The Pharmacy(TM)

In a first-time reunion of the members of a now-defunct youth club affiliated with our local (but also rather now-defunct) Rotary Club, I met my old-time clubmates: "G" and "D".

On her bare feet, my friend "G" could be roughly five-foot four, but she actually was closer to five-foot six in real life–on account of the two inch heels she usually wore. Her current fare was a pair of cream leather mules of the pointy-toed kind (which incidentally was currently quickly fading out of fashion) which she purchased in a fit of misery just two months ago from Charles and Keith. Her emotional disposition at the time of purchase overcoming her patient practicability and sense of frugality–and thus once again placing her disposable income further from a "real" pair of shoes (maybe one from Naturalizer, or Kenneth Cole perhaps… or maybe not…).

But again, going back to the pair she was currently wearing, the interesting thing was not the price, nor disposition, but the way one of her two-inch heels was slowly sinking into a human eye socket, savagely piercing through eyeball, tissue, bone, then brain matter as she intently ground her foot harder against a dying man’s head as he lay prone on the ground, body twitching…

All this in her imaginative (albeit currently cruel) mind of course.

"D", the unfortunate male recipient of all this imaginary torture, was providing a brutally politically incorrect assessment of G’s then current situation. He was saying how she was a prime example of how the "least fit" will tend to survive for a while (until they eventually die out)–which was in complete antithesis to believers of Darwinian evolution–i.e. survival of the fittest–(not to mention downright irritating to someone in G’s situation).

A little background info on G:

• Eldest daughter of a well-to-do family. Father ran a fairly lucrative garment export business, Mother was a senior executive in San Miguel for nearly two decades, until retiring with a seriously generous severance package.
• Honor student all through elementary and high school. Straight A’s magna cum laude in  Management Engineering from a prestigious university (obviously the only one offering the such an obliquely-vaguely-named course).
• Three-time finalist and two-time champion of a national math olympiad, member of Mensa Philippines, an active member of Youth-For-Christ, then later Make-A-Wish.
• In the face of multiple job-offers even prior to graduation, took a supervisory position at Global Marketing in a well-known foreign bank, was quickly promoted to sales manager within a year, quickly earning six-digit quarterly bonuses in her first two years.
• Was sourced by a headhunter at the end of her second year of employment. Resigned her bank position to take up a higher-paying job in Brand Marketing (although on a contractual basis) at a prominent multinational manufacturing and distribution company.
• Within the first month of her new job, she quickly settled in, putting in long hours in her assignments, started to bring work home within the first two months.
• Three months into her new job, the company hired a new Vice-President for Marketing.
• Five months into her new job, the Vice-President for Marketing invited her for a chat, where he told her that he simply could not see the "passion" in her work and after so eight more general "motherhood" statements tells her that she was currently on contract probation.
• Six months later, the company’s Vice President for Human Resources sends her a memo stating that her contract will not be renewed for the succeeding year.
• Having been fired and thinking life sucks, goes on a shopping binge, where she also incidentally purchased the dangerous mules she used to inflict the imaginary violence described earlier.

G went on a depressive mood for the succeding two months after her separation, during which time she could not muster the nerve to do anything, call anyone, read, write, even idly watching tv was emotionally difficult to do. She suffered her first (and obviously worst) cases of dysmenorrhea during this period–which to her mind was an indicative sign of hormonal imbalance brought about by anxiety.

Then she got a call from our former youth club secretary, who announced the club reunion date. That’s when G thought: "This sucks! I’m dying in despair! I have to do something!" She then briefly thought about the members of our club (myself included, I would imagine). I would guess coming from her trauma, she didn’t think much of the risk of meeting people (fun people, at least the way she remembered them) that she hadn’t seen in nearly seven years.

