonsilyo, as boxer shorts were known in his generation.

When they were done, Lolo Maning would invite Mang Ben to stay for some "cafe", and the two would proceed to my grandmother's cozy kitchen and make themselves a cup of Blend 45 and sandwiches out of "tasty" bread and a jar of Lady's Choice Sandwich Spread, talking about the latest gossip from the radio or Johnny Midnight's "toning" session the night before.

And then Mang Ben would leave, catching a tricycle to take him to Philcoa, where he would catch a jeepney to his next massage appointment, or to his humble home.

During these weekly sessions Mang Ben would sometimes service my grandmother too, and even my Mom, I think, but he was devoted to my Lolo, whom he called "Atoni", his own version of the word "Attorney".

And when my Lolo died, he walked all the way from our house in Quezon City to the funeral parlor in Araneta Avenue, because he didn't have money for transportation.

I still remember him, in the elegant confines of Arlington Funeral Homes, tired and dirty from his long walk under early March's scorching sun, his sad face a sorry sight amidst the well-dressed guests during the wake.

I greeted him at the door, touched at this final gesture. His humble tribute to a man he had known and respected for over a decade, and who treated him with the same fondness and respect.

And then he was gone.

I never saw him again after that.

I don't know if Mang Ben is still alive today. In all probability, he has already succumbed to the hard life fate had chosen for him to live. But even if he hasn't, I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be reunited with his old friend and mentor, his old "Atoni", my Lolo Maning, who will welcome him through the Pearly Gates with open arms...

This time as equals.


(PLUGGING: "Funtastic Four", an account of Troy's fourth birthday party, in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)

THE LIZARD OF OZ
Home: Marbella 2, MALATE


(photo courtesy of delish, taken from
Mec's Long and Windang Road.)


"Ay butiki..."
"Ay lizard..."
"Ay Lacoste!"

So goes the famous punchline of a TV spiel from the "Champoy" of my High School days. It featured a lizard suddenly falling from the ceiling, and the varied reactions of three girls: one masa, one edukada, and one sosyal.

I found it quite funny when I saw it on TV, yet if the same thing ever happened to me, I wouldn't be quite as stoic. In fact, I would've probably bolted straight to the stratosphere the minute that wretched thing landed.

Yes, I'm terrified of lizards. I don't like the way they look, I shudder at the way they feel and I startle at the sight of their wriggly, jerky movements. Even their trademark clicking noises raise a primal fear within me, a fear borne out of countless encounters during my childhood.

Indeed, how many times have I been roused from slumber by a dull thud on my blanket, only to find a panicked little gecko trying to battle its way out of the covers? And how many times have I been trapped in our bathroom because a lizard was stuck on the door, refusing to leave?

And my most terrifying memory of all...the day I came home from school hungry, spying a paper sack of pan de sal on the kitchen table. Somebody else had been eating before I arrived because there was still a jar of Cheez Whiz beside it with a butter knife perched on the lid. I was just about to put my hand in the sack when a flesh colored butiki jumped out and headed straight for me, its soft, rubbery body just grazing the tips of my fingers.

By the time my heart rate went back to normal, there were sinister shards of glass, a big, lonely lump of Cheez Whiz, scattered pieces of pan de sal and a lone butter knife on the floor.

With such unfortunate experiences, it's no wonder I avoid encounters with the little beasts. Oh, I can hold pet iguanas with no problem, but my tolerance level of other members of the lizard family corresponds with their size.

In other words, the smaller they are, the higher the fear factor.

But I was born and bred in a tropical country, where lizards are a necessary evil. In fact, when I moved to Florida, I discovered to my dismay that they had a thriving population there too, except here in the United States, geckos are considered cute enough to act as mascots and spokeslizards for large insurance companies.

But, from Miami, we moved to Cincinnati, then to Toronto, then to the Netherlands, which was the farthest from the tropics I'd ever been. And even when we moved back to the Philippines, we lived in five-star hotels, where the closest encounter you got with the lizard kind was sharing the same room with men wearing crocodile leather belts and women bearing Hermes alligator handbags.

