JessicaRulestheUniverse.com

We give writing workshops at the Ayala Museum. The workshops consist of three two-hour sessions of lectures, exercises, and group discussions held over three weeks. Our participants are mostly working people, so the sessions are held in the evenings, after office hours, with coffee and refreshments. We focus on the practical aspects of writing, like How to stop planning to write something and actually do it, and Good luck waiting for that thunderbolt of inspiration, say Hi to Thor when it happens.

The most recent workshop, on The Personal Essay, concluded last week. The next one, Writing Boot Camp, will start on 3 September 2015. For more information or to make a reservation, email Marj Villaflores, villaflores.md@ayalafoundation.org.

This month we will feature, with their permission, essays by the participants. The last batch was half-standup comedy, half-trauma ward. Some of the authors preferred to use aliases. Everyone actually wrote something.

* * * * *

Muppet mugshots from Conan

Nerves of Steal
by Peter Imbong

Everyone has a childhood memory of shoplifting—mine was just slightly extended.

Back in grade school, I would pocket erasers from the bookstore in front of my school. This would happen several times a month since the bookstore was my mom’s designated pick-up spot. The erasers weren’t the cheap rubber kind, mind you. These were artist’s erasers, the kind one could mold like putty. I barely used them, but together with my pencil case that had several cylindrical pencil holders that resembled rocket launchers, I loved showing them off to my classmates proud of their 164-piece Crayola collection.

There are many reasons, people say, why a child would steal: a lack of understanding of the value of money, no self-control, peer pressure, a call for attention, or just plain hardship. While my eraser stint was probably born of a longing to look cool, I soon found out that I was simply cheap.

One weekend in high school, I found myself roaming the department store of a run-down commercial complex located near our house, in what others would already consider a province. Called Le Grand Mall, its name belied its true identity. You could tell it was ancient because it still had an underwhelming fountain as its centerpiece, and they had a food court located in the basement that smelled of used cooking oil and feet.

I had brought enough money for a movie and a snack, but decided not to go to the movies because the only halfway interesting film showing starred Nicolas Cage. So I began to roam their half-decent department store in the hopes of finding something interesting.

In the music section, I found 2 CDs I wanted to get. As I didn’t have enough money to get both, I decided to buy one and simply slip the other one into my shopping bag. I thought I had mastered this move from my years of eraser swiping. However, it turns out, compact disks are bigger than erasers.

The CD in question didn’t even come from a notable artist. It was, as I recall, simply a compilation of the popular tracks of the time which included, but were not limited to, Mandy Moore, Brandy, and Westlife. Let me repeat that: Mandy Moore, Brandy, and Westlife.

And as I prepared to walk out of the department store with both my legit and illegitimate loot, a man dressed in civilian clothes blocked my way.

“Sir, patingin ng bag,” (Sir, let me see the bag.) he said. And I knew I had been caught.

There’s a feeling that usually hits you in that split second after your taxi has sped away, when you pat your pockets and realize you left your wallet in the backseat. Or the light-headedness you experience when, after walking through a crowded area, you realize your phone has gone missing.

In that moment, surrounded by people, I could feel the blood from my face rush to my ears and my head begin to spin. I felt cold but began to perspire. I wanted to throw up, beg for mercy, and run at the same time.

The guy took my bag and asked me to follow him down to security. He was unusually calm yet stern. He didn’t grip my wrist or follow me from behind. He walked in front of me and occasionally glanced back to check if I was still there. And as we went down several floors and passed through the racks of merchandise and shoppers who had no idea that there was a 17-year-old felon in their midst, the only thought running through my head was, “What do I tell my mom?”

We reached the employee entrance on the ground floor, stopped at a security guard who frisked me, and then walked by a row of rusted metal lockers where a few girls were preparing for their shift with thick applications of blush. As they stood in their flesh-colored stockings, I could tell from the look in their heavily-shadowed eyes that they knew what I was, and they knew what I had done.

The air grew warm as we continued through several dingy hallways with peeling paint on the walls. My ears were ringing and my palms cold.

Finally, we reached a small shoebox of an office where another man was sitting behind a dilapidated desk next to a Tanduay calendar with Diana Zubiri. “O, “eto nagnakaw,” (This one stole something). The guy who escorted me signed me off. The man behind the desk proceeded to sift through my things to determine which items were mine and which ones were stolen.

All through this I was still trying to think of a way I could explain this to my mom. “I’m not a criminal, Ma. I’m just cheap.” Familiar with the practice of Filipino establishments posting photos of shoplifters as a warning to other people with sticky fingers, I readied myself to be fingerprinted and to stand for my mug shot. But they didn’t do any of those things.

First they asked for my name and how old I was, saying that if I were a minor, they would need to call my parents to pick me up. So I said I was eighteen and had just graduated high school. They asked me why I did it. I said, “Wala lang,” (Nothing) because in my head, saying I didn’t want to pay for a mix CD didn’t sound as convincing.

The company policy, according to them, was that I had to pay for the item I stole, but at ten times the original retail price. A CD, at the time, cost around P400, and I certainly didn’t have P4000 on me. However, I did have a significant amount in my savings wallet stashed at home, which was half an hour away.

So I told the man behind the table that I would call my brother at home and ask him to bring the money to the security office. Faced with probably the only shoplifter who had ever agreed to pay ten times the item’s retail price, they agreed and pointed me to a phone on the desk of the baggage deposit counter manned by a lady security guard. She rolled her eyes as she handed me the landline.

Now I found myself in the difficult situation of having to explain to my brother why I was in a security office asking for bail money. When I called home, my story to him was simple: I was shopping for supplies for my school organization and I, being the forgetful and absent-minded teen that I was, forgot to bring the money. I told him where to get my wallet and instructed him to meet me at the security office—because that’s how bulk transactions were made, not at a cashier with an official receipt. To me, this made sense.

I waited by the guard. Half an hour later my older brother arrived with the wallet. If he ever found out, I’ll never know. He was more pissed at having to leave the house for my stupid “mistake,” and I have never brought the incident up again.

I paid the amount, signed my name in a log book, and stepped out of the mall into what seemed to be the freshest air I had ever breathed. I swore to never return to Le Grand Mall again.

Fast forward to four years later in college. One of the things juniors were excited and, at the same time, scared about was a program that required us all to work with a marginalized community or in a blue collar job. The purpose was to immerse ourselves in the plight of the working class and to identify the issues plaguing them, even if it was just for 12 hours spread over the span of three weeks.

Each assignment was randomly selected by the instructor, and the options were varied: janitor for a mall, barker at a jeepney terminal, helping out in an orphanage, and other menial jobs. When the day came to reveal where each of us would spend our next three weekends, I anticipated the worst. My position: department store sales attendant. Good, I said to myself. Air- conditioned, and no chance of getting mugged or touching garbage. Which department store, I asked? Le Grand Mall Department Store.