Continued ...

He might have chosen the right path after all.


Bryan was late for the six o’clock meeting. When he got to Noel’s office, several people were already seated in front of the managing director’s desk. Fernandez took the seat nearest to the table, Steve the art director sat next to him. Farther from the table sat the two account managers Lisa and Ellie. Bench stood leaning by the glass window panel. She gestured Bryan to her with the head jerk. Bryan occupied the space beside her and got ready to take some notes.

“First things first,” Noel said to the group. “The Adventure Caravan for this year is moved earlier — October 13 to 18, according to their last email.”

Silent expletives erupted throughout the room.

Noel continued, “That means we’ll be ahead of schedule by about five weeks. Bench, how we are doing with everything?”

“I spoke to Dwayne last week,” Bench replied while looking at her Goth nails. “He’s forming the Mindanao second unit as we speak. But he can’t get commitment from his people unless he gets a go ahead on the budget.”

“Do we already have a budget for his people?”

“I emailed the costs to you last Thursday.”

“And where the hell is Kyla?” Noel asked, turning his around.

“Bank errand, sir,” Lisa replied.

“That was three hours ago. Where is she now?”

Nobody replied this time. Noel cursed.

“Are you sure you already emailed the costs to me, Bench?”

“Yep. But I’ll email it again to you for your convenience. On the logistics side, I think Ellie’s doing most of that.”

Noel turned to Ellie.

“I got it covered,” said Ellie. “Sir, what about the Halloween Fashion Show?”

“Shit,” Noel muttered under his breath. He glanced towards the wall calendar and sighed.

“Have Lisa handle it for the meantime,” he instructed. Lisa sat dumb-founded.

“Lisa can’t do it on her own yet,” Bench interceded.

“I know. That's why you’re helping her out,” Noel said with finality.

Fuck. Bryan heard Bench whisper.

“Let’s move on to the collats,” Noel said as Fernandez raised his head. “Same bunch of materials last year but I need a new look on the event logo and give me a better-looking race manual this year. Last year’s was embarrassing. Do we have a full event script?”

“I sent Pam the second draft but she says she needs to review it again,” Bryan called out weakly.

“How come?”

“She doesn’t like that part where the teams chase after the ping pong balls in the river.”

Fernandez and Steve exchanged funny looks.

“Then give her another set of options. Work on it for the remainder of the week,” Noel said before standing up. “I think that’s all. We’re done here. Fernandez and Ellie, you two get ready to come with me in fifteen minutes. We’re dining with the Millennium guys tonight at Marko’s Grill.”

There was a collective scraping as the group stood up and started exiting single file out of Noel’s office. Bryan was standing beside Steve when Bench caught up with him.

“Need to talk to you about something,” said Bench. “I’ll be having a ciggie below. Meet me there.”

“I still need to finish something.”

“God, Bry, it’s almost seven. What is that something?”

“Ellie’s PR. Just need to tweak a few parts. Ten minutes tops.”

“Okay. I’ll wait for you outside. Make it quick.”

“Okay.”

Continued ...

He took his ID and made it to the closing elevator just in time.


It’s barely just three months but I feel like I’ve been working here for more than a year already, Bryan thought to himself as he took a Coke and headed towards the table beside the glass window. Well, at least they’ve got a cafeteria in the second floor so I won’t have to go out to the nearby mall to buy a drink.

He looked out the window. The rain was just starting and Bryan could see mall-goers quickening their pace to find shelter from the downpour. He wondered why it was raining in the middle of June. He finished his Coke and buried himself on the numerous sheets strewn on the table. He took one clean sheet and started scribbling notes. He felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Have you been here long?” Bench asked. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“Hi, Bench. Ten minutes, I guess. What’s up?”

“I’ve got an accounting question.”

Bryan laughed. Bench just smiled, took off her jacket and sat on the vacant seat.

“Why ask me? I’m the copywriter, remember?” Bryan replied. “Go ask Kyla.”

“She’s busy,” she blurted out before collapsing on the table. “Come on, you know this stuff.”

He laughed again.

“You graduated with an accounting degree, right?” she asked without looking up.

“Yeah, but it’s not like I’m practicing it. Besides that was more than five years ago. I’m not sure if I remember anything at all.”

“How do you get away with it, Bryan?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, how do you get to be a copywriter when you’re an accounting graduate?” She looked up this time.

“You know, before I got this job, I’ve been doing interviews with all sorts of outsourcing firms and I always get that question.”

“And?”

“I just gave them my best smile.”

“Just like that?”

“Yeah. I mean what can I say? I didn’t know I was capable of copywriting. I got into this writing shit sort of by accident. I never really thought I could make a living out of writing words.”

“No shit.”

“What about you, Bench? Back in grade school, I remember you were always in the top of the class. We always thought you’d be running for president by now. But then nobody ever heard from you after graduation day. I mean, nobody even knew where you went to high school.”

It was her turn to laugh this time.

“It was some private school in Pasay. I only got back to Cebu after high school. I got into deejaying back in college and then I quit school. I know, I know. It was stupid of me quitting like that but I honestly figured I could do well at NU. I never thought they’d shut down the Cebu station. Anyway, Noel knew me then from the broadcasting days and asked if I’m willing to try advertising. So there. Story of my life.”