And so, by the time we moved into our Roxas Boulevard condo, my harrowing memories of gecko encounters were shadowy things of the past. Oh, I was still terrified of them, but I was living in a building with a snooty clientele who didn't mind paying for security, hot running water, and monthly fumigation, which effectively rendered the building pest and vermin-free.

And there, warmly enveloped in First World comforts, I lived happily under the delusion that I was safely cocooned from terrifying monsters such as lizards and frogs. After all, our condo was on the second highest floor, just one floor below penthouse level. Marauding frogs and lizards would have to battle their way through the ground floor guards, figure out a way to operate the elevator, and make it all the way up sixteen floors in order to attack me.


But one such lizard did.

I remember it like it was yesterday. It was a Sunday afternoon. Belen, Sam and Regan had the day off, and Lorenzo and I were enjoying the langorous weekend together. I was lounging on the bed, already pregnant with Lance, when I saw a quick movement by the bedroom door.

I didn't know what to make of it, since we were never really plagued by insects and pests in that building. It was hard to see what the thing was against the dark parquet flooring. I immediately assumed it was an ipis and told Lorenzo about it, unalarmed. Cockroaches don't bother me. Even the huge, fat, flying ones don't send me into a panic. I just wait for them to alight somewhere and squash the living daylights out of them with my trusty slipper.

And so I confidently got out of bed to go to the bathroom. It was when I was halfway there that I saw it on the floor. A scrawny little lizard with dark bands around its tiny body.

I screamed and ran back to the bed, half-hysterical in fright. Lorenzo calmly tried to soothe me, but I was pregnant, hormonal, and needed to go to the bathroom FAST. I was also terrified half out of my wits, refusing to leave the bed until I knew the lizard was at a safe distance away from me.

Lorenzo threw a slipper at it so it would go away. The scrappy little thing disappeared under my shoe closet. When I had finally reassured myself that the coast was clear. I set foot on the floor only to scream once more. For indeed, there it was again, in the same spot, this time with its mouth wide open, as if to scare us into submission.

It was a feisty little creature all right, and this show of defiance was quite admirable coming from such a diminutive animal, but my partner had had enough. Lorenzo was already concerned about my pregnant bladder, and was getting quite impatient, both with me and at the lizard. He grabbed a broom and was about to swing at it when he heard my voice behind him:

"Don't kill it..."

Despite the fact that I was dead scared of the little thing, I didn't want its life on my hands.

By then, I was already crying, my pregnant hormones pushing me on the verge of hysteria. I could feel my fiance's exasperation, but I couldn't help myself. I could not, for the life of me, stop the tears from falling. The situation would've been comical if I didn't have a painfully engorged bladder to empty.

When he saw the tears, Lorenzo's look became murderous. I could see he wanted to chop that lizard into little pieces already, but he demonstrated great restraint, calmly sweeping the lizard out through our bedroom door and into the hallway.

I fairly jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom, finally emptying my bladder with a great sigh of relief.

Lorenzo was gone for quite a long time. i was wondering if he had somehow lost sight of the butiki. For a single panicked moment I imagined it, hiding outside my bedroom door, waiting to ambush me. And then the door opened, and my future husband walked into the room, tired but victorious.

He had swept the luckless little thing down the stairwell, where it was safely esconced more than two floors down.

He must've been a sight to the two people who got off the elevator on the fourteenth floor. Imagine this handsome, hunky model-actor, wearing a tank top, wielding a broom like a golf club, swatting at a hapless little lizard, blocking its progress hither and thither in order to check its course, making sure it was headed the opposite way from his unborn child.

Sure, it was harder going about it this way, but it was the humane thing to do.

And I appreciated him all the more for it.


Ironically, to this day, I still scour the perfume places I visit for a hard-to-find scent, my favorite of all the fragrances I've smelled on Lorenzo so far.

It's name? Booster by Lacoste.

Whose trademark logo is a crocodile the size of a common house lizard.

With its mouth wide open.


(PLUGGING: "The Forgotten Five" in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)