At the front seat of a city-bound bus with wide open doors, I was all alone there Thursday morning except its driver of course, when as we approached Baroc-Cabanbanan’s blind curve, the driver would still insist to overtake a jeepney thus steering us on collision course. I instantly expected an instant clash head-on, with anything on-rushing from the town of Oton. I was correct because as I gripped my seat’s backrest and paused, a private vehicle in front tiptoed along the left side of the road, and to sigh later on, “that was close!”
From now on I promise I will firmly believe that most of the so-called vehicular “accidents” are definitely man-made. And I’m more convinced not only drugs and cigarettes kill, most fatally speaking, stupidity will.
I used to prefer a bus over PUJ’s in choosing my mode of transportation to and from the city daily because the latter, especially the “Sanwakinhin” or San Joaquin-route plyers, are most likely composed of Formula 1 winners and ambulance or firetruck drivers. Yeah, I’m scared of PUJ’s, that’s why. Riding on them I couldn’t have peace of mind. I couldn’t take either their words to live by: “Why go slow when you can fly.”
Everytime I meet drivers like the one in that bus who obviously knew nothing about responsibility, the more I heap praises and respect to my own father who drove PUJ for more than a third of a century. During my freshman year, when I skipped classes in my secondary course, after my mother’s signature in an excuse letter was forged, I couldn’t stay any longer in Tay Eking’s “bilyaran” with those gambling (“pusoy-bahig”) lords as someone would notice me and say, “Ay, dya bata ni George!”
It took me about two years or more in the town proper to be called by my name, as I was spontaneously referred to as “Bata Ni George” more often. Perhaps that identity crisis in life drove me to tread on the naughty road to “popularity,” since the academic excellence’s way was so overcrowded by the usual suspects from the celebrated and cerebral clans in our municipality.
However, I did it discreetly and within the ambit of minimum tolerance only. I didn’t mess around everywhere in the town openly for fear that bad reports would reach Tatay any time of day. Why not? Miagao jeepney drivers were known by and knew everybody then, besides, he was driving for the public eversince. He steered them all with the same diligence, from Armak to Cimarron which he both ran like a Benz, even all the way from the buses Master Mariner Express by Lolo Jose Nim’s and Tay Kasyâ Noviza’s Miagao Student Prince.
My only goal at the time was to get out of the shadow of that tag, “Bata Ni George” with burning desire and strong will as if it was my ultimate dream in life to fulfill. As time went by, the more I realized I could never overshadow my father still, regardless of any achievement, even when he was later known as, “Tatay Ni Ramil.”
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