“How do you like handling accounts so far? You’ve been doing this for — ?”

“Almost two years. It’s tough. You know how it is.”

“I’m still learning the ropes.”

“I have a good feeling about you, Bry. You’ll be okay. Besides, things have been looking up since you came in. Back then, Fernandez used to do all the copywriting himself but he’s creative director, he’s supposed to be doing something else. Which reminds me — how are we doing with the flyer copy?”

“This is it.”

“Doesn’t look good.”

“It will by the time I collate all these. And you’re hampering my progress, Bench.”

“Sucker,” she replied before taking a quick glance at her mobile phone. “Shit, three missed calls from you know who. I have to get back already.” She stood up to retrieve her jacket and turned to Bryan. “Tell me when it’s all done and good and I’ll cajole Ken into doing a few lay-out studies.”

“Okay.”

“See you around.”

Bryan nodded as Bench headed towards the exit door. Back to work, he thought, back to hell.


It had been like hell the first two months. True, he had done some extensive writing for KM but being a press release writer for a PR agency pales in comparison to being a copywriter for a small Cebu-based ad firm. Joining the ad agency, Bryan had thought he’d be joining with a company with an existing pool of veteran writers. How wrong he was. As the lone writer, he had to comply with every copywriting requirement that came up. In the first two weeks alone, he was already neck-deep in all sorts of copywriting requirements: at least three flyer studies for a national cable television company; full brochure copy for a local real estate firm; five hundred word advertorial for an international school; five minute AVP script for a shipping company.

And that’s not all. He also had to help Wilma, the business development officer, with her power point presentations, letters of intent, sponsorship proposals, contracts and memoranda of agreement. In addition to that, Kyla often bugged him to draft a quick demand letter to be attached to overdue statements of account. Even Noel was pressuring him to come up with a new and better concept for an official agency AVP and brochure. The existing materials had a bowling theme and Noel had asked Bryan to think of something more institutional but accessible. Truth be told, Bryan just pretended he knew what his managing director was asking from him.

Bryan was close to being overwhelmed but he did his best to hold on. Someone had told him that most neophytes needed an average of two months to either adapt to a new work environment or else, fold and look for another job. Two months — that was what he needed to go through. If he could hang on for the first two months in the advertising agency, he knew he could survive a year or maybe two. If not, then he would have to seriously re-consider the career path he had currently chosen.

Good thing Bench was around. She and Bryan had gone to the same grade school together and that connection became the basis for an unlikely friendship. Bench became the perfect foil for Bryan’s personality. While he was normally taciturn with occasional bursts of low-profile mischief, Bench was constantly in high gear — monologuing, firing anecdotes here and there, and sometimes even breaking into out-of-key renditions of popular The Lion King songs.

While Bryan was a bit of an introvert, he didn’t mind the attention. He secretly wondered if Bench held a weird fascination for him. She had, on one occasion, mentioned that as a frustrated writer, she always had a trivial veneration for people who were good with words. He didn’t take it seriously because she sounded like she was just fooling around.

True or not, he nevertheless welcomed Bench’s company. Even when he realized the grown-up version has deviated so significantly from the twelve-year old he used to know. What was once a model student who led her classmates in reciting the Panatang Makabayan was now a near-chain-smoking dynamo. What used to be a crybaby when teased too much has now become a force to reckon with in decision-making sessions.

But Bryan didn’t mind the changes that much. Even when she hinted to Bryan that she was gay, he wasn’t as surprised as he thought he should be. In fact, he was quite ambivalent to these hints. Or he might have just been in denial — this he thought on later occasions. To a startling degree, he found himself disturbed at this.

What they do both clearly have in common is their eclectic taste in pop culture. They pleasantly discovered that they both share a weakness for musical artists that range from the likes of Cornershop to Portishead, from Sonic Youth to Urge Overkill, from Brilliant Green to Sugarcubes, from Ani DiFranco to Zarah Smith. Bryan introduced Bench to Frank Miller and Gaiman, while she recommended he read Amy Hempel and Alice Munro. When they were waiting for brainstorming sessions to start, they often discussed the merits of Wong Kar Wai’s themes and the most praiseworthy of Yann Tiersen’s catalog. Even Kelly Link’s surreal literature wasn’t out of bounds for them.

Indeed, amidst the relentless pace of their advertising world, many CDs and books were swapped, ideas shared, and fancies indulged upon. He didn’t want to admit it but Bryan was close to conceding that he might not have endured those first few months without Bench’s company. All the same, he was beginning to feel comfortable with himself. He might have chosen the right path after all.

http://www.palancaawards.com.ph/documents/2007_official_entry_form.pdf

http://www.palancaawards.com.ph/documents/2007_authorization_form.pdf

"You're up in 30 minutes, Bro," the stage manager yells at me over the throbbing din.  Her curt announcement is followed by an anxious smile.  I respond with a raised thumb and a confident nod.  A fleeting shaft of light momentarily reveals her tired eyes.  She hesitates then starts to say something I couldn't make out because of the noise.  I lean closer and strain my neck but she suddenly cuts herself off and trudges off towards the buffet tables.

