Everything I have is worse!

Media

Part of The Carolinian

Title: Everything I have is worse!
Creator: Lim, Vicente N.
Language: English
Year: 1953
Rights
Fulltext: THE TROUBLE began, as trouble often begins instead of ending, with a romance. It was when an introvertive sopho more like me fell for a stunning vision like Helen. Alright, alright, so she's not a vision — she’s a girl! To be more precise, it really started one warm day when I walked into Sociology 1 and saw her sitting there — a pint-sized but effective little Helen of Troy (nominal coin cidence, eh?), quietly sitting there like a stray lamb. We were all waiting for the teacher, a Miss Ro berta O. Dil, and most of the stu dents were watching the door for her. Not I, of course. I was watch ing Helen, delighted at the luck for being in the same class with her. She was apparently thinking of something because the pink tip of her tongue peeked out the side of her small well-formed mouth. Well, needless to say, I was right then and there thoroughly con quered, smitten and aroused like you-know-who at the sight of the windmills. At first I thought it was the humidity. But then the symp toms were unmistakable: the first startled notice of a pretty girl, then the frequent uncontrolled glances at her, then the perturbed thoughts and unanswered questions as to her identity and address, and, real izing that it would be a hopeless fight to resist thinking of her, the drafting, therefore, of calculated plans to make an acquaintance, execute an approach, strike up a friendship, etc. etc. Then the teacher arrived. Miss R. O. Dil, Sociology instructress, was the type who didn't waste time dilly-dallying with unnecessary pre liminaries. At once she launched into an exhausting lecture. Now the gears in my brain started turn ing, grinding out ideas which went through a series of examinations, cross-examinations and counter-ex aminations as to their feasibility. Of course 1 couldn't decide. I only sat there looking at Helen while she scribbled Miss Dil's lecture, the tip of her tongue still a pink blob at the side of her little mouth. I could have "borrowed" some paper from her for the lecture (like we used to do in night high school — and besides, I really had NO pa per!). Then I thought, maybe I could ask her to lend me her notes the moment we went out when class was over (another standard operat ing procedure typical of the bash ful, high school variety of prospec tive wooers). No soap. Helen strode out lithely when the bell clanged, and I couldn't even follow her. Helen standing up was even more destructive than Helen sitting down! After a few more seconds of seeing Helen at the next meeting, I was frantic! My mind was already swirling with thoughts of her, my appetite had begun to be affected, I was beginning to actually know how an insomniac feels... and, to the extreme dissatisfaction of Miss R. O. Dil, I began to forget answer ing my name at roll call. I thought, another week of this run-around and I'll be talking to myself on the street! Unless I can do something about it... like, perhaps, sitting next to her, or behind her but not, for the love of Mike, in front of her. And so the maneuver started. It still didn't pan out. How the heck can you establish a beach-head when there's no beach? Every chair sur rounding my dream dame was oc cupied. It was a cold pitch. I thought I'd have a break at last when I'd made myself a bit notorious by having to be called constantly to sit in front by the prof. Surely, I marvelled, she'd notice me now! And so everytime I wanted to be publicized, why, I'd merely make a racket from my seat at the rear and, sure enough. Miss R. O. Dil's commanding voice would demand that I sit up front. What a goon, her eyes said instead. Oh well, there are other chest nuts (or was it irons?) in the fire, I thought. But unless something hot comes up — there won't even be a fire anymore! All my madcap schemes, crack-brained and preca rious, fizzled off like a stale glass of soda. The ferment was bottled for a time, and now it was getting to be aged, or bonded, as they say in the distillery business. Oh Helen, I groaned, after I nearly flunked my mid-term exams for you! The real break —■ I imagined - - came when the prof announced one day that there would be a weekend excursion. Why, she even made me a sort of class treasurer (it was then that I knew why bill collectors die young). Well, the anguish of the job of chasing after stubborn ex cursionists and broke classmates was transcended by the prospect of being able to talk with Helen finally. 1 had decided to make a heroic last try. This time the plans were more carefully laid, from the opening remarks (which would open our acquaintance) down to the (Continued on page .!