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Jay�s Literature Page
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| Last updated: 31 Jul 2005 |
(2001-2003)
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In Non-Prescription Buddy Holly Glasses
In non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses, I committed an act of violence against a phony who was wearing non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses. It all started when I was invited by an old college friend to go visit him and his now booming restaurant/grille/bar business in the heart of the city's night life center. The reader must note that upon quitting his first non-restaurant related job in the electronics manufacturing sector, this old college friend of mine converted his family's residence to a restaurant/grille/bar. It was in the year when the people of this country were just beginning to realize it was cool hanging out, seeing and being seen, in nightspots in the general area of my old college friend's family's residence. Thus like most establishments in the area, my old college friend's house was residential by day, and come 4 P.M., the rest of his family, save for the designated manager for the night, left for a nearby hotel. There they would spend the night in peace and quiet, as the hip and happening of the city trooped their house, now functioning as a nightspot. Understanding then that visiting my old college friend and his business establishment meant being with people, bumping into people, having my personal space invaded by people, witnessing phoniness left and right, overhearing crappy conversations run by some idiot with an even more stupid companion who believes him 110% of the way, even agreeing that it was the most intelligent, cerebral conversation she's ever had in her life--those things and more made me continually and constantly make up excuses to decline his invitation. If I am not mistaken, it wasn't until his second invite that the man actually succeeded in making me commit to come. "You know, S------ was seen hanging around this place not less than seventeen times the past month," was how he lured me. As the reader must also understand, I've had an eight-month-and-running crush on this expatriate beauty he had just named. If it is not yet known to the general reader, S------, who is a TV personality, among other external-beauty-related things, is actually Korean. My infatuation with her is mostly the reason I took it upon myself to drill into my head Elementary Korean, downloaded various Idiot's Guide to Known Korean Prepositions e-books, and made the vow that should I one day quit my current job, I would leave for S------'s country of origin, Korea. Thus, at exactly 5 A.M. of the agreed upon date, I woke up promptly to the sound of my mobile phone alarm, and started to make the necessary preparations for what I was very certain of the time to be the evening my TV personality crush and I would cross paths. * * * Fourteen hours and some twenty-eight minutes later, I was extracting the three hundred peso entrance fee to my old college friend's business establishment.It was, of course, not surrendered without a fight. In my case, I had a very heated debate against the two hundred and fifty pound bouncer who insisted that there were no instructions from the restaurant/grille/bar's management whatsoever that someone of my person was expected, and much more, should be welcomed with a free-entrance privelege. I maintained that being the owner's old college buddy, I was an invited, priveleged guest, even made more so imporatant because I would for the evening be functioning as the escort and date of one budding young expatriate TV personality S------. Either the bulky bouncer was hard of hearing, or he was just not very capable of following some moderately long compound sentences, my explanations had no effect on him. Quite the contrary, he got up from his chair and physically blocked my entrance, making it a point to display his muscular arms the size of my entire torso. I pulled out my mobile phone and dialled my old college friend's number. I was pretty sure he was just inside the place, and would immediately come out and straighten things out between the bouncer and me. He answered, sure enough, after only two rings. I informed him that I was already outside, and could he please order his bouncer to let me in without further hassle, and much more importantly, without the entrance fee? "Outside?" my old college friend asked. "Outside where?" "Bembol Vee," I said, which indeed was the name of his business establishment. "I'm already here." "Oh! Shhhh..." he supressed the only moderately offending profanity. Then there was the sound very similar to someone slapping his palm against his forehead. "I totally forgot, pare-dude! I'm sorry... You were supposed to finally come and visit Bembol Vee tonight, weren't you?" "That's right. Where the h--- are you? Let me in free to this joint, man." He didn't answer for some time, so I had to repeat. "Where the h--- are you?" "Listen, man," he said, sounding sincere. "I'm sorry, I totally forgot. That's probably why I had that funny feeling I was forgetting something as the ship was leaving port--" "Ship! What do you mean shi--" At that time, one of the less bulkier bouncers shoved me to the side to give way to some well dressed yet inferior IQ-ed-looking couple. I took special notice of the three one hundred peso bills each held ready in their hands. "Ship! What do you mean ship?" I had to repeat it, starting from the top. "We're in Gal�," he said, sounding a bit more proud than actually apologetic. "My current girlfriend Simianna and me. We won't be back there till Monday morning." "What?!?" "I'm sorry, man, just get inside and try to enjoy yourself, OK?" "Go inside? Enjoy myself? Man, these apes you have at the entrance wouldn't even let me in without shelling out a thousand. You gotta talk to these guys... fire them or something." The bit about terminating the employment of the bouncers I only whispered to the mouth piece. Also, about them being apes, as well as the thousand they were cadging off me. In fact, I said all those things to my old college friend over the phone in a conspiratorial whisper. "A thousand?" "Right you are. You really got to talk to these people.