Marian.  I remember her name now.  Everyone backstage had been calling her Yan which I took to follow.  But I remembered distinctly that I used to call her by a different name – Mar. 

 

I spy on Marian through the gaps in the sparse crowd.  She pauses in front of the steaming half-empty chafing dishes while holding her worn clipboard to her flat bosom.  Her eyes, obscured by narrow heavy-rimmed glasses, glide over the few choices displayed before her.  If not for her eyewear, she'd look too young and unconvincing for a stage manager.  Maybe that's why she wore them, to appear less diminutive.  They were probably not even corrective at all. 

 

Marian reaches for a clean plate off the top of a short pile.   Hesitating, she slowly turns her head in my direction. Quickly, I turn to look away!  My reaction was a tad too slow.   She knows I'm worried too.  My mustard yellow telecaster perched on my lap gives me something to do.  Switching my eyes back and forth between my guitar's headstock and the tuner parked between my two feet on the steps, I make a show of plucking each string and twisting the machine heads intently. 

 

I had tuned my guitar twice already since arriving.  A pointless exercise since once would have been enough.  It doesn't calm my nerves.  Not tonight.

Where the hell was Jeremy?

 

He should have been here an hour ago, our appointed call time.  This is so unprofessional of us.  Not every band gets to be headlined in a show and this is our first big break.  If anything, I would have thought Jeremy would show some eagerness. 

 

"I'm on my way bai", the text message on my phone had read.  I wasn't even half convinced he really was, but I wanted to believe he was telling the truth this time around.  If he really was on his way when he sent that message, he should have been here already.  He wasn't.  I should have expected this.

 

Last week, we had a practice session we had to cancel because of a sudden personal emergency of his. We had booked a practice studio on a Monday night for a two hour session.  We all arrived at roughly the appointed time, except Jeremy.  Considering his habits, we figured he was running late again and would be arriving shortly.

Ten minutes came and went.  Then twenty, then half an hour.  Still no Jeremy.  I fish out my cheap Nokia and type in a question mark, hit send and wait.  Nothing.

After a long half-hour, he finally texts back apologizing he couldn't make it.  He explains with cryptic phrases how wasted he was and how he needed to sort things out only it was too personal to explain.  I hand my phone over to Sandy who was straddling a chair.  After a quick scan she hands it over to Jherson before leaning further forward into the backrest she was hugging.   

His message was worded like he was in dire straits and a whim away from committing suicide.  None of us believed his ass.  We hated his guts and probably wished he actually did hang himself with a guitar strap.  No one though said anything openly in the group except through snide and indirect comments.

 

Jherson hands me back my phone.  "So, we're the hostages again tonight huh."

 

He leans back in his chair.   "How 'bout a round of beer to sympathize with Jeremy's sudden personal emergency?" the last phrase delivered in an exaggerated American street twang parodying Jeremy's faux accent he reserved for media interviews.

We all laughed and felt clever and nasty behind his back.  But we were the ones being had.  Just that none of us would openly admit to it. It was like we all knew that if someone would speak up – say anything even loosely serious about the problems Jeremy was causing the band – a huge dam holding back two years worth of pent up disgust would burst open.  Nobody wanted any pointless talk to go his way.  Why ruin an evening for Jeremy?  He didn't deserve wasted spit.  

 

Tonight though, he deserved a mouthful from the band. 

 

Now, busying myself with my gear, I could tell the crowd had swollen even without looking up.  The racket had noticeably picked up over the last few minutes.  Although the noise from the audience wasn't at its expected peak yet, the growing buzz was now clearly audible through the regular ebbs in the music. 

 

The concert was being held in the parking lot of a mall that had opened just last month so its relative novelty assured it of curious visitors even though it was located in the city's suburbs.  Even without the free concert happening here and on a Friday night at that, everyone knew the crowd would swell a lot more by the evening's peak.

 

The band that had been playing finally finishes their set to a lukewarm applause.  The token clapping rapidly wanes when suddenly, the monolithic speakers stacked up on both sides of the stage blare an annoyingly processed music that, curiously, is much louder than the live rock performance it succeeds.

The corporate jingles!   Piercing the humid air, they blast away without mercy and in rapid succession.  The series cycles and quickly turns predictable.  Without really thinking about it, you could figure out the order each 30 second segment was played.  It gets to a point where your mind anticipates the next jingle ahead by half a second.  That's when it gets really annoying.  I guess that's the point.  To sell cell phone credits, beer, and chewing gum to crowds, you need crappy jingles repeated with utter abandon until it numbs the throng's collective senses.  Not so much hypnosis as it is mass surrender at the unrelenting onslaught.

 

The next band needs time to set up anyway so it makes sense to fill in the gaps with – noise.  It wouldn't be a rock concert if the decibel levels didn't stay up at unhealthy levels. 

 

 "Did Jeremy text you already?"  Sandy interrupts my third guitar tuning.  Looking down at me, she casts an irregular shadow obscuring my view.  My old gadget's display is the traditional needle that swings a short arc, sort of like a car's odometer.  Not a glowing LED display.

 

"Yeah.  He says he's on the way.  Would you mind stepping to one side please?" 

 

"What time did he text you?  Just now?"