■)) SUMMER, 1953 Page 9 Manding did not seem to un derstand. She must get up and ascertain if, if ,— she sank her head into the pillow. "It was one awful storm," it was Doro's voice in the veranda. “When I recalled that Ma'm Piamonte had a headache, and might be late, I went to the schoolhouse, fearful that that naughty lad of mine would wander off with the rest of the kids. The rain blew harder instead and the winds shook the trees terribly, that I decided to stay till after the tempest was over." "The children," somebody asked, "did they not cry all over you?" "Oh, no. They thought it was fun. We even played hide and seek." There was general laughter. "Some parents came to take the children away," Doro continued, "but I advised them to wait till the storm subsided." "Say, Doro, how clever is your boy?" one of the men wanted to know. "Huh? As clever as I am. Says two plus two is five. Isn't that cute?" Elisa smiled in spite of herself. These people — these dear good people — serious, gay, human, all human. They gave her back her life and with it, another chance. The tears came, and she buried her face in her pillow. "What is it, child?" Manding asked. "Nothing," Elisa whispered. Manding touched her forehead and stroke her hair tenderly. EVERYTHING I HAVE . . . (Continued from page 9) last lines of dialogue and oratories, including the ad libs (which would clinch things — I thought). I couldn't wait for the weekend to come fast enough. When finally it staggered in, I was feeling like a knight going into a pitched battle with ten dragons and a row of windmills after that. Dressed and perfumed like any lovesick, gibber ing adult-lescent (that's a combina tion college sophomore, wallflower and deadbeat), I sallied out to where the trucks were parked wait ing for the excursionists. If I could only manipulate things so I could sit beside her, I thought... she ■knows by now; it shouldn't be dif ficult to begin. .. well, she smiled at me last week, maybe there's Manila Calling Cebu (Continued from page 12) sor, NIMIA DOROTHEO, who is going to kiss her Cebu days good bye by enrolling in a Manila uni versity come June. . . . DELIA SAGUIN, snooping around for Campuscrats... LUZ MANCAO SANDIEGO, here to do the Fair-way. .. MIKE CELDRAN, an intern at the PGH... JIMMY DUMON, plodding out of Quiapo, heaping with bun dles. .. Mrs. SALUD SANTOS, walk ing down the Elizabeth's gang plank. . . EMMA DEL ROSARIO, LUDY AND ROSE MORALES, Cen tral Marketing. Shinbusters DE JE SUS, POMAR, QUINO, BALLESTE ROS, VALMAYOR, et al, of William Lines XI.... 1950 USC ROTC Com mandant, Major JUAN, on duty at FT. MCKINLEY... No tour of Manila would be complete without a trip to Balara. Traipsing around the place, we caught glimpses of JUAN TANATO, a Society of St. Paul seminarian. . . ROSITA TY, USC campus cyno sure. .. Miss BUENCONSEJO (we're ashamed to admit her first name escapes us for a moment), an exUSC ROTC kaydette gal... CAMI LO DEJORAS, playing bings with relatives... SOCRATES PILAPIL, a C. E. Junior at MIT. Esquiring the GURBUXANI sisters were GEORGE ARCILLA, BRAULIO ARRIOLA, DO MINGO ZABALA, EMETERIO ALLERE — all sporting, the Ft. McKinley army cut. They say they've got quite a team in camp, spearheaded by "cover-boy" SAGARDUI, DIONALDO, RUBI, and ARRIOLA. Watching passers-by from the Baby Quezon Terrace were MOMMY CA MACHO and her kid, CAROLINA. To escape the Manila summer heat, we boarded a BAL bus for Baguio. Within an hour, the Cen tral Plains lay sprawling before us. Luzon's sore spot was peaceful enough, what with BCTs at every hope... by golly, it's now cr never!.. . They were there already. They were chattering and laughing, ex pectant, eager — and perfectly at ease. It would be quite a day! Then the teacher arrived. Miss Ro berta O. Dil, with two sisters, a cousin, a maid and about a half dozen invited friends (what, no pet dog?, I mused). And we went off — all but Helen. She didn't come along. turn of the road. In Bulacan, we passed orchard after orchard of mangos and towering bamboo grooves. The smell of burnt sugar cane engulfed us when we hit Pampanga. Next stop was Tarlac, CPR's home province. Upon cross ing the Plaridel Bridge, longest span in the Islands, we knew we were already in Pangasinan, the bocayo province. From here, we began the slow climb, zigzagging our way to the Pines City. The air gradually became cooler and cool er. One-lane bridges, down-toearth road signs like "Drive like hell and you"ll be in hell," and Ifugaos in multi-colored - outfits fleeted by. A few minutes more and then, we were in the heart of the Simla of the Philippines — truly the cleanest city this side of the globe. From the Kennon Hotel where we roomed during our stay, we lost no time in trekking to the SVD quarters at Sunnyside. Lady Luck must have been with us for all the SVD Fathers then on vacation were in, it being dinnertime. Because they were on retreat, we merely got passing nods from FR. WROCKLAGE, FR. CREMERS, FR. LAZO, and FR. FLORESCA. But FR. SZMUTKO and FR. TSAO forsook their chow if only to be able to say howdy to us. In the course of our tete-a-tete, we learned that Atty. AURELIO C. FERNANDEZ and FA BIAN VILLORIA were recent visi tors, that LOURDES DEJORAS is a member of the Canonesses of St. Augustine order. Taking a bus back, who do you think sat beside us? Former USC Rector, Fr. DING MAN, who stunned us when he called us by our given name. Gosh, after these years! With Mrs. E. C. MORALES, we dropped by the con vent of the Most Blessed Sacrament to call on NELLIE PATALINGHUG. She's a Pink Sister now, whatever that means. Downtown, we met Atty. MAX MACEREN, whose job with the Court of Appeals keeps him headquartered in this city. Well, we've travelled many a mile, seen all sorts of people and places; yet, for us, Cebu is still the best place there is. Come dust, bugs, flies, and what have you, it will always be home — and that spells all the difference. SUMMER, 1953 Page 33