published in Today November 16, 1998
Otsu was on her way to a book-launching. “Instituto Cervantes, please,” she told the taxi driver. “I forgot the street it’s one, but it’s near St. Scholastica’s Manila.”
“I know where Instituto Cervantes is,” said the river, a man who appeared to be in his 40s. “I’ve attended a few of their cultural events, he added.
They drove in silence for a few minutes, and then the driver spoke up. “You are attending the screening of a Spanish film?” he asked Otsu.
“Uh, no,” Otsu replied, “I’m attending a book-launching with friends.”
“And what is the subject of this book?” the driver asked.
“Churches of the Spanish colonial period,” she said.
“Ah, history,” said the driver. “I have always been interested in history, but I opted to take my master’s degree in developmental studies.”
“Really,” said Otsu. The inevitable follow-up question formed in her mind, but she but she bit her tongue. Her tact proved unnecessary.
“Perhaps you wonder why I am driving a taxi when I hold a master’s degree in developmental studies,” said the driver.
“I am a little curious,” Otsu admitted.
“You see, I grew disenchanted with society. I chose to get out of the rat race before it swallowed up my humanity,” he declared.
“I see,” said Otsu. For the next 15 minutes the driver railed against the greed, materialism, and insensitivity of contemporary society.
“Here we are,” the driver announced.
“Well. Goodbye,” said Otsu, handing him the fare.
“Goodbye,” he said. He drove off, pondering the dilemmas of the modern world.
My sister and I got into a taxi. The radio was blasting dance music loud enough to make our ears bleed.
The driver said something but we couldn’t hear him above the Mariah Carey dance remix.
The name on the side of the cab was Plate Tectonics.
“May I ask why your cab is called Plate Tectonics?” said Otsu, whose hobbies include collecting taxi names (Fishaholic, Lamentations 3:23, Birds of Prey…).
“I read somewhere that all the continents in the world used to be one solid mass,” replied the driver, a rather attractive ponytailed person in his 20s. “Then the one solid mass broke into pieces and the pieces moved away from each other. But when they’ve moved as far apart as they can possibly go, the pieces, the continents will begin to some together once more. That’s plate tectonics,” he concluded.
“You’re into geology?” said Otsu.
“Not really,” he said. “I play guitar in a band. I also write songs. Would you like to listen to one of my original compositions?”
Otsu nodded. The driver sang his song a capella. All the words in the song began with the letter B.
I flagged down a cab in front of the TODAY office and told the driver to take me to Quezon City. The cab had unusual window shades – they were photocopies of the front page of an American supermarket tabloid.
“Time will end on January 1, 2000!” howled the headline. “The stockmarket will crash! Banks will collapse! Airports will shutdown! Cars will stop in the middle of the road! The food supply will be depleted! Panic on the streets!”
It was one of those doomsday-pseudo-prophecies, worst-case scenarios of the effects of the millenium bug. The cabbie must have been a believer of these dire forecasts, for the photocopies were copiously annotated in black marker pen. “Repent!” he’d written in the margins. “Only Jesus can save you now! John 3:16 Love thy neighbor.”
I refrained from making comment on the window shades, fearing that I would be subjected into a fire-brimstone-scorpions sermon in the middle of a scorching day. Fortunately, the driver was not in a chatty mood, as we drove to Quezon City in silence.
The meter read P79. I handed him a hundred peso bill and figured I’d tip him ten bucks for sparing me a sermon on the end of the world. I waited for my change. And waited. The driver made no move to hand over the money; he’d decided to give himself a tip.
So much for John 3:16.
“Where’s my change?” I told the driver. He did not look pleased, but he forked over a 20.
“Thou shalt not steal,” I mumbled as I got out. He sped away before I could cite my source, Exodus.
II. Disorder
“Ortigas, please,” I told the driver.
“What?” he yelled above the din.
“Ortigas!!!” my sister and I screamed.
“What?” we chorused. He repeated what he’d said, but it was drowned out by the singer’s impression of police sirens. “What?”
“Do you know how to operate this radio!!!” the cabbie screamed. Some teenagers fooled around with the controls and now I can’t turn down the volume!!!”
I reached over and hit the volume button. Mariah shut up. We all felt better.
III. Showbiz
IV. Mr. Armageddon