She was right, until she got talking to D. Ah well…

What the crap was D saying anyway? (Listed in the exact sequence I remember his monologue–excluding all the snide "shut up" and groans from G interjected in-between every other sentence):

1. You know, G. It’s ok to feel sad. But don’t indulge too much. You’re just being a victim of the past.
2. Hindsight bias: you’re judging yourself based on what happened to you–which is just one outcome out of an infinite possible of outcomes.
3. Think about it: you’ve never failed at anything in your life. It could be argued therefore, that you are the "most fit" for the life you have left–perfectly adapting to the tasks presented to you, subjects you needed to study, professors you needed to meet, jobs you had to take, contests you were entered in.
4. But the fact that you were sucessful–perhaps too successful at things you have done, makes one infer that you are exactly unfit to pursue any other life that you could have led. Say if you were born a tad poorer, or richer, went to a different school, took a different course, had a different job.
5. Why do you take it against yourself that your life suddenly changed despite you "doing exactly what you have done in the past."? There are things outside your control–and lives other than the ones you’ve lived.
6. So your boss changed, and you’re fired. Could you have predicted that? Or maybe, you never expected it–because you’ve always had life handed to the way you wanted it, the way you needed it, the way you should have been given it just to succeed… until now.
7. You get too fit for one life you’ve lived, makes you unfit for other lives you could have lived–or generally unfit for all lives you could live on average.
8. In a way you should be happy that at least now you get to live another life–and see if you can be as successful in this one as the last, or any other life for that matter.
9. But actually, don’t even be too happy about it. Because happiness and sadness don’t have any real relation to life’s outcomes–their all swayed by hormones and biases…
10. One day they’ll invent a serotonin pill that’s available at your corner drugstore. Take it whenever you feel crappy. Then you can get on with whatever life you’re living…. ahh all this talking’s getting me thirsty. Is that sprite on the table?….

D, getting ever so esoteric by the minute (and pissing off G in the process), was making some sense somehow. The way I interpreted it: D was practically telling her to stop thinking so highly of herself, pick herself up, bandage her wounds, and move on. Because shit (most especially the unexpected kind) has a tendency to happen–and happen really bad most especially to people who have never even seen shit before. Call it an education of sorts.

Incidentally, it’s worth knowing that D was currently unemployed as well.

This whole sordid affair brought to mind an old gypsy curse:

"May you get what you want."
"May you want what you get."

Or even better to quote another one of those little tidbits of wisdom you get over a few shots of vodka after a particularly toxic Friday at work, call it "Vodkaism # 6":

"We’ve always compared a sad rich man and a happy poor man and thus learned nothing. We should actually be comparing a sad rich man and a happy rich man, or even a sad poor man and a happy poor man. Then we actually learn the difference between them:

Regardless of life’s outcomes, one person decided to be happy about it."

<End of Part 6>

About a year ago, a friend of mine wrote to me.

"To my dear friend. I write you now before the thought lapses from my frail memory forever. I have just returned from a rare and lucky night. I met someone. She was formal but sweet. She was patient with me and honest. She laughed at my jokes and told me her story. She stayed with me when I asked her to. She was courteous and understanding. She needed no introductions. She graciously accepted me with openness and without malice. On the whole, we were pleased to meet each other. And When we left, we parted with a quick kiss. That’s when I promised myself that I would never see her again."

My eyebrows were raised as I read my friend’s email–which was as cryptic as his subject: "Now I know what to do."

Quite the romantic one, my friend is, I just remembered.

Those girls who have met him say he’s kinda cute. Not drop-dead gorgeous, but the kind of guy women fall in love with secretly (i.e. never discussed during CR-breaks). Well, whatever that means, that’s what the girls say anyway.

He’s not a bad dresser and with no little thanks to me he recently discovered the true value of buying real-leather lace-up oxfords (classic and square-toed) instead of the usual synthetic leather snub-tipped-round-toed crap they sell at Mendrez (and other women’s shoe stores pretending to carry real men’s shoes).

A few days after reading his email, I met up with him at a local watering hole. He’s not very talkative, this friend of mine. Never was. And so it was quite an out of character thing when he started to almost-eloquently recant the sordid details of his one-night experience. It was the stuff of myth and legends, as you will see.

