the night of living dangerously

The night was full of promise. Three bachelors were set to fire up a storm, luxuriating in great food and some drinking in the cool night spot along Timog Avenue.

For starters, Billy and I chilled out at my spanking new unit which at that time had been mercifully interior designed. Over some barbecued chicken innards from the sidewalk vendor downstairs, Billy talked about his latest rendezvous in Europe. He described that he was successful peddling acrylic based Batangas arts to some Pinoys in Belgium and Germany. Fine countries and fine arts – that’s how to travel in style.

At last, Atty. Johan arrived. He inspected my place and marveled at my floors. “Not bad,” approving of my design choices except for the large, black ink, Japanese art print of an orchid. “Zen like,” I thought to myself. But I was not about to start an argument with Johan who described himself to be another art connoisseur, seemingly oblivious of Billy’s career as an art dealer.

In the course of the conversation, Johan rattled off his newest beautiful acquisitions –art, stocks and a bride to be. Yups, the lothario already decided to modify his lifestyle. Nice times, nice times.

Then a call came. At the other end of the line was another good friend of ours, R2 who instructed me to check on CNN. There was breaking news – that one of the towers of New York’s World Trade Center was hit by a commercial plane. We stopped the conversation and immediately checked on the tv. Few minutes into watching, we got to see the footage of the plane hitting the tower. Or so we thought. Of course, the next realization was that we just had witnessed the second plane pounding itself into the second tower.

Numbed and stunned, we instead kept vigil of the events about to happen on tv with some San Mig Light cans in our hands. Another airliner torpedoed into Pentagon. A fourth plane crashed into an open field in the state of Pennsylvania. “That could have been for the White House,” Billy rightly predicted.

Eerily, only fire truck sirens punctured the silence outside the building where we are. I turned on to AM radio and it was confirmed that fire trucks and police patrol were on their way to Malacanang and the American Embassy, just in case drastic consequences were to happen as well in Manila. Instantaneously, Johan turned to me and made a sad offer, “The Lebajo painting I own, it can now be yours for a measly 5k.”

I am not sure if the Lebajo art can still be had today at the last price Johan gave me, but certainly I do know a lot more things have profoundly changed since that very night exactly six years ago today. New times, new times.