 

"About an hour ago.  Sandy, I can't read my tuner!"  A hint of irritation escapes me. 

 

Sandy shuffles grudgingly to one side.  "Did he leave the house already?" 

 

"How should I know?" 

 

"Text him again.  Tell him we're up next.  Yan's been asking.  Tell him that."

 

"Why don't you text him yourself?"  I finally look up at her, pulling out the cord from my guitar.  "Maybe your charm can help" I balance my guitar on its collapsible stand.

 

"Atay!"  Sandy grimaced.  "If this wasn't a paying gig, I wouldn't be here you know"

 

Sandy had been openly hinting at her disgust with Jeremy lately.  But only in front of us, never when Jeremy was around.  Not like her, really.  She was always the most outspoken in the band - typical of band vocalists.  By nature, she talked a lot, which helped when you're on stage for spiels or for dealing with the media.  But even she held back a bit with Jeremy.   

 

A soft spot perhaps?

 

Ok, so maybe she liked him.  It wouldn't be the first time someone fell for a bandmate.  Relationships in a band never get anywhere.  Sure, I know of a musician couple who managed to survive in spite of being in a band together.  I say in spite of because life in a band always brings out the best and the worst in everyone.  But they played in a 'showband' that played covers.  Not a rock band so that doesn't count.  More like the exception rather than the rule. 

 

My thoughts are drifting again.  And then it hit me like a pail of cold water suddenly doused.  Sandy has a crush on Jeremy!  It all makes sense now. 

I remember one time several years ago Sandy said to me she thought Jeremy was baby-faced, that was her exact description.  He was a little on the chubby side so I didn't think much about her comment then.  That was way back when the band was still starting.  Looking back now, there was something there in the way she said it. 

 

I felt the furrows in my brow deepening as I think of Jeremy's smug baby-face.  Where the hell was he?

 

The creeping discomfort finally distracts me.  I realize I had been sprawled too long on the cold concrete steps towards the mall entrance.  Earlier, I had picked this backstage spot upon arriving mainly because it was the least crowded area since it offered no view to the performance.  I didn't care to watch the other bands anyway.  I also wanted to avoid the usual backstage groupies.  They asked too many pointlessly probing questions.  I was in no mood to mingle and act friendly. 

 

Sandy moves her scrawny shoulders to heavily punctuated breathing before plopping into a graceless position beside me.  She sat like a boy.  She always did.  Her short and carelessly cropped hair didn't help things.  I thought that made her look cute though.  With her slender arms crossed awkwardly over her slightly bent knees, she turns a wrist on one hand and waves a few sheets of white paper to catch my attention.  In the wildly shifting lights, I could see they were marred by her ugly handwriting in black felt-tipped pen.  It was our set list that night.  Only three songs long.  That's easy enough to remember so why write a set list that short?  I guess I wasn't the only one trying to keep busy.

 

I nodded to signify I was agreeable to her selection of songs.  I actually thought we had overplayed "Luxury" on our live sets but decided I really didn't care anymore what we played.  Short of playing company jingles, I'll play anything right now.  Just let me get on that stage and play. 

 

A copy of tonight's concert poster was taped to the panel fronting me.  At a glance, you could quickly tell what it was.  Its crappy graphics were so typical of local events posters. 

 

In the background in the middle was a tacky angular silhouette of a flying-V electric guitar, the kind that's been out of fashion for ages.  Screaming titles and blurbs were emblazoned across the middle in too many different fonts and in a psychedelic clash of colors.  Surrounding the main composition was a crawling army of mish-mashed company logos that overwhelmed the whole poster -- the event sponsors and donors all competing for space and attention and all failing. 

 

Closer I looked.  Yuck, it featured our band photo that was several years old. 

 

"Did you see this?" I look over to find Sandy busy with her cell phone apparently texting someone.  Hopefully Jeremy.  She doesn’t hear me.  Never mind.  I turn my attention back to the ugly poster. 

 

They probably fished the image from the internet.  Why didn't anyone bother asking us for a proper band photo?  If they wanted to embarrass us, then they did a good job then for they picked out the absolute worst picture from our old catalogue.  Well at least I looked thinner and in focus.   Standing closer to the camera, I could make out Sandy and Jeremy's blurred features.  Jherson stood isolated in the far background looking all mysterious, his face half hidden under his cap's visor.

 

I scanned the contents: Band Explosion – how original – a FREE entrance ROCK CONCERT featuring Minus Me – at least they spelt our band's name right – with 12 of Cebu's best new bands – really?  So why leave out their names?  Studying the poster more, I finally notice a hazy orange blob on top of the Band Explosion header.  Realizing what it was, or at least what the graphic designer was trying to make it look like, I stifle a chuckle.  A nuclear mushroom cloud, how original!  A little further down - Presented by Chewy Fruity Chewing Gum (Chewy na, Fruity pa!) – the company sponsoring the event and, indirectly, paying for our gig.  It will be their marketing executives who'll go ballistic when things go south which they probably will the way things were going so far. 

 

This poster will have to do as my souvenir.  I made a mental note to bring the poster with me before I left.  Heck, why wait?  I stand up and lunge for it.  No one ought to mind but I hope no one will notice me.  Snatching it from the wall, I quickly folded it and tucked it into a pocket in my gig bag.  Done.   A metallic shriek suddenly pierces through the drone of the jingle for Chewy Fruity. 

