My daughter lost it.
Not her sanity but the photo she took of Piolo Pascual during his visit to the Bench Ali Mall branch last July 23, 2009. Or, to be more accurate, the photo she tried to take.
We had to buy his signature perfume just to get in line for the autograph signing; which we did at around five that afternoon. Piolo came in a good two hours later and all hell broke loose. There were cameras clicking everywhere. Elbows were flying in our faces and out of frustration, my teenage girl blurted out later: “Puro kili-kili ang katabi ko!” A profusely sweating, ever-beaming Piolo Pascual patiently made his way to the little blue table where he was supposed to sign little glass bottles.
It was a great line-up of photographs that we were looking at a couple of hours thereafter. An eerie, pinkish, blurred image of a display mannequin. People crowding the escalators right across the Bench outlet. (The same faces were going up and down the stairs shouting “Hi, Piolo!” every time they reached the spot that was right across the area he was sitting in. They’d go up, they’d go down. They’d go up, they’d go down. All the while smiling like their lives depended on it.) There was also this nice picture of Ali Mall security guards trying to hold back a bulging, unruly crowd.
“Mas artista pa ang dating nu’ng mga security guards kaya sila na lang ‘yung pinikchuran ko,” my teenager commented wryly.
“What were you thinking?!” the very weary, very frustrated mother-slash-magazine-writer finally said to her equally frustrated, equally weary daughter-slash- photographer. “You took no clear shots of Piolo!”
“Mama, I obviously lost control of the camera!” my daughter said in a slightly elevated tone of voice. She was tired of the whole thing. That was the end of her very brief stint as a Pinoy paparazzi. It lasted fifteen minutes.
But what we were really mourning for was the accidental deletion of a photo of somebody else’s ass blocking Piolo’s face. It would have been the perfect banner photograph for this article. It would have said everything I wanted to say. “James Bond never had to put up with this sort of ______.” (You’ll have to watch “Notting Hill” to be able to complete that sentence. The missing word is unprintable, anyway.)
I shall forever be amazed at how media people live their lives; those in front of the camera, and those behind it.
“Okay! We’ll take care of this!” The woman in yellow yelled to everyone within hearing distance, referring to the letter I had just asked Piolo to read. It was from my poor editor who was hoping that I would at least get a 10-minute Q&A session with the silver screen supernova. “Please pray,” I had texted her earlier. She probably knew by then that I was no expert in badgering showbiz personalities for interviews. So she texted back with an equally brief, equally serious “Praying, Carol.” Those were the only words I needed to read to be able to realize how badly they wanted him on the cover of their magazine. I felt guilty even more.
Piolo was kind enough to briefly take a look at the letter and pass it on to somebody else who had to make decisions for him in life-and-death situations such as the one we were in. So when I was immediately shoved aside like a nonentity having no “business” being there, all he could do was flash that wide, expensive smile of his.
I had no choice but to stand there and wait while everybody bullied everybody else just to get close enough to shoot photos of the famous actor-singer-model. Not that I minded the fact that for some strange reason, when it was my turn to have my photo taken (I was entitled to one picture with him because I had bought a bottle of “Pure Passion”), the erstwhile very sweet and accommodating Bench staffer I had been talking to earlier suddenly screamed to everybody, “Okay, okay! No more pictures! Just autographs!” (Which did not really happen, of course, because the people around her were wide-eyed, stoned, and deaf. The cameras continued clicking.)
So there I was. Alone in a screaming stream of nobodies, quietly standing with a brown Bench bag in one hand and a Piolo picturebook in the other. No interview, no photo shoot. I had spent more than a thousand pesos trying to get that story. It looked like the only one going home happy that evening was an unsuspecting husband who had a blue fragrant bottle waiting for him on his computer desk.
“Mamah! Promise me that this is the last time we’re ever gonna do this.” My teenager’s tone was menacing. Our stomachs were growling and before I had the chance to answer, three pairs of feet (mine, my daughter's, her best friend's) were already careening towards the nearest MacDonald’s outlet. Hot fudge sundae always lifted our spirits whenever they sagged.
So when life hands you a lemon, make lemonade. Who says good things can’t come out of bad situations? There were lessons to be learned, things to be cherished, a precious gift to be thankful for.
The lessons learned: Never underestimate the difficulty of crossing unfamiliar, untested waters. Never think that just because a famous person shares your faith, you can just pop out of nowhere and say, “Hi, there. I’m also a believer in Jesus. Would you like to sit down with me and talk about what makes life tick? We need it for the next issue.”
Next: Never assume that just because you know certain people at his church, getting to him will be an easy task. Churches are places of refuge for spiritually hungry persons. Not for paparazzi. No pastor in his right mind will ever entertain people belonging to that dangerous species. Like the good shepherds they are meant to be, true-blue pastors will and should protect their own flock.
Next: Always be honest with yourself. Immerse yourself only in work that you are truly happy doing because you were called to do it. That way, it will cease to be work and the frustration level will be nil. Don’t chase after professing Christian celebrities if it’s not really your cup of tea. Not even if the whole idea started because you sincerely wanted to make two wonderful, God-fearing colleagues in the publishing ministry extremely happy.
The things to be cherished: Value your anonymity. Value the fact that you have a homely face only your mother would die for. Cherish the idea of walking around Cubao tomorrow in an old shirt, faded jeans, and rubber flip-flops; of buying your favorite newspaper at your favorite newsstand and staying right there for a few minutes while you read the day’s headlines; of eating a great breakfast of pancakes and coffee and writing in your diary early in the morning while you, from time to time, watch a colorful parade of working class people as they hurry towards the nearest LRT station.
Value your humble existence, your gentle freedom. Value the fact that you can do all of the above without somebody else’s camera being shoved up your nose whether you like it or not.
The gift to be thankful for: A precious promise from someone truly divine. Jesus says that He will be coming back like a thief in the night. Just when nobody’s watching, the skies will blaze with the fiery splendor of His countenance. Which means, you won’t have to wait in line for two hours just to catch a glimpse of the King. Every eye will behold Him. And if heaven is forever breathtaking in grandeur as the Bible pictures it to be, who needs photo shoots?
For Piolo: I wish you a good and meaningful life. May the Lord Jesus constantly persuade you and enable you to model for His people the right use of their bodies for His higher purposes (John 3:30; Romans 12:1).
For two sisters in the writing profession: I love you both, but this is as far as I go. May you have a great magazine relaunch.
For the sunflower lady and her little seed: I wish you both a good night’s sleep. The nightmare is over.
