Crashing & Burning at the Hopia Factory

The road was lined with bakeries offering different takes on the hopia, restaurants that had ten-centavo slot and pinball “Bingo” machines, gritty pool halls, Pula’t Puti dens, a theater curiously named “Lola” that featured x-rated “singgit” and loads of other stuff in nooks and crannies that offered activities bordering on the criminal; and, tuck in the middle of it all, believe it or not, was a school. Actually there were two schools.

I was told that high school is the best time in every person's life. Yeah right. I was misinformed.

Nobody told me that the First Quarter Storm was brewing and by the time I was on my second year, it exploded in my face. There were marches almost every day; people shouting; red banners waving; they say they were marching to Mendiola and they were asking everybody to join them; most times classes were suspended and sometimes there were no students to attend classes. I've never been to Mendiola, but once a classmate and I took a jeepney ride to Aranque-- not to join the demonstration but to get the latest issue of BTS near the Cinerama. I remember sitting near the school gate to watch the spectacle. I was clueless to what was happening.

With loads of free time on my hand, I usually wandered around the campus and inevitably stumbled on the library. It was air-conditioned and quiet. It suited me. I got a card and borrowed Edgar Rice Burroughs’ “Tarzan. Lord of the Apes”. To borrow a book, I had to go first through rows and rows of 3x5 cards in Narra drawers, then I had to write down call numbers and accession numbers on a slip of paper, which I'd give to the librarian; guided by the numbers I've written, the librarian would get the book, write the numbers on a card found in the sleeve on the back cover of the book, then the librarian would stamp the due date on the card and paper clip my library card to it. The librarian said that I could have the book for a week. I like processes and procedures; it produces a predictable pattern of actions where there's bound to be loop holes. Later in life I would be obsessed with finding how I could exploit the weakness of these procedures. I like the smell of the Narra drawers with the little compartments, too. With the borrowed book, I'd sit near the gate and read it while the marches and demonstrations were going on. It will be the first book I'll read from cover to cover. Classes were held sporadically and most times the clueless, like me, just milled around the school gates. When I got tired of what the campus could offer I’d go with my classmates to the pool halls; I'd check out the slots and the pinball machines for coins left behind; I’d hang around there until it was time to go home.

Sometimes I’d go to the back of the gasoline station to watch fights. Differences were settled here with fists. I was learning a few moves and it was fun; until a classmate challenged me to a fight, too. His name was Arnel. He was bigger and had more bulk compared to my skinny frame. I can’t recall how it started but I remember both of us crossing the street and walking down to the back of the gasoline station. He walked ahead a bit as we reach the place and without warning he turned around and threw a sucker punch. This was not his first fight. He knew the first rule of street fights-- take down the enemy even before the fight starts. I instinctively ducked. He missed. I felt no fear. I stared him down. I remember thinking: he used his right hand; he’ll use that hand again; go to the left so it can’t reach you. He took another swing at me. I swung to his left and took a hold of his curly hair and grappled with him on the hood of a parked car. I grabbed his shirt pocket and pulled on it until it tore. I don’t remember how or why it broke up but it did. I walked away with dirty clothes but was unscathed. I'll be challenged several more times and each time I was getting better.

I was spending more and more time at the Pula’t Puti den by the jeepney stop. I go there to play with the ping-pong balls; I’d bounce it off a wall or off the table into the imbudo; the Bosing didn’t mind me so I go on and on until I have perfected the angles. When people started to stream in I’d watch for a while then go home. Sometimes big-time gamblers with loads of cash go there and I watch them throw away money. One time I was asked to do my ping-pong trick by a fat man. He put down a big bet and signaled me to throw the ball. I bounced a ball off the wall, another off the table then I flicked the third ball into the imbudo. The balls all settled on red squares. The fat man laughed aloud; the Bosing eyed me with a smirk. The fat man put all his money on the Red again; I said he should put it all on the White; the fat man did. I bounced the balls again; this time I bounced all the balls off the table, one at a time; the first landed on a red square; the Bosing smiled; the fat man was silent; the two other balls rolled unto white squares. The fat man roared with laughter; "Salida" the Bosing shouted. I told the fat man I have to go; the fat man handed me some money; I don’t know how much it was; I haven’t had that much money before. I treated myself to an Hi-Ro and a Coke. I didn't know what to do with the rest of the money. The next time I tried to get in, Bosing manhandled me and threw me out; I wasn’t allowed to go back in that place again. I hanged out at the pool halls, instead; they have a sakla game going on the side; it was a card game and the deck was obviously stacked in favor of the balasador yet people crowded around to bet; I buckled down to figure out the game in between breaks from a pool game.

I was playing hooky more and more; the streets have become my school and I was learning urban jungle survival. It wasn't long after when I dropped out.