 

"Feedback oi!" Marian shouts into the mic of her bulky headset.  I turn around surprised she was just behind me.  How long had she been there?  Did she see me grab the poster? 

 

A couple of panicked stagehands scramble up the platform and race to the malfunctioning boom mics.  Finally, the sharp signal is controlled.  Checking her clipboard briefly, Marian now turns her attention to me and signals with two raised fingers.  She mouths clearly for me without actually saying it – "Two more bands." 

 

This time I didn't return a thumbs-up.  What could I do? Damn Jeremy.  What if he actually didn't show?  What will the Chewy Fruity marketing executives do?  Pelt me with their candies?  I try to amuse myself with the imagery but knew this was no laughing matter.  Breach of contract is what it is.  And it is a serious issue, more so for a struggling band like us still trying to break out.  This gig after all was pre-booked a month in advance by the organizers.  We even got paid the fifty percent booking fee.  That didn't happen often.

 

Can they sue us?  Would they?  Nah.  I'm guessing the money involved wasn't significant enough for them to bother.  But we might have to return the down payment they made.  Damn, I already spent my share.

 

At a time like this, I should be mentally preparing myself for the performance.  Instead, I was playing unpleasant scenarios in my head.  I curse silently and rub my eyes. 

 

My butt was really sore now, I finally admit.  On reflex, I stand up and stretch my back welcoming the short distraction.  We'd be up in – I fish out my cellphone from my front pocket, stab a button and check the glowing clock display - 20 minutes.  He was cutting it really close this time.

 

"Bai, is that Jeremy?  Any word?", someone shouts.  I turn to see Jherson waving at me with heavily taped drumsticks.  His other arm was cradling a piccolo drum to his chest.  He was climbing up the stage.  A flash of panic hits me.  Was it our turn already? 

 

"Nothing.  Nothing new!"  I manage to reply, still bewildered.

 

"We're next after this.  You guys be ready, Ok!"  Jherson hurries up after the other band players – his other bandmates. In the stress of the wait, I forgot that "The Gogos" were playing before us, Jherson's other band.  "I won't be getting off the stage after this.  Call him bai.  Call him now!" he adds just before disappearing from view.

 

I hated the idea of having to call Jeremy.  We all knew we were expected to show up an hour before a scheduled performance – our call time.  If anyone should call, it should be Jeremy, not me.  He's the one that needs to do some explaining.  Besides, I was low on cellphone load.   

 

"He's right bro, call him already."  Sandy mutters behind me. 

 

"I know, I know."  I reply without turning to face her.  Damn it Jeremy, did I have to use up the last of my phone credits!  I start to dial his number from memory.  The glowing screen stares back at me with a string of numbers I had grown to hate.  Why do I end up calling him just before every gig?  I can't even remember the last time Jeremy showed up on time. 

 

Last month, when we played for the bar tour Bandorama, I had to personally ask the event producer to move us to a later slot because Jeremy couldn't come on time again.  They grudgingly obliged and slotted us last but they dropped us from the lineup for the succeeding legs.  We got dropped from three shows in one fell swoop.  Jeremy never talked about the incident and we gave him the silent treatment for a couple of weeks.  We thought he had learned his lesson.  We thought wrong. 

 

Tonight was a way bigger gig than Bandorama.  This was our first headliner!  Didn't that matter to him?

 

I thumb the call button on my cellphone while bringing it to my ear.  My mind races.  How do I handle this?  What do I say to him?   

 

A drumroll opens "The Gogos" set which quickly escalates into a punk number.  The noise is deafening.  I turn away from the stage and press the phone harder to my ear.  I hear the ringing.  No answer.  Fuck!

 

"Sir, you guys complete?" Marian asks with feigned politeness.  She had sneaked up on me again.

 

"Not yet Mar.  Still lacking one but he's on his way."  I eye my phone's display checking my battery charge level.  Good thing I remembered to recharge this afternoon.

 

"This Gogos are only doing three songs.  You're to set-up immediately after them."

 

"Ok.  No problem."

 

"There will be a short intermission"

 

"Intermission?"  I hope this buys us time.

 

"Just games for the audience.  You know, the usual.   The hosts will do it.  Maybe ten minutes.  Then they'll introduce you and you'll go ahead and do your set.  5 songs, ok?"  She pulls out a cue card from her clipboard and hands it to me.  "Please thank the sponsors.  Just read the list.  You know the drill."

 

I scan the list briefly, "Sure."

 

"No delays ok?  Set-up immediately after The Gogos exit."

 

"Our drummer is already up there so setup will be faster" I offered weakly.

 

"Yeah, I know.  I saw him.  But your bassist?"

 

"He's on his way."

 

"Two songs to go!"  Marian scrunches her face.

 

"Yes, yes.  Really, not to worry."  I bring my cell phone back to my ear and gesture to Marian to excuse me.  Damn it, why doesn't he pick up!

