Maud our youngest child is 21 today, also the anniversary of the eruption of Mount Pinatubo, dormant for 600 years, the reason why the Americans are physically out of Clark Air Force Base, and the birthday of enfant terrible Miriam Santiago. The eruptive power of both her birthday mates encourages me that we have a daughter who will not be a pushover.
But that is only half of the reason for this essay.
It’s prostitution.
Why? The innocence of our bunso, coupled with the only act in the Bible that merited death by stoning? It’s like this. Yesterday, I was stage father to Maud as she was interviewed by a company in Paragon Plaza on Epifanio delos Santos Avenue near Crossing-Shaw Boulevard in the morning, and Hinge Inquirer Publications, sister company of Philippine Daily Inquirer, at one o’clock in the afternoon. Since I had no appointment for the day, I drove for her, as a pre-birthday gift and for bonding.
She breezed through the first interview and off we went to Hinge in its new building near the corner of Don Chino Roces Avenue and Pablo Ocampo Sr. extension near Onyx Street in the less tony side of Makati. We made it a point to be early, so we had Mickey Dees Big and Tasty sandwiches — burger with lotsa veggies — pineapple juice (no soda) and unsalted French Fries. Together with us on queue is a group of three people, a rotund gentleman (or so I thought) in brown barong Tagalog, the kind I would wear, a shadowy third person and a pretty young lass, so pretty and refined she can come straight from graduation in the University of Santo Tomas, same batch as Maud. She squinted when she read the menu on the wall, which made her look, well, kinda pretentious, like someone trying to appear scholarly, which made me start my suspicion meter. But I had no idea then what kind of craft she was engaged in at the time of the squinting.
Anyway, Maud and I chomped on our sandwiches, we just looked at each other’s eyes, no need for conversation for a father and daughter who talk too much and do things together too much anyway. And then it happened. A flash. From the corner of my eye, where the squinting girl, let’s call her Karen, and let’s call the barong-clad guy, Attorney, were seated, a flash from Attorney’s pocket-sized digital camera circa 2000. He was taking pictures of Karen’s face. Once, twice, thrice and then too many to count in succession, as they were conversing. Karen didn’t mind the flashes at all, just kept on talking, which made me wonder because it wasn’t normal for a girl her age (or of any age) not to take a peek at the digital pics. Suspicious, I swivelled my chair towards their table, the better to catch sounds clearly. ”Japanese…” said Attorney, mumbling his words and clicking away.
I turned back to Maud. When we locked eyes, I said:
“The girl’s a prostitute.”
Maud said, “So that’s why.” She was listening in, too, probably caught the flashes, and had the same suspicion, although maybe not in the same league as mine.
“The guy’s a pimp,” I continued, using the Tagalog street word, which can translate to “shoo away.”
“What’s a pimp, Dad?”
“Someone who pushes the product, who has a bigger take of the money exchanged for such a service,” I said.
“Oh,” Maud said, her bright eyes with curly eyelashes widening.
“In the old days, I can kill the man,” I said, trying to appear heroic.
“For all you know she may be hard up, and he sells her a profession which is a dead-end job, with her soul thrown in for effect,” I explained.
I alerted the guard, who said, “I can’t arrest them, sir, they’re not doing anything, but it’s the first time this has happened.”
“If we are not affected,” I said in Tagalog, “then what kind of a society do we live in? They should be hiding in the shadows, ashamed of their deeds.”
“And you should be concerned, because they will use this outlet as nest, and you won’t like the likes of them.”
There. I wanted to share this because many thoughts came flooding in, such as:
We, Boys of ’69, used to be customers of this industry, and by the grace of God we have asked for forgiveness, have been forgiven, and we are now washed of our sins and have become fathers for our families. Reform is possible.
Fathers would beg, steal or borrow just to send their daughters to school so they don’t have to sit down with Attorney and sell their souls to the devil for the next meal. What kind of a father would Karen have, if he is still alive, or what kind of relatives would she have that it makes it easy for her to pose for photos non-stop, to appear cute and nonchalant, oblivious to hell?
What kind of a girl would do this, to meet someone in a restaurant, dress up, and allow herself to be photographed as a commodity, in street parlance, as a piece of meat?
What kind of a man would Attorney be, trying to appear respectable while catching virgins off-guard to be fed to the lions of immorality, feigning professionalism?
Sex with love. Which brings me to that point. Knowing what I know, would I still engage in sex without love? Seeing the fruits of an orderly life for the last 30 or so years, would I still be tempted, asking Attorney to send me pics of his girls, so I can choose in the web the girl I can take to bed, having been vetted by Attorney in a meeting resembling a job interview?
Questions, questions. In the end, the fingers were pointing at me. If not for God, I would still be in Attorney’s client list: “I have a new one, Sir Will, sending you the pics,” he would email me. Perhaps that would be my life today if I had followed my career path, something that started in school when my buddies would normally talk about the last lay.
Product. Meat. Soul-less. Business. Cold. Money. Patay mali.
These words come flooding into my brain, and I, washed by the Holy Spirit, forgiven many times over, take a look at my daughter Maud, so serenely munching on her fries, about to have the interview of her life to launch her career, thinking of my other daughters in their chosen fields, thinking of Baby my dutiful wife, thinking of “all the girls we loved before,” and yes, it’s been a great life.
Our bunso is 21 years old today. Were it not for God, I would be with a 21-year-old, reeking of cologne, beer and tobacco smoke, without a wife of my own, no children to call me Dad or to scold me for dissing their mom, drifting to the next lay.