"You ought to be let in for free," he said. "Let me talk to the bouncers. Give them the phone." With a triumphant grin on my face I walked to the two hundred and fifty pound bouncer and handed him the phone. "Your boss wants to have a word with you," I said. He took the phone, and he was all ready to take in the news of his termination from my old college buddy, when the line suddenly got cut off. At precisely that moment, my phone's call credits ran out. "Trying to pull something on me, wise guy?" he asked, after hearing that there was no one on the other end of the line. He looked very annoyed. He got up (again) from his chair, in fact, and looked at me with pure terror in his eyes. I thought he was going to do something against me--like commit an act of violence or something--but he only returned to me my zero-balance phone. At that point, it seemed that the only smart and dignified thing to do was go home. Very typical in my life: you get invited to go somehwere, to actually leave the peace and tranquility of your indoors life and go somewhere, then when you're there--usually on time, you either are made to wait for a long time for people you are supposed to meet, or you get stood up entirely. Truth to tell, I've spent more than a quarter of my life waiting on people, and the remainder, getting stood up. My whole life is a constant string of waiting and getting stood up. I was already starting on my way to leave, though, when I remembered the very reason I had come there in the first place: I was to be the escort and the evening's date of one budding young expatriate TV personality S------. So I turned back, and pulled out my wallet instead. I gave the bouncer what he had been drooling for since he got a sniff of the crisp bills I had in my pocket. As a consolation for all my trouble, though--my exhausted call credits, for one--I deliberately delayed pulling the money out of my wallet. If I had coins of really small denomination, I would have paid him with these; unfortunately I didn't. The door was opened for me as soon as my wallet got three hundred pesos lighter. Inside, the first thing I did was scan the place for any sign of any TV personalities around--but I tried to do it like I wasn't scanning the place for any sign of any TV personalities around. I tried to act cool; if there was one thing I was set to do and be on that particular evening, on that particular area in the city, it was to be cool. Indeed, I had all the affectations of a cool urban male. My clothes were all expensive, all as dictated to me by the latest ads on MTV. My hair was all slick due to the application of the best commercial hair styling chemicals available. Most important of all, I was wearing a pair of thick, black plastic framed, non-prescription Buddy Holly eyeglasses--the same as Ninoy's, only smaller. The way you could tell these were non prescription glasses was because you could see that the lens were neither concave nor convex. They were just flat, and not actually meant to be used to correct an imperfect vision. These last were I believe the most fashionable pair of accessories I sported. For one, they made me look bookish. For another, they highlighted my eyes, the same way the light growth of black facial hair around my mouth did my lips. You could only imagine my indignation, therefore, when, upon scanning the place, I saw seated somewhere in the bar, surrounded by all these beautiful, young girls with smooth, bare upper arms, this guy, obviously a big fake and an even bigger jerk, wearing non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses. The way I could tell they were non prescription was because I could see that the lens were neither concave nor convex; the guy was not wearing those glasses to correct an impaired vision--he was wearing them to look cool to the girls. I am not, by nature, a violent man, but upon first sight of that big fake, I immediately drew up in my head a plan to commit an act of violence against him, if at least to point out to him how offensive his phoniness was. No sooner had I finalized the plan had I started to act upon it; I immediately headed to the bar where he was sitting, surrounded by all the chicks. I didn't make it obvious, of course, that I was about to commit any particular act of violence against anyone. I made as if I was only going through the menu. At the same time, to become even less conspicuous, I pretended that I only wanted to admire the edible smooth upper arms of the young ladies at a closer distance. Then, when nobody was looking--and definitely not the pitiable object of my plan--I nudged gently on the elbow with my own elbow the big phony in non-prescription Buddy Holly glasses. It was done so gently, so subtly, that I doubt if he even felt it, or realized that an act of violence had been commited against him. Nonetheless, I uttered a perfunctory "Sorry". I wouldn't want anyone to think I had actually commited an act of violence against anybody on purpose. |
| � 2005 Jay Santos |