 

I walk away, the cell phone still pressed to my ear and mingle with the crowd.  The backstage crowd had now gravitated to the stage like ants eagerly converging on a dying insect.  My eyes scan the faces but I don't really look at them.  It would be too much to hope for that Jeremy was among them.  I look over to the audience side which I could see from where I was standing now.  Momentarily, the audience erupts reacting to a stunt on stage I didn't catch.  The worry welled up inside me even more.  I look away.

 

There! Was that him beside Sandy?  She was talking to someone, yes, Jeremy, it was him!  His baby-faced profile was unmistakable.  Finally!  He had arrived just in time and just as the Gogos where going into their last song.  Lowering my phone, I heave a deep sigh of relief.  I turn to look at the stage.  The subsiding worry slowly gives me room to finally take in the scene playing out. 

 

The Gogo's were now prowling the stage like they owned it.  Sweat on skin glistens in the flashing lights.  The vocalist screams a random litany in a rising staccato.  The crowd explodes.

 

Behind a row of metal rails, the sweeping lights expose raised arms and animated heads bobbing to the mounting rhythmic din.  The riot of bodies play to the colored lights now shifting erratically with the pounding music. 

 

In the confusion, someone pulls himself up on the railings trying to get to the stage until burly men in black shirts converge on him with quick efficiency and push him back into the swelling crowd.  It is getting worse by the minute.  The Gogos’ upbeat set was really prepping the crowd tonight.

 

It should be easy to ride this wave of excitement when our turn comes.  We were up next, the thought finally sinks in.  This is when the knots in my stomach will come.  This is when my hands will turn cold and my knees will feel weak.  I brace myself for the torture of anticipation.  But it doesn't come.  Instead, I feel – nothing. 

 

All I want now is to get it over with and be done with the gig.  Everything that had come before had spoiled everything for me.  Right then and there, I make a surprisingly easy decision.  This will be my last with the band.

 

 

- END -

As the sun glistened to his face, Lamb could not stop drooling of the mirage in front of him. The more he reaches for it the more the thirst scorches his throat. With every step he takes, the dessert dust erupts, floating, imitating life for a few seconds then settles down to die back to its origin. “It would have been a great day to go to the beach”, he thought. But none of it matters now. The question that hounds him is “why me?” Yeah, why him? When his mother always reminds him that “Son, you are a Lamb of God” If indeed he was he wouldn’t be in this situation right now.

 

Lamb is what everyone calls him. Could it be because it’s short for Lamberto? Or is it because its his initials, Lamberto Antonio M. Bantigue. All he knows is that he has been called Lamb all his life. But he will soon find out why he is called Lamb and what it stands for and what is his purpose in this so called imperfect world.

 

Growing up in a close-knit Catholic family, Lamb always thought of himself as a blessed child. It’s probably because as God’s children we are all his lambs. He always finds it intriguing that he is somewhat special because according to him “my name is Lamb, I am God’s child sheep”

“How long have you been writing?” Fernandez asked.

Bryan took a short pause before replying, “I’ve worked as a press release writer for KM for almost two years. I resigned last October.”

“KM. The PR agency?”

“Yes. But I’ve made contributions to the school publication back in high school and college. And some freelance work here and there.” Bryan cleared his throat.

“What kind of contributions?”

“News articles. Feature write-ups. Short stories and poetry. Stuff.”

“You brought any sample? Of any freelance work, I mean.”

“It’s there. The Love Satellites review.”

“Oh, this one. I didn’t know you’re a contributor for the Indie Times. You know Jake?”

“Yes. He’s the one who usually coordinates with me.”

“Cool. I did some editing work for Jake during the summer. I may have come across your articles then. Although, the ad agency takes up most of my time now.”

“Jake still contacts me from time to time.”

“Really? You get paid?”

“For the last one — nope.”

Fernandez laughed.

“Anyway, I don’t think I should do more of this interview stuff. I know your work anyway. Here, let me just give you something to work on. An assignment, if you will.”

Fernandez stood up and walked towards the photocopy machine. Bryan took advantage of the distraction and glanced around. The conference is not much. Ash-gray blinds shielded the glass window from the three o’clock sun. Old magazines lay piled on one corner. Beside the heap, a shelf stood with books stacked haphazardly. Marketing books, advertising books, graphic design books. A rattan couch was placed beside the glass door. Through the transparent panel, he could see Fernandez finishing up and approaching the room.

“Here. This is a creative brief for a client of ours. You should be able to get background information about the campaign. What you need to do is this: Give me at least three concepts or studies for a print ad copy. It’s totally up to you what you want to do and how you want to present it. Just model your materials on the data at hand. Email it to that address there — I wrote it on the first page — before Friday. So you got about three days.”

“Before Friday,” Bryan confirmed.

“Yeah. And depending on what you can come up with — well, let me just see your work first and let’s go from there. Okay?”

“Okay.”

Fernandez stood and shook Bryan’s hand. “Will be waiting for your email,” Fernandez said and motioned to the door.

“Thanks,” Bryan said and walked towards the front desk. While the receptionist was retrieving his ID, he took a careful look at the reception wall. Emblazoned in gold, the sign read “PMC: Pendulum Marketing Communications.” He took his ID and made it to the closing elevator just in time.