It started with a glass of vodka in a party in BF Paranaque, where he was invited by a girl nearly twice his age whom he had dated a few months back. The romance never went anywhere, but at least landed him a semi-permanent slot in the girl’s guest list. The lady came from that type of wealthy clan that loved throwing parties for any particular reason (which came catered and with full staff and a DJ, no less). This was already the fourth party he had attended at her sprawling house, when a sudden instinct forced him to leave. A few seconds of courteous farewells and a customary "I’ll call you" to the girl he would never really date again led to a surreal drive around Sucat, some 80’s OPM rock tunes blaring in his CD player (he was an After Image fan).

Along the road, a sudden flash caught his eye, and before he knew it he found himself parking into Casino Filipino right where the old Duty Free used to be (back in the time when After Image was probably still playing on 97.1 WLSFM).

He had about three-grand in his pocket. He got a thou, bought some chips and milled around, taking in the sight of the various casino derilicts: some Korean and Japanese tourists, Middle East and Hongkong OFWs spending some of their hard earned currency, and a couple of old men and women who looked like casino regulars. This latter group of people (if instinct served right) were either abandoned black sheeps of some landed and wealthy family in some Ayala subdivision who were too rich and invalid they could do nothing better but gamble, or an eccentric uncle or aunt who never got along with the rest of their siblings because they refused to get a "real job".

Generalisations all. And here was my friend–the specific among the general–or probably the only general among the specific, as he had no special story of his own. Nothing colorful about his life. Nothing extraordinary.

He skipped the blackjack tables, which were full, as were the baccarat, roulette, and slots. He finally spotted a table (of what looked at first glance like a children’s game) called "Red and White". As he explained, the game was pretty simple–you dropped three balls into a container with a 10 by 10 grid marked with red and white squares and two stars. Bets were made on any combination of two reds, three reds, two whites, three wites, one star, or two stars. Any two reds or whites doubles your bet, any three reds or whites gets you 7 to 1, any one star 15 to 1, and any two stars 250 to 1. And of course, if a star comes up, everyone loses except the one betting on the star. Minimum bet was 50.

My friend, who was also a little bit of a statistician himself, sat down and started placing bets. And within an hour, parlayed his one thousand into two thousand, Getting into the rhythm of the game, he increased his bet size everytime his money increased by a thousand: from 50 to 100 to 200 to later 500 a clip and another hour and a half later, was the proud holder of a little under five thousand pesos in chips.

Nearly three hours in the casino he had never entered in his entire life, and looking at his chip stack, my friend glanced at his watch–it was nearly midnight and he did what no normal gambler on a winning streak would ever do: he stopped playing. Quietly picking up his chips, he cashed them back in the cashier and quietly left the casino.

Absent mindedly fingering the thin stack of new bills in his pocket, he remained in his car motionless for a couple of minutes. His mind remained blank and in disbelief that he has done what few people can expect to do in a casino–leave with more money than when you entered it.

He finally snapped to a few minutes later, he drove out of the casino and instincts brought him near a "KTV bar"–which to colloquial parlance effectively is a massage parlor and brothel. Still a bit dazed from his casino win, he decided to park at the McDonalds alongside. He ordered a McChicken meal, with a large fries and orange juice. He warfed down the fries but barely touched the sandwich. Several minutes later, he took the once-bitten McChicken with him as he left–subconsiously thinking of donating it to some poor kid outside (as usually each McDonald’s has its following of kids begging for food).

Finding none, he left the sandwich in the front seat of his car (an old Nissan Sentra–a college gift from his parents), and with only a split second thought, made a steady walk towards the "KTV" bar.

At this point, I cautioned my friend that he need not share with me the intimate details of his dealings inside the "KTV" if he felt uncomfortable (but actually it was more for my benefit as I felt a bit guilty "titilating" myself with his tale). But to my chagrin, he continued to be forthcoming with his story. All of which was to my "educational" delight, to be honest.

Never being in such an establishment before, my friend was quickly assisted by the "KTV" staff with his options. He was led to a small chamber which contained a window into a larger room, the "Aquarium" as it was termed–where arrayed in seating were some the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life.

The girls were marked–letter and number. He needed to choose one (or two or three–as the staff were quick to offer a "twin" and "trio" discount for those interested). My friend was, oddly enough, not as appalled as he expected at the thought of browsing women the way one would check out shirts, appliances, or used cars (this perhaps most appropriately). He did however, give the choice some thought and began to appraise each girl’s characteristics.

