The Boss

I picked up the phone after three missed calls. It was unregistered and I have an immediate withdrawal syndrome for unnamed callers. When I answered an enigmatic hello, the guy from the other line shouted "Bossing!", a Tagalog derivative of boss or someone who usually leads and dominates the pack. It was Angelo, one of my high school classmates. I should've guessed it. The spur-of-moment semi-reunion was actually happening in real time and that I should be there. I'm the bossing anyway, despite the fact that I cannot shell out 43 pesos for the taxi and would have to text Frances, another close classmate of mine who promised to pay the fare, to save my face.

(Diversion: The realities of an overworked low-wage-earner loser is a case that should be documented already by Amnesty International. Imagine the psychological effects of seclusion and deprivation of proletariat ramblers like me due to perforated-pocket syndrome. Double whammy. I bet there are bazillions of undocumented (unsung, in a rather 'lyrical' melodramatic sense) out there that could rival the ever-increasing statistics of political prisoners and media slayings.)

Trying to dislodge the bossing irony, while sipping a pretentious mocha-on-the-rocks surrounded by noisy class A people and faux pas bourgeoise, I am again transported to that memory in high school, where the bossing etymology is rooted.

I was the only male cadet officer during the fourth year PMT heydays when commando-crawling in both rocky and muddy grounds and eating lamaw-like buffet gives a stupid adrenaline rush. Sir Sonny, our beloved commandant was not around during our pointless training month, and was replaced by the dominatrix Sir Emilia (his alternate name). If clinching the credits to sustain the honors thus the scholarship was not in question, I could easily have quit along with five of my guy classmates who shared to me they just couldn't stomach the pointless stupid training with the bitch. The other five called themselves "the quitters" and emerging as Alpha Co. Commander and only thorn among the brave roses, I was tagged their bossing.

It would have been a different ball game had I quit, had I proven a different point, had I disappointed expectations. My reasons may not have been as valid but later gaining the respect and confidence of the rest of the guys is priceless even if I had endured burnt arms in the searing pavement and the nauseating, puke-inducing stench while submerged in the canal. Gawd, I really could have done away with it, no? Oh, fuckit.