CARLOS PALANCA MEMORIA L AWARDS FOR LITERATURE

RULES OF THE CONTEST - 2007

1. The contest is open from 15 January 2007 to 30 April 2007. It is open to all Filipino citizens, or former Filipino citizens, of all ages

except current officers and employees of the Carlos Palanca Foundation, Inc. (the Sponsor).

 

2. a. There are three (3) divisions in the awards:

* English * Filipino * Regional Languages (Hiligaynon, Iluko, Cebuano)

b. A translation of an entry submitted in one (1) division shall not be eligible in any other division.

c. The contest has seven (7) regular categories namely:

c.1. Short Story c.4. Poerty c.7. Screenplay

c.2. Short Story for Children c.5. One-act Play

c.3. Essay c.6. Full-length Play

d. The Kabataan Essay is a special category open to persons below 18 years of age.

e. The Screenplay category is open only in the Filipino division.

f. The Regional Languages Division is open only in the Short Story category.

g. Other than the limitations specified in items 2.e. and 2.f. above, the other categories are open both in the English and Filipino

divisions.

 

3. Authors may submit only one (1) entry per category.

 

4. A work which has been awarded a prize in another contest before 12:00 m.n. of 30 April 2007 is not qualified for the awards.

 

5. Published/produced works which were first published or first produced between 1 May 2006 and 30 April 2007 and/or unpublished/

unproduced works may be entered in the contest except in the Screenplay category where only unproduced works may be entered.

 

6. In submitting an entry, a contestant represents and warrants that the work is his own and that he has absolute ownership of all

intellectual property rights thereto. If the entry is an adaptation of another author's existing work, the contestant shall submit to the

Foundation the written consent of the author of the existing work, allowing the contestant to adapt the work, and to enter the

adaptation in the contest (the Consent). The Consent shall include a clear and categorical statement that the Foundation shall be

exempt from any and all liability in the event that the adaptation is said to infringe the intellectual property rights of the author of the

existing work. The Consent must be notarized and, if executed outside the Philippines, should be authenticated by the Philippine

Embassy. The contestant shall also sign the Consent and attach the same to the Official Entry Form/Authorization Form.

 

7. All entries shall consist of an original and three (3) copies. EACH ENTRY MUST BE TYPEWRITTEN OR COMPUTERIZED, DOUBLE

- SPACED ON 8 ½ X 11 INCHES BOND PAPER, WITH APPROXIMATELY ONE-INCH MARGIN ON ALL SIDES. THE PAGE

NUMBER MUST BE TYPED CONSECUTIVELY e.g. 1 of 30, 2 of 30 and so on AT THE CENTER OF THE BOTTOM MARGIN OF

EACH PAGE. IF COMPUTERIZED, THE FONT SHOULD BE ARIAL, TIMES NEW ROMAN OR BOOK ANTIQUA AND THE FONT

SIZE SHOULD BE 12. A SOFT COPY (DISKETTE COPY OR E-MAIL) OF COMPUTER-GENERATED ENTRIES IS ALSO

REQUIRED. The author's real name and address must not appear on the entry. The duly accomplished Official Entry Form and

notarized Authorization Form together with the author's full resumé should be sealed inside a legal size letter envelope. The title of

the entry, category, and division should be written or typed on the envelope, and the envelope attached to an original copy of the

entry. In case an entry from abroad wins, an authenticated copy of the Authorization Form by the Philippine Embassy or Consulate

will be required.

 

8. All copies should be legible and neat. Entries must be addressed to the Board of Judges, Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for

Literature, which shall be the sole body to evaluate the literary merits of the works. ENTRIES SHOULD BE SUBMITTED TO THE

CARLOS PALANCA FOUNDATION, INC. office at the above address NOT LATER THAN 12:00 m.n. of 30 APRIL 2007. Entries

sent by mail or courier should be postmarked/invoiced not later than 15 April 2007.

 

9. Entries submitted via e-mail should be in Rich Text Format (RTF) or in a Word Document File and should be sent as an attachment

together with the author's bio-data or resumé, and a scanned copy of the accomplished and notarized Authorization Form. The

original copy of the notarized Authorization Form should then be sent to the CARLOS PALANCA FOUNDATION, INC. by mail

or courier not later than 30 April 2007. Entries submitted via e-mail should be transmitted not later than 12:00 m.n. of 30

April 2007.

 

10. Submitted copies of winning entries shall remain with, and become the property of, the Carlos Palanca Foundation, Inc. Submitted

copies of non-winning entries may be claimed by the authors not later than six (6) months from the date of announcement of winners.

 

11. In the SCREENPLAY category, the entry must be a script for a full-length film with a running time of approximately two (2) hours.

The theme is open, but should inspire the viewer with moral values.

 

12. In the SHORT STORY FOR CHILDREN category, an entry must be not more than ten (10) typewritten pages. It may deal with any

subject, provided it is directed principally to promote appreciation of Filipino literature or culture by children in the grade school level,

ages 7-12.

 

13. In the SHORT STORY category, an entry must be at least ten (10) but not more than twenty-five (25) typewritten pages.

 

14. In the POETRY category, an entry must consist of a collection of at least ten (10) but not more than fifteen (15) poems.

 

15. In the ESSAY category, an entry should be at least ten (10) but not more than twenty-five (25) typewritten pages. The category is

open only to informal (personal) essays.

