G Spot
Juvy
By Virginia Jasmin Pasalo
IT escapes me now when I met Juvy Muncada, then Executive Assistant of the International Visitor Leadership Program (IVLP). I vaguely remember interviewing her for the post, which she held for a long time, until she found more exciting things to do. But I remember how she changed from a nerdy woman to a fashionable one, when she joined the Toastmasters Club, where she was inspired by someone, to wear four-inch high heels, and to line her eyebrows with darker shades to accent her eyes, whose lashes she curls, before she leaves the office.
She was efficient at organizing her work, and was meticulous about cleanliness, always wiping the top of tables and the refrigerator. The coffee, tea and the cups, spoons and other kitchenware were neatly stowed away where they could easily be found, along with the biscuits and “chichiria” (assorted junk food) that she munches with the preparation of reports, which she would rush, to go to her “inspiration” immediately after, sometimes tripping, and bumping her nose on the door.
It must have been ten years ago, when I was very thin, and I could walk with grace, on a three-inch high heels. Over the years, we met, exchanging our little adventures and misadventures with eligible choices, which for a while were fascinating, but turned out boring in competition with the opportunities presented by career opportunities.
Occasionally, Juvy would come, bringing food she passed by on her way to my office, armed with proposals for possible projects we could do together. We had done together some, but most of the big ones fizzled out in transit, as the ideas got harvested by those with whom we trusted to review and evaluate the proposals.
Last Thursday Juvy called, inviting me to Samar, where I could visit the islands nearby, and to meet her cousins who were on vacation. I told her I was working on a biography, “Gonzalo: Slices of a Rabbit”, where I was convinced that presenting a persona in “slices” was a much more incisive way of making the subject understood, than in making a full-blown biography with all the chronological details of his life. She reasoned, “You could slice him as thinly as you want your tuna in the soothing water of the islands!” Up to the last minute, she was trying her best to convince me, but I have a deadline, and not much data to move on.
“Ma’am Gie, you need a break! We can do Samar next time. There’s good jazz music at Stone House, my treat!”, she said. I had stacked up reasons not to go, including the heavy rain, but jazz always had a sexy ring in my ears.
I hopped to a jeepney going to E. Rodriguez, a 15-minute ride to the place. There was heavy rainfall when I got down, but I enjoyed the walk, the cool air made me breathe in, forgetting for a while, the pollution of the city, which I hoped the rain had washed away.
Inside Stone House, we went to the 5th floor where there was a small garden of roses which could have been a good place to dine if the area was not so wet. Further up the stairs, we found a bar, but the music was so loud, only the drunk could tolerate it. We moved back to the Red Roof Café and had a steak, gambas, crab and corn chowder, mango crepe, mango shake and brewed coffee. The diet sped away with the roaring jeepneys. After dinner, the Pete Canzin Group gave us a real treat, live jazz, with each note in the saxophone as sexy as the heavy drops of rain.
I learned my lessons in friendship in my garden. Friendships grow, oftentimes with nurture, but they also disappear, given so much of it. Friends, like plants, have different ways of growing. Others thrive in loam soil, others in sand, others on air, others in combination with the absence, or presence of other elements. Some thrive with very little care. Some grow, even when you do not deserve them, like seeds in the garden, growing from the droppings of the cruising birds.
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