Out, on a Wednesday Night

Lynette is gorgeous. She's very friendly and classy, and she seems to have discovered the fountain of youth. That, or she was born with skin of similar elasticity as, say, the rubber band. I was thunderstruck when I saw her. I stared, and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind, "Gwapaha nimo uy!" 

Kaith and I met Lynette outside Tita's room in Chong Hua's ICU Section. We saw Tita, too, or more accurately, we saw the the back of her head. She went through surgery a few hours ago and though her condition remains critical for the next three days, she will hopefully be out of the woods after that. 

After the brief visit, Kaith, the hub, and I went to Kahayag. I picked Kahayag so I could hit two birds with one stone. First, I could have dinner with Kaith and ask her about her crazy life and second, I could practice returning to the fold. I've long gone AWOL on the Cebu literary scene and though I've no plans of reclaiming the old "child prodigy" status (because obviously, I'm neither child nor prodigy at this point), I thought it would be a good idea to meet up with characters from a past life. The old clique was holding a poetry reading session in Kahayag and I got to say "hi" to a lot of familiar faces.

You know you're in the company of writers - celebrated, failed, or actively failing - when like them, you start thinking of people in terms of titles and bylines. "This is Noemi," L introduced, and almost mechanically, I said, "Noemi of Let Them Reclaim the Sea?" 

L grinned happily. "Yes, yes. That Noemi. There's everything wrong with your writing and nothing at all with your memory. Welcome back."

"What's wrong with my writing?"  I made a face at her. L had once been my Economics teacher. She still teaches Economics at USC, in fact. She's a brilliant woman, a fierce thinker, a very eloquent speaker, and the most tactless person in, perhaps, the whole length and breadth of Asia. 

"You don't write enough. You're wasted in that call center you're slaving away in."

I laughed. She's the third person that night who told me to stop being in the call center industry. I wonder where they got the idea I'd find happiness being cubicled and then told to answer calls and bark out instructions to clueless Americans at a going rate of at least 40 calls a day. 

"I so do not work for a call center! Me? Work at a call center? Never!"

"Why?"

"Because I could easily imagine better and more lucrative reasons for self-exploitation."

"You married W," B chimed in. "That's exploitation for which you don't get paid at all." B is a full-time activist who moonlights as a USC Socio-anthropology Department faculty member. He is sitting beside his girlfriend, a pretty American named C. 

"Look who's talking. C is worse off than I am. She's letting you pollute her gene pool. How did you get so lucky, you bastard? You'll have a green-eyed future Miss Cebu for a daughter." 

"And you'll have a pislat ug ilong little brownie for yours," B shot back. 

Oh yes, if there's one thing I miss about this old crowd, it's the witty banter. I could have spent the night happily trading insults with B, L, and whoever wants to join the fray. I may have been outnumbered but I sure was not outgunned. 

Unfortunately, Kaith was prime target for all the failed geniuses prowling that bar. Easily the prettiest girl inside that room, she also happened to be the best dressed. In the interest of keeping many male hearts and egos intact, Kaith and I went elsewhere for dessert. We went to La Marea, in Crossroads, and yakked an hour and two platesful of chocolate cake away.  We stumbled home a little past ten.

Everyone should have a girlfriend like Kaith and a Wednesday night littered with good food and good friends.