In my most recent book discussion, I was telling a piesces-born scriptwriter / novelist that I used to write a lot whenever I am out of town, or on the move. With movement comes content and engagement, and having those on a travel is like discovering a cesspool of stories. However, today, a morning after a friend's life event, I find myself hard to jot down what I can bring to the paper, even thought I sit in a lobby filled with people waiting for a forum to start on the third floor. Most are drowsy, I guess battling the need for more sleep. Some are looking at their phones, ingesting the noise of online soundbytes and maybe a bit of conspiracy and fake news in ground zero (aka facebook news feed).
I, too, am looking at my phone and as I jot down my streams of sentiments in the notes app hoping that this online platform won't shut down without me saving anything. And I realize, I was also battling the need for more sleep, because my body clock is aligned with the Eastern Standard Time. This GMT+8 Beijing time isn't helpful with remembering niceties and meme-ish #emenisms that I can jot down to increase the word count of this so-called-travel-essay.
Maybe I can start with the last night's events.
After all, I wasn't just a guest. I was hired for a job, and yet I was the one who paid.
"Even a virus needs a host," the spiel echoed and then the after party commenced. The elderly X-ers exited frame with their sharons-in-tow as the millenials huddled in the middle, and started the after-party with heavy drinks and EDMs. Bookish friends went by the sidelines, trying to time themselves as their distance with the newly married gets closer. They needed to get home, they said. It's late in the night and the social battery needs charging. High school colleagues of the new misis were jumping about, with a solo violinist doing a tiktok video of a point-of-view meme:
POV: I am the boquet in a Wedding night. The maid of honor unleashed her debutante persona, dunking the bottle of wine while dancing macarena. Perhaps, it's her last hurrah for being an englishera yaya; time to bring back her no-holds-barred persona. A funky functional alcoholic, I guess.
The antsy couple were roaming about, receiving best wishes and goodbyes, and thinking about the crew waiting in the dark. They need the cash to flow, ASAP.
I stood up, offered the sober hat: I became the cash auditor that night.
I was a helicopter hovering through the large lobby of the hotel I stayed for two nights, jotting down the cash gifts received from the Ninongs and Ninangs, pooling all the funds, and finally paying the outstanding balances of suppliers who waited until the end of the program to get them in cold-hard cash. The couple are hard-core zillenials and more online-savvy than this geriatric millenial auditor; they rather do the payments online via bank apps and gcash, screenshotting their proofs of settlement, rather than touch the newly-printed Singaporean peso with the Philippine Eagle (replacing the three heroes of the World War II).
[Sit on a private table.]
[Open the envelope, get the money.]
[Get that brown paper and the violet pen.]
[Check the names. Ninang J—, Ninong H—]
[Write the name.]
[Write the amount.]
[Best wishes, Godbless! -Love love]
[Mamaya na yan buksan!]
[Ella - 1,500 (without the envelope)]
[Write the total envelopes opened.]
[Write the total cash pooled.]
[14 envelopes, Php xxxxx]
[Go to coordinator. Settle balance.]
[Go to lights and sounds. Settle balance.]
[Create acknowledgement letter.]
[Put name, sign the CPA License away.]
[Threat the coordinator. "PRC license ko nakataya diyan!"]
[Take a photo of the acknowledgement, send to the bride.]
And so on and so forth. With the program concluded, the pragmatic has commenced. Walking on through the sleepy hotel hallways, we battle the body ache: me with my athritis-inducing brown pumps and her with her cold back from the body-hugging reception dress.
We enter the room and straight to the office: carrying the little tote bag of red envelopes, best wishes, and hopefully — a bundle to jumpstart a joint account.
With the opening of ampaos comes the underlying tales of how they met the sponsors, the guests, and even some of the urban legends: from Titas of Baguio taking non-stop pictures while hogging the church walkway, to the "Best wishes! Godbless! -Love love", to a brown envelope of Congratulations but the name is missing, together with its offering. I've never been an auditor to a wedding before. I used to do financial projections and advising, standard costing and budgeting, but not the whole leg of Cash counting and applying the Auditing Practice from the college books of AC466 (the hardest subject). The mere motions of touching the envelopes, knowing the names and listing them down, to the reading of the messages and flicking the bills intrigued me. Maybe because it is a first time, the excitement sobered me up, after dunking three glasses (plastic cups, rather) of robitussin-esque strawberry rum, two of the deflam-like vodka sour, and another three of the jack coke that the mobile bar prepares upon request, or until supplies last.
Also, in an empty space with the couple excited to air their grievances, who am I to be tipsy and not listen in, or at least be curious for the tea? After all, I was known for urban legends (and hopefully, for a gig in writing) and the who's. I embody #TeataElla.
[Ano comment mo sa program]
[Ano best-seller]
[Ano tingin mo sa—]
[Malakas ang taho!]
[Eh yung corner na—]
[Na-overshadow yung—]
[How about the food?]
[Sorry pero 3/5 kasi—]
[Eh yung flow—]
And then some other vents were unleashed.
Sometimes, it feels good just to listen. In one of the instagram followings I made (for the memes), there was an piece of advise about being wary of self-inserting. Good thing, I cannot insert myself in the narrative because (1) I am not married (yet), and (2) I am a third-party by function — an auditor — not the other woman. I hope that with my presence, the two were able to discuss and reason out on the disappointments that I may feel during the program.
But honestly, I enjoyed the event.
Ilagay mo lang naman ako sa SDE, masaya na ako. And they did. And with that, I am extremely grateful.
I do hope ten years down the lane, they will see the same video— reminisce their exclusive moments of saying their vows, of eating their stopover yumburgers, and of dancing to the tiktok songs— like it was that last night.
But for now, I have to battle the morning drowsiness as I want to see that bootleg jinja with the chirpy violinist from another island.
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| Inay, nasa bidyo ako Inay! |
