A Throwback, FPJ and His Drinking Buddies

BIMBO CABIDOG

This happened at the time of Ate Glo, or the presidency of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo.

At 3:00 in the afternoon, FPJ arrived. “Tineks ko!” (I texted him) a kumpare of his told. He drove a police-type jeep. The unmistakable persona cruised briefly into the inner street, and parked beside the front yard of a neighbor.

He waved to us as soon as he stepped out of the vehicle. I would always recognize him a mile off, FPJ as buddies call Konsehal Maing.

Why close friends call him by the famous initials of his idol is obvious. Konsehal Maing sports the trademark Fernando Poe hairstyle highlighted by defining Tom Jones patella.

Gait also is carbon copy of the idol. He got off the vehicle like da King coming down from a horse’s steed. After a sweeping glance around the neighborhood, he sauntered in the humble royal stride that has made the original FPJ well-loved to where we sat at the open portico of my work mate’s house.

To make everything about the box office king complete, Konsehal Maing wore – dressed-to-kill, one of his favorite cowboy outfits from shirt to boots. The garb imitated to a tee that of the fast gun of many a Pinoy Western in the golden years of the silver screen.

Of course, also in the class were Jun Aristorenas, the late Jess Lapid, Erap the Deposed, Senator Lito Lapid, yes, Dolphy and Chiquito, besides the one and only Sorrento Da King. I wouldn’t miss their films, during my days of movie addiction. Following in their fashion, Konsehal Maing won’t be behind in talk of the way-back-when.

But the originals will have a run for their money at the videoke joints in private living rooms or at the pubs. Konsehal Maing croons Nat King Cole and Pat Boone, and vocalizes the Bee Gees medley. He caps the show by waxing sentimental, nostalgic, jolly and offbeat on all of them.

In drinking and singing sprees at the watering holes cum videoke bars in town, FPJ swells like the super moon and ebbs like the lunar tide. The buddies get lost there on hard days’ nights. The wives don’t know where they are, unless some envious Joker tips up the ladies. With the other halves coming to join the fun, war breaks out like the invasion of the Japanese hordes.

The nocturnal stints in the red-light joints were actually the farthest they’d go towards defying the moral and marital strictures of society. But the affairs were life-changing ones. From thirty to forty years of daily grind, they instantly metamorphosed into bards of the night liberating long pent-up rebelliousness in the company of the talented hot legs who sang and belted better.

Never has a town witnessed such unseen transformation from boredom to excitation. The Lonely Hearts Yukosawa Club would rest the coat-of-arms to don the leather jackets of the Young-At-Hearts of the Twilight Zone. The Yukosawa is a remnant of the last Samurai standing for Yuko Sa Asawa, a Pilipino phrase meaning bowed to the wife.

Senior citizenship for the buddies has dawned and risen to the bloom of day. Some would cross the physical limits pledging allegiance to Alcoholics Unlimited. Konsehal Maing was nearly at Saint Peter’s Gate. He was lucky to break only a shoulder blade speeding on his 150 cc motorcycle at 80 kilometers per hour and at the same time sleeping from having a drink too many.

Aging sixties, the men speak a lot in subliminal language. They have learned from sixty summers on the planet how to feign meanings, how not to say what they mean. They read not between the lines, but behind. Now, they very well know that the hardest to wake up are not the awake, but children who are in mid-life crisis.

Like the FPJ movies, Konsehal Maing and his buddies have habituated to telling where everyone must go, but wouldn’t in real life go there. They won’t for one turn of a wheel roll on to the road least travel, or test the other ground straying from where they are, except pouring their domestic gripes to the miniskirts at the videoke bar.

The FPJ in Konsehal Maing has perfected the form of establishing position and planting a presence in everyone’s midst timed to movie sequence. In slow-motion, he sits down at the bamboo bench of his ugto (brother by affiliation to a godfather), raises left arm to rest an elbow on the table, and stretches the other right to reach for the glass of red palm wine which we call in the native tongue, tuba. The measure of time, and ballet movements – courtesy of Charles Bronson who must have done the choreography, mesmerize.

Very early, the crowd of fiesta goers outside has strangely loosened. The folks have thinned during what usually was the peak of visitors in the afternoon. This was far from the celebrations of fiesta before. “There are much too few visitors now than in the past,” somebody commented.

FPJ did not talk but just contorted his mouth, and made a circle with thumb and forefinger to signify zero. The barrio folks have no or little money to spend.

“Kuri gud panahon yana (times are very hard now),” a buddy blurted before gulping a quick swig. Yes, it showed even in the season for visitors enjoying food fests and reveling.

The big house in the barangay must be feeling also the pinch. The political bigwigs and denizens of high society did not show as they always did during the eve of the fiesta. Nobody came because no invitation was sent. The host deferred the occasion.

The sound systems of the videokes in the houses blared to high decibels. But even the sweet massage of Matt Monroe’s ballads could not salve the sting of the hard times. The ubiquitous lechons (roasted pigs) did not show up in most of them, and the salads and cakes were down to one or two types. In some, the usual desserts completely disappeared.

Ha ha ha, the buddies didn’t know they also could do tsismis (gossipy talk). Seeming to not entertain the juicy subject matter, one hushed, “Don’t tell!” They swore to keep the open secret of penury only to themselves.

Were the times damn bad? But the administration and its top managers keep saying year after year, the crisis has been wrestled to the ground, the fundamentals are robust, and the vital signs of the economy are humming like crazy.

One buddy, a government official, fumed: “I wouldn’t say anything, but they are all sons of bitches.” He nevertheless said something. He talked of planning to retire early and going into the virgin coconut oil or VCO business to add to his pension.

The guy revealed that he once almost got recruited by the late Dr. Ray de la Cruz, the famous star manager who made supernovas out of formerly unknown talents. But fate made him an election officer instead.

After 40 years of reproducing a drab existence week after week, the guys are now bona fide members of the Young-at-Hearts, and like Konsehal Maing, class acts at staging the greatest performance of their lives every time they visit the dimly lit huts along the hidden coves and folds of the town.

 “Ok, ok, tagay!” (Okay, okay, let’s drink) FPJ roused everyone raising his glass. The buddies started to follow suit, but with a puzzled look held back: “Anay daw, di ka nala magproprotesta?” (Wait, won’t you protest anymore?).

Could things have been different if the original FPJ had assumed the highest office of the land? Konsehal Maing intoned, “Mga pare, it’s not under the jurisdiction of the Supreme Court.” He grinned and looked everyone in the eye blinking.

All these years, I have always been a poor struggling fellow, unstable in finances, and uncertain where to get the wherewithal for the next leg of my journey. But experiencing local life, and meeting folks like Konsehal Maing aka FPJ and the drinking buddies have made me rich.