A Little Bit Fast And Furious

      I was inside a passenger jeepney yesterday, seated behind the driver when suddenly, it forcefully stopped and I almost found myself flying through the windshield. Apparently, a boy, probably 13-14 years old, uniformed and carrying a bag, suddenly darted in front of the vehicle and thank God for the driver’s alertness, nothing gory occurred, the boy gleefully ran away and the driver continued, well, driving.

      But it reminded me of an incident which happened around many years ago, when I took the fancy of learning to drive a car. I didn’t have a car then, but I was thinking, “the wind of change continues to blow and I might find myself a multi-millionaire one day and able to buy myself a Lamborghini, so I better be prepared to drive it.”

      So I decided to learn to drive (which really was a bad idea since I was often reckless, had bad reflexes, was easily distracted and would often, like many other writers, zone out).  And after four or five days, I was already cruising ( for bruising, I didn’t realize then) in the streets of Manila. I was, I think, in Port Area then, and, since there were scarcely people and other cars around,  I was going a little bit fast ( for a beginner) but my companion didn't mind. Suddenly, a teen-aged boy came out of nowhere and dashed in front of our vehicle. I was able to slam the brakes, but probably not in time, I thought grimly. The boy vanished in front of our car. We couldn’t see him and we were too afraid to move or get out of the car, so we just sat there, numb, heartbeats alternately racing and fading. Did I just kill somebody?

      A prison life started flashing in my mind... me wearing the dreaded orange shirt, mingling with hardened criminals, murderers, rapists, carnappers, litterbugs, bank robbers and jaywalkers, me unfortunately dropping the soap while taking a bath together with the other (sex-starved) prisoners who think every other male prisoner is Scarlett Johansson... which made me furious, then scared. My body would then be filled with tattoos, I would be forced to join jail riots, stab somebody's neck with a thumbtack, make a name there, and then I'd be involved in drug dealings while still imprisoned, which would make me a multi-millionaire... Wait...

      But I was disturbed from my reverie by something stirring in front of us—the boy stood up and ran away, unscathed.  I was so relieved that it felt like a baby elephant was hauled out of my chest. I drove away from there—slowly now, of course, not fast, not furious—and went home. 

      After two centuries, I still can't afford a car. I'm still not a millionaire, not even a thousanaire. But at least, I didn't go to prison. And who would want to drive in this hellish Metro Manila traffic anyway? I haven't driven a car for a long time now that I will probably won't be able to distinguish now the gas pedal from the clutch.  And sometimes I wonder about  the boy I almost hit. Whatever happened to him? Probably, he's a congressman now... stealing from the government coffers, or a young (perverted) CEO sexually harassing his female subordinates, or a taxi driver, who already has three hit-and-run-victims...

      Darn! I probably should have just run over that bastard!