The broom, the guitar, from Russia with love

When she loves you ye ye ye hit Jorge’s 7-year-old ears he immediately picked up a walis tingting and strummed it into a guitar, all the while pretending he was John Lennon. He was always John, and his cousin, Jun, always got to be Paul because he was better-looking than Jorge - according to Jun’s mother. Jun got to use the more guitar-shaped walis tambo.

More than a decade later Jorge was sweeping the sticky floor of the bar he worked at as a folksinger. The customers had all gone except for one regular who was asleep in his usual woe-is-me position at the innermost corner table.

Jorge gathered his sweepings up in a dustpan shaped out a large yellow and green Baguio oil can. He gingerly separated the beer caps from the dust, the cigarette butts, used table napkins, hair, squeezed kalamansi halves, a half of a fish jaw, and one chicken thigh bone that Max, the official streetdog, had overlooked … it was a not-bad night, pretty good, in fact.

209 beer caps! … at 10 centavos per tansan, equals 20 pesos and 90 centavos. 20 bucks calculated Jorge, that’s 2 days, possibly three, of panaderia and carinderia cuisine. Not bad for three hours of singing OPM. Other People’s Music, thought Jorge. He needed to learn From Russia with Love, as earlier requested by a table of three plainclothes military types with .45s weighing down their table.

One of them had approached the folksinger’s little one-square-meter stage and wedged a table napkin between the mic cable and the mic stand. Jorge felt a cold lump form in his gullet as he deciphered the song title scrawled drunkenly on a table napkin. He mumbled into the microphone Ah, sorry po mga ser, di po ko ako kumakanta nang ganito…

One of the trio spoke up E, ano pala ang mga kinakanta mo? What kind of songs do you sing?

Mga folksong, ser, mga country song answered Jorge.

The one who spoke got up, dragged his gun off the table and staggered up to the stage. He looked familiar to Jorge. Si Bert Tawa Marcelo! thought Jorge, as the guy’s face was revealed in the faint wash of the old Christmas lights that served as the stage’s backdrop. No way this is Bert Tawa, whose beer commercials were all over prime-time tv, featuring Bert’s iconic laughing face and trademark Bulakenyo accent. Mag-beer muna tayo!

“Bert” raised his .45 and stuck it in Jorge’s face, and said, with an eerily familiar Bulakenyo accent E yang Russia, di ba country yan? Hihihihi…. Jorge froze. The only available action was to freeze. Jorge had heard of people getting killed over Frank Sinatra’s My Way, but had never heard of anyone getting killed over Matt Monro’s From Russia with Love.

Maybe this will be a first thought Jorge.

Then, a huge, meaty hand gently pushed Bert’s gun down and a huge, meaty voice said Relax lang Bert. Tara, uwi na tayo. It was the burliest of the trio. As he guided “Bert” back to the table he half-turned to Jorge and apologized-explained Pasensya na, bata, mga DPA kami, R en R lang…

DPA, Jorge knew, meant Deep Penetration Agent, government soldiers who infiltrated the anti-government New People’s Army. R en R, meant Rest and Recreation. Not Rak en Rol.

Babalikan ka namin bata hihihi… shouted “Bert”. Jorge launched into John Denver’s Country Road and that sent “Bert” into a fit of clapping and half-dancing on the way out as his comrades paid for the two buckets of beer they had consumed. 12 bottles for 3 guys, 4 bottles each, Jorge automatically calculated as he got to the chorus Country road, take me home…

By the time the three men had settled their account and were gone Jorge had detuned his #6 string and was into James Taylor’s Country Road, all the while thinking I gotta learn From Russia with Love.