It was a gathering of friends and acquaintances.
Some had gained weight. Some had lost. Others had more grey in their hair, while others hardly had any. Hair, that is. There was one or two whose appearance hadn’t changed at all. Lucky them. They must have hit the jackpot in the gene lottery.
Some faces I hadn’t seen in quite a while, but the years hadn’t changed the bond that was forged after having worked together six days a week for a decade or more. We just picked up where we left off, albeit slowly at first.
Obviously, those who used to work in the SunStar newsroom hung out together at first. But that didn’t stop us from mingling with the others. After all, the media industry in Cebu can be described as incestuous, or fluid.
It didn’t take long before we were back to our usual banter. There was no pretense. We didn’t have to pretend. We had been through so much together.
No topic was taboo. Not in our group, anyway. And you would understand if you saw who was in the group. It wasn’t long before someone howled in laughter and had to be shushed because it was drowning out the ongoing Mass. And, of course, we didn’t attend the Mass. Again, you would understand if you saw who was in the group.
It was normal for us to be loud. But perhaps last Thursday night, outside the Dhalia (sic) Room at the Mactan Island Memorial Garden in Barangay Marigondon, Lapu-Lapu City, we were just a teeny bit louder.
Perhaps it was our way of drowning out the sorrow. Or perhaps we were just being ourselves. It had been so long since we were in one place together that I forgot the ruckus we could create.
But it was hard to ignore why we were there in the first place. For the next several hours, we found ourselves going on an emotional rollercoaster ride: one moment of pure, unbridled joy and the next, heart-wrenching realizations.
One remarked, “Bug-at kaayo akong gibati.” And we all agreed with her. We all felt the same. To those who don’t speak Cebuano, the phrase roughly translates to “I feel sad or depressed,” yet that even seemed hollow. Without gravitas.
I could still picture the same faces in one place at one time 20 or 25 years ago. Beer in one hand. Cigarette in the other. A live band blaring in the background. I don’t remember ever talking about the future back then. Heck, I couldn’t even see myself in five years’ time, let alone imagine that I would be attending the wake of a very good friend and former colleague.
I worked with Max T. Limpag in the newsroom for around 15 years. He joined us a year after I was hired as a copyeditor. Strangely enough, our youngest reporter wasn’t even born then. I never thought we would become good friends. We didn’t share the same interests. He liked football, I am a tennis nut. He was a techie, while I only started using a smartphone in 2022.
But when Max found out that I was the son and nephew of three alumni of the Pinoy fraternity at UP Diliman, he embraced me and treated me like I was a brother even though I belonged to another fraternity. And when his second son was born, he asked me to be one of the godfathers.
Since then, I called him, Maxi Pre, while he referred to me as, Pre.
To those lucky enough to be part of his inner circle, he was generous with his time and his knowledge. He tried to explain to me one time what the QR code was, before it became ubiquitous, even though his words fell on deaf ears. But that never stopped him from trying.
Out of the blue, I would receive a chat message from him asking if I was familiar with a detective series, usually British, since he knew I was fond of Agatha Christie’s Poirot and Miss Marple, as well as Midsomer Murders. Then he would send me a link. When that wasn’t possible, he would send his external hard drive so I could copy it. Just like that.
His last message to me on Messenger was, “Sharean tika,” referring to another TV series, Murder Before Evensong, about a rector in England who was entangled in a murder investigation. That was three weeks ago. On my birthday last Nov. 10, he posted on my FB account, “Eventful kaayo imo 46th birthday, pre. Grabeha.” And I replied with a laugh emoji.
Let me clarify. This is not an obituary. This is me trying to process the sudden loss of someone who has been a constant in my life since 1998.
I rummaged through my digital photo album for pictures of Maxi Pre and me. I was afraid I had taken his presence for granted, believing there was no need for pictures.
Luckily, I found not one, not two, but many photos, taken over more than two decades of friendship.
To his wife, Marlen, and his sons, Dylan and Lennon, my sincerest condolences.