Thursday, September 04, 2008 Yap: Celebrity calls By Januar E. Yap Meanwhile
MY friend Cesar is a Martian. Each time he gets soaked up with his favorite drink, he passionately argues against things Muslim. He’d say the army shouldn’t stop chasing the MILF despite the Holy Month. A slack will only allow those thugs a chance to slip out of sight, he’d say.
Another friend is on the verge of spawning the term racial stereotyping, but at least, I said, Cesar has organic intelligence. Of the Martian type, I said.
And nobody, not even any Ivy League best debater, can argue with my friend Cesar. He has this knack to hurl Rubik’s cubes to punctuate his rebuttal.
Just when we all think the inebriation had subsided, he gushes forth more attacks. He gets more personal, like saying the lot has this penchant to shoot saliva just about anywhere. Wait, I tell him, see if there’s any anonymous car or a dead cellphone around, and let’s go call the bomb squad. He does not listen. Nobody can get away with Cesar.
So, one time, I decided to wage my version of a holy war against my friend.
When he wasn’t watching, I took his mobile phone and edited my name in his directory into “Commander Robot.” My good friend went back to work, and a few minutes later, I called him from a safe distance. He checked on who was calling, and you could imagine my friend staring at the phone screen.
He looked around, and then gazed at the name flashing on his phone. He looked up again, at the windows, doors, on every portal of entry in his office space, and there on Cesar’s face was the embodiment of the Mindanao conflict. How could he, in the middle of a harmless chore like disemboweling his office drawer, get a call from a terrorist leader? The rest of the week, my friend became extremely quiet.
After a few days and in the name of friendship, I secretly edited the name again, from Commander Robot to KC Concepcion. You see, my friend Cesar spent his childhood trying to pretend his life didn’t have anything to do with Sharon and Gabby. He fell in love with a girl singing “Dear Heart” in a videoke bar and swore he’d rearrange the planets to his favor. But, still, despite this temporary madness, as he calls it, his life is beyond the equation and influence of any showbiz tandem.
So, one day, while the terrorist’s call remained unresolved, Cesar gets a call, this time from KC Concepcion. (There should’ve been a “For the First Time” ringtone.) Imagine my friend’s face again. I can read his mind, he’d rather have it from, say, Scarlett Johansson. But KC it is, while he is trying to fit one last square on his Rubik’s. “Hello, Cesar speaking,” he says. But he gets nothing but silence. “Hello?” Silence. “Hello?” Silence.
“Is this Cesar?” Finally, a male voice. “Speaking,” he said. “This is KC Concepcion.” “Are you crazy? What do you want?”
Silence.
Today, my name’s back on Cesar’s phone directory, and he won’t let me go within five feet near his cell phone. He still argues passionately with his arsenal of notions about people whose religion is different from his. His world is the epitome of what is normal and natural for him. Beyond that are nothing but unfit squares in his Rubik’s puzzle.
But I managed another chance. This time, my friend gets a call from Cesar Montano.
“Hello?” “This is Cesar Montano.” “Of course, Crisostomo Ibarra speaking.” “Let’s go grab a beer.” “Copy.”
