He worked hard, lived hard and drank hard. We would drink until he had nodded off and fallen asleep as he sat at the table, his forehead on his right arm. He was in a remote area of the farm, cutting grass for his employer’s cows when he collapsed. He lay there on the ground while it rained and the hours passed. A co-worker who found him that night thought Uncle was matai already. But Uncle managed to hold onto dear life. I later visited him at CHC and said hi to him even though he was still unconscious. When he came to, the right side of his body was paralyzed and he could only mumble and weep. Onald visited him on the day he was to be flown to Manila and told the old man that I wanted him, Uncle, to get well soon so we could have a drink. Uncle died shortly after arriving at his home in the province.
I’m writing about him today because I just realized that he and Onald are probably having a drink somewhere in eternity.
I first met Onald during a drinking session at the Variety barracks four years ago. He was the newly arrived computer programmer/technician. We talked a lot. We drank a lot. We hit it off right away. He became my closest friend. When he transferred to I-Teck, we relocated the venue of our weekend sessions to his new place. Every time he moved to a new apartment, I’d be there to uncork the champagne, which, in our case, meant uncapping a bottle of Emperador Brandy or Tanduay Rum.
We no longer saw each other everyday, but he and I knew we were just out there. A phone call or a text message away. We used to nod or wave whenever we pass by each other while driving in opposite directions on Middle Road. On Fridays and Saturdays, I would usually see him outside the I-Teck office, smoking or getting ready to board his service car, a white station wagon with the company’s logo on its side. He remained the go-to guy whenever I had computer problems, and the chairman of our group’s party committee. I celebrated my birthdays at his place. And I was always there whenever he marked his.
In four short years, Onald managed to gather a crew of friends from varied professions and age groups. Waitresses, hotel personnel, bartenders, accountants, journalists, artists, musicians, businessmen, mechanics, office managers, a UFC fighter…
He was your ideal drinking buddy. He liked music and played the guitar very well. He never ran out of jokes or stories. He would listen to your stories and laugh at your jokes. He read this column every week and would discuss the points I made during our weekly gatherings. Whenever he had enough to drink he would head to his room and sleep.
He loved his wife and daughter. He brought them to the island three years ago. She was a nursing graduate but Onald wanted her to be a full-time mom for their precocious four-year-old child, who delighted us with her articulateness and talent for singing like a pop star, the way she would hold the karaoke mic and sway her long hair while belting out a Britney Spears song. They visited the island again last spring. Last month, Onald went to the tattoo convention to have his wife and daughter’s faces tattooed on his back.
His wife will give birth to their second daughter next month. “You’ll be one of the ninongs pre,” Onald told me.
The last time we were together was at Godfather’s, our destination of choice after enjoying the music of the Fat Joy Slim Band at nearby Primo’s. Two of the band members were his housemates. It was already past 2 when I left him at Godfather’s with Hydee, Joel, Rose Ann and our other friends. I was supposed to show up at Emmanuel College’s graduation ceremony on the following day at Fiesta Resort. Fat Joy Slim was playing and the plan was that from there, we’d head to Primo’s for their gig and then to Godfather’s. But I was up early on Saturday and was already too sleepy at 7 p.m. I would see Onald anyway on Sunday at his place for our usual weekend session.
Outside CHC, at past 4, on Sunday, it took me more than a minute to process what our other friend, Uly, had just told me. Onald was no more. Hydee too. And a day later, Rose Ann.
“Where r u?” was Onald’s last text message to me on Saturday evening.
I’m here pare ko. I’ll never forget you.
