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The trouble with the good times is that while they’re happening, we do not know that they are the good times. They may even seem terrible. To acknowledge that they are the good times is to curse the rest of our lives: they will not be as fun, it’s all downhill from here. Time is the queen bitch who doles out wisdom only in hindsight.

The more we think about it, the more idyllic the 90s seem. There was no social media and the Internet was new. Life was lived face to face, you could touch things, and friends were people you had shared histories with. We experienced boredom, which now seems to be a luxury. It was the last time we thought we understood the world.

In Manila in the 1990s, everyone went to Malate. Former enclave of wealthy Spanish-Filipino families and American expatriates, in the 70s it evolved into the local capital of bohemia. Its proximity to the red-light district gave it a raffish, seedy, to use a 90s word, “edgy” air, and the disapproving presence of the baroque Church of Our Lady of Remedies gave it an added charge. Charming old houses were converted into cafes, antique shops, the ateliers of designers, restaurants, bars and art galleries. The families who continued to live there did so at the expense of their eardrums, their sanity, and occasionally their bodily safety as fights broke out over parking space.

Manila’s most fabulous disco, Coco Banana, opened there, like a decade-long production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream that no one could remember because they were all on quaaludes. The impresario of this glamorous mayhem would stand at the door in a white trenchcoat and decide who was worthy of admission. “Go away,” he would drawl at the insufficiently marvelous, “It’s not your year.”

Malate was the place where rich kids and prostitutes, movie stars and starving artists, socialites and vagrants could drink, dance together, and be mistaken for each other. Everyone was welcome at the Penguin Café with its cheap beer and perpetual Talking Heads soundtrack, The Library with its stand-up insult comics and performers who were still called drag queens, and Blue Café where you could sit on James Dean’s face as it was painted on the cushions. There were Moroccan cafes and Thai cafeterias, Japanese pizzerias and Indonesian taperias, and Rosie’s Diner where you could get a good hamburger for five pesos. By the late 90s, Malate was ready to implode.

It is at this point that Benjy and Matty enter the story. Benjy and Matty were young, beautiful, and already successful in their chosen field, which was advertising. On weekends they would jump into the car and drive to Malate, dine with friends, flirt with interesting strangers, and ask each other essay questions like, “Which French actress am I?” or “What does that man really want to say to me?” Mostly they reveled in possibility, for they were hyper-articulate, well-dressed, vivacious, and they had money to spend.

The high point of Malate’s social calendar was Halloween, when ghouls and Gatsbies prowled the streets, and a heavyset man in a silver wig and golden ball gown went around waving his magic wand and pronouncing all wishes granted. One Halloween, Benjy called Matty and said, “I have an idea.”

Half an hour later the two were at the department store that claimed, “We’ve got it all.” They were not exaggerating. In less than an hour Benjy and Matty had found girls’ school uniforms, knee socks, and Mary Janes that fit them perfectly. They also found sweet little hairclips, Kerokeropee and Sailor Moon lunchboxes, and to complete the look, very large lollipops.

From the moment they emerged from Benjy’s car in Malate, they were a sensation. Everywhere they went, there were calls of “Hey, schoolgirls!” and some of the people calling them were very attractive indeed. Total strangers bought them drinks, handsome men asked them to dance, and women wanted to know where they got their adorable costumes. Benjy and Matty smiled demurely at all this attention, as if they were accustomed to receiving it every day of their lives. A popular actor winked at Matty and gestured towards the bathroom; Matty covered his mouth with a handkerchief and shook his head. The members of the collegiate champion basketball team took turns dancing with Benjy.

At the stroke of midnight there came the announcement from the stage at Remedios Circle: the schoolgirls had won the Best Costume prize. Benjy and Matty were at a club being serenaded by an indie band when a waiter burst in with a cry of “Schoolgirls!” A crowd formed around Benjy and Matty and escorted them down the street to the stage, where a woman dressed as a unicorn with the tail of a mermaid presented them with the trophy. “What are your names?” the unicorn/mermaid asked.

“Oh no,” Benjy whispered into the microphone, tucking a stray lock of hair behind his hear. He had suddenly acquired a British accent. “We can’t say because Mummy and Daddy are super-strict and they don’t know that we snuck out.” “Yes,” Matty added, channeling Audrey Hepburn, “They would have conniptions if they knew we were on the street.” There were cheers and whistles from the crowd, some “I love you’s” and “Marry me’s”. It was particularly rewarding to sense the envy wafting from the party girls like bitter perfume. The rest of the night passed in a magical whirl of flirting and dancing, and by the time they got in the car to go home the sun was rising and a plan was forming in their minds.

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