 

16. In the ONE-ACT PLAY category, an entry must be of sufficient length to approximate a performing time of forty-five (45) minutes.

 

17. In the FULL-LENGTH PLAY category, an entry must consist of two (2) or more acts.

 

18. The Hall of Fame Award shall be awarded to a Palanca awardee who has won five (5) first prizes in the regular categories.

 

19. The KABATAAN ESSAY category is open only to informal (personal) essays. The Essay must develop the theme "THE FILIPINO

VALUE I WOULD LIKE TO SHARE WITH THE WORLD" for the English division and "ANG KAUGALIANG PILIPINO NA NAIS

KONG IBAHAGI SA MUNDO" for the Filipino division. An entry must be at least four (4) but not more than five (5) typewritten pages,

and must carry an original title.

 

22. The Kabataan Award of Distinction is awarded to Palanca awardees who have won four (4) first prizes in this category. First prize

awards in the special youth category shall not be eligible for the Hall of Fame Award.

 

23. Entries submitted must comply with government policies on printed matters.

 

24. In order to give public access to the winning works, the author hereby grants, assigns, and transfers unto the Sponsor, the right

without necessity of any payment other than the prize which may have been awarded: to publish from time to time any winning entry

or selection or portion thereof as it may at its discretion determine; to designate or appoint editors to edit the work or any portion

thereof to suit the demands of publication; to furnish a reasonable number of copies of all winning works to the National Library or

other libraries; to make the works available for downloading on the Internet or other electronic medium; and/or to allow students to

make copies for research or in connection with their school requirements. In the One-act Play, Full-length Play, and Screenplay

categories, the Sponsor shall also have the right to produce, or authorize the production for staging, telecasting, broadcasting, or

cinema or other form of exhibition, from time to time, any winning entry or selection or portion thereof as it may in its discretion

determine. The Sponsor shall also have the right to appoint or designate editors or directors who may edit the work or any portion

thereof to suit the demands of production or exhibition.

To promote Philippine Literature in the modern world of information technology, the Sponsor intends to make the winning entries

accessible through the Internet or other electronic medium, to serve as a literary archive of the contest. The website or other medium

to be established for this purpose shall be a repository of the award-winning works, recording the history of the development of

Philippine literature over the years through the Palanca Awards.

In making the works thus available to interested researchers and students of Philippine literature, the Sponsor intends purely to

promote literary appreciation for and public awareness of such works, and not to commercially exploit the same. Should any author

instruct the Sponsor in writing to exclude his work from the Internet archive, such instruction will be honored and the work shall be

excluded therefrom within a reasonable time from Sponsor's receipt of the instruction.

 

25. In connection with the grant, assignment, or transfer to the Sponsor of the right of publication, re-publication, production, reproduction

or exhibition as stated in paragraph 24 of these rules, and pursuant to the requirements of R.A. No. 8293, entries must be

accompanied by the author's written consent to abide by the rules of the contest acknowledged before a Notary Public. In the case of

minors, particularly with respect to the Kabataan Essay category, the written consent of the parents or legal guardians shall also be

required. The Authorization Form and Official Entry Form are available at the Carlos Palanca Foundation, Inc. or

cpawards@info.com.ph or palancaawards@yahoo.com.

The exercise of the above rights by the Sponsor shall not be deemed a waiver of any right of action which the Sponsor of this contest

may have against the contestant, if it may be discovered later on that said person is not the creator or owner of the copyright to the

award-winning work. Moreover, the contestant likewise undertakes to indemnify the Sponsor for any and all damages, fees, costs and

expenses that the Sponsor may incur by reason of the infringement by the contestant of the intellectual property rights of another.

 

26. The prizes, in Philippine Pesos (Php), for each contest category are the following:

Filipino

English Hiligaynon Iluko Cebuano

a. Short Story

First prize 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00 12,000.00

Second prize 9,000.00 9,000.00 9,000.00 9,000.00 9,000.00

Third prize 7,000.00 7,000.00 7,000.00 7,000.00 7,000.00

b. Poetry, Essay, One-Act Play and Short Story for Children

First prize 12,000.00 12,000.00

Second prize 9,000.00 9,000.00

Third prize 7,000.00 7,000.00

c. Full-length Play

First prize 17,000.00 17,000.00

Second prize 10,000.00 10,000.00

Third prize 7,000.00 7,000.00

d. Screenplay

First prize 27,000.00

Second prize 12,000.00

Third prize 10,000.00

e. Kabataan Essay

First prize 8,000.00 8,000.00

Second prize 5,000.00 5,000.00

Third prize 3,000.00 3,000.00

(The school/s of the student/s winning the first prize in the Kabataan Essay will receive a cash prize of Php 5,000.00)

 

27. The Board of Judges shall have the discretion not to award any prize if, in its judgment, no meritorious entry has been submitted.

 

28. The Sponsor has the sole right to designate the persons who shall constitute the Board of Judges in each of the contest categories.

The decision of the majority of the Board of Judges in all categories shall be final.

 

29. The names of the winners and the members of the Board of Judges shall be announced on 1 September 2007.

 

30. All parties submitting entries are deemed to have accepted the rules of the contest, and agree to abide thereby.