What did shock him was his chain of thought: he screened out girls taller than him, those with short hair, those who did not smile, those who did not have striking eyes and a beautifully tapered neck. Not even Freud could bring out that many fetishes in one interview. He also found it strange that he thought to identify the girl by elimination rather than choosing the one he most fancied from the very beginning…

Ms. "H6" was the choice. "She looked like my ex", he said.

The story that followed was probably the closest I’ve ever gotten to hearing a clinical version of a porn movie. There was, of course, the customary massage (my friend attests that these girls really knew what they were doing, surprisingly), after which a quick shower (the establishment had hotel-level amenities, surprisingly too), and then a long-drawn passionate session. Strictly with protection of course.

My friend, as I mentioned, was not the type to fool around–his last real sexual encounter was with an old officemate of his who was almost his girlfriend for about a year until she left their company–and that was nearly a year before that night.

I admit I was shifting uneasily at my friend’s clinical bluntness. It was ventilation, no doubt about it. But controlled venting. He was definitely enjoying his story-telling.

The session lasted about one and half hours. H6, for all her talent, had climaxed five times during the episode while my friend (as he claimed so scaringly matter-of-factly) had not. Following instinct, he asked H6 if it was possible to extend their session.

"Room rates are discounted, but you have to pay me full again."

My friend, a bit exhausted, nodded in acquiescence. H6 took him up gently for a second shower, after which they rested for several minutes, pillow talking about how H6 got started in her profession and why my friend, despite his good looks (my friend guessed that these girls will probably tell you exactly what you want to hear) and disposition, still was allegedly single (again he guessed that these girls, regardless of what you tell them will never think that highly of you anyway–that you did not have some girlfriend or wife waiting for you after you left).

Fifteen minutes of pillow talk and they were at it again. And one hour later (a mythical record, if surveys of average lengths of sexual encounters are to be believed) my friend finally ended with an explosive (his term) climax.

Both satisfied (the girl more likely–given the kind of work she had to do, literally), the two of them remained motionless for a few minutes, allowing the waves of their passion to subside together. The wrap-up was quiet and quick. A third shower, dress-up, and payment made. Lovers minutes ago, employer-employee now.

"Thank you. It was nice meeting you. Good luck. I am very happy." My friend said.

"It was nice meeting you too. You are my first three-hour customer." H6 said, in straight english, surprisingly three.

The whole experience cost him exactly the four thousand pesos he made in the casino earlier.

She led him quietly through the dim corridors of the building towards the discreet exit. Before he left, H6 tipped his head toward her and gave him a sweet peck on the cheek–as though she really honestly cared. A few minutes later, he would admit to himself that this last kiss might have actually been a figment of his imagination.

It was nearly 4am. He found his once-bit McChicken waiting in his car. He had finished eating it before he arrived home.

At this my friend’s story ended. We quickly made our farewells and promised to meet up again in a few years to check on each other. In hindsight, recalling his story now, it’s the kind of story that is so far-fetched that for it to happen to just anyone I know would be almost akin to seeing a refrigerator assemble itself spontaneously in a junkyard from spare scrap parts (and a WORKING refrigerator at that!).

And I thought: how cool–a real story. Far-fetched, but real. For some reason, should I meet my friend again, I will have slightly more respect for him. While I try not to render judgement on his episode (value judgements are the worst kind–since they are never based on any solid facts, just biases), it also gives me a sense of comfort (perhaps slanted or misplaced) that human experience–at least in my immediate social circle–has not been disabled or limited by status quos nor moral and value (oftentimes misplaced as well) judgements made by people out of ignorance.

For the same reason I will tend to discredit a priest’s advice on relationships and how to raise a family (obviously they are understandably the most underqualified segment to offer such advice), I would probably tend to believe an ex-drug-addict’s advice on drugs, and more succinctly, my friend’s advice on sex and gambling. And how the two, while possibly offering quick wins, are far from the surest ways to afford happiness.

In the meantime, I have about one year left before I meet my friend again. I only wonder what he has been up to.

<End of Part 5>