I have a friend whom I don't see very often. Rarely do I see him more than once a year. We usually communicate through the pager, although I sometimes send him scribbled notes. We move in the same circle, and yet, we hardly ever meet. And when we do see each other, we don't talk very long. Still I am sure he knows me like nobody else— not even my closest friend or my only sister or my mom.
This friend of mine was not always a friend. He didn't even consider me a friend at first.
The first time we met, I didn't look at his face. I saw his shoes first. They were made of canvas, beige-colored, low-cut with white laces. His right shoe was resting perfectly on the podium's perch and he was holding his left leg straight to keep his balance. If only I would think hard, I would remember the brand of his sneakers which were the same as my brother's.
I guess you can call me a "shoe person." I have the habit of sizing up people by the shoes they wear. At a time when Sperry top-siders, Tretorn sneakers and Bass loafers were in vogue, this guy's shoes stood out like a well-worn pair amidst new arrivals. When I looked up to see their owner, I saw him grinning at a bunch of faces that look harried.
Since then, I would always see him smiling. I never saw him frown or smirk. He always smiled and greeted friends and acquaintances and tell them, "Have a nice day!" If it was a Friday, he'd wish them a happy weekend.
Who says such things other than grade school pupils? And this guy was already 21.
When he meets a friend, he rumples the other's hair to say hello. Or he wraps his short arms around him.
A friend of mine addressed him as "Sir" and he admonished her not to call him that.
But during the first two years since I knew him, I couldn't help but call him just that. And I still called him "sir" even when he was no longer my teacher.
Five semesters later, I bumped into him. He was with a friend. He told her I was his student, and recalled that I sat in the front row.
I seldom see him without his cap. It's like a part of him, something he can't live without. Like the red Bobcat backpack that bounces up and down whenever he walks.
Before he got a car, he walked around a lot. He walked around school—to the cafeteria, the library, the buildings named after saints, the high school department. I even chanced upon him crossing the street one rainy afternoon, twirling his blue and white Bank of the Philippine Islands umbrella.
Twice a week for one school year, he waited for the bus at the waiting shed. He would sit on the concrete bench Indian-style, a solitary figure facing the green open field, framed perfectly by the rectangular structure. When it was late and the last blue bus had already left, he would take the jeepney.
One time, I noticed him walking behind me. I don't know how he did it, but when I reached the gate, he was already there. Did he fly like Batman? Did he ride a spaceship like E.T.? Or maybe he had a skateboard like Marty McFly in "Back To The Future"?
That time, we took the same jeepney. We sat across each other. He paid for my fare, which was P1.50 then.
A year before I graduated, I saw him driving a white car. He saw me, too, and offered me a ride to school. As soon as I sat in his car, he plopped a cassette tape into his car radio and started singing along to the song. His gesture reminded me of what my psychology teacher said, that one can tell a person is happy if he's singing or humming a tune. Even if I didn't see him for months, I always prayed that he was happy.
Before I met him, all the guys I knew seemed so engrossed in themselves. They talked about what they did, what they thought, who they knew. Sir was different. He asked about me and seemed to care enough to ask what I thought about some things.
I don't know when he began calling me a friend. I think it was the time he arrived from Australia and brought me a koala keychain as pasalubong. The note accompanying it said something like, "Here's a little something from the land down under to thank you for all those years of kindness and friendship." And he added a postscript that read, "Advance Happy Birthday—whenever that is."
He asked me about the date of my birthday once or twice. I never told him. I didn't want him to think I was greeting him a happy birthday because I wanted him to reciprocate when my birthday came.
Last year, 1996, on my birthday, he shared some good news on my pager. He had finished his first directorial job. I was so happy that I broke my self-imposed silence and called him to say congratulations and tell him that it was my birthday.
Back when I was his student, he read my short essay aloud in class. He remarked that my writing was meticulous. He also told me some time ago that he read my article about being a production assistant in a magazine. He added that he had that article photocopied and gave copies to his officemates in the film company that he was working for.
Now I am returning the favor by writing about him.
Here's to my teacher, my friend. The person I lovingly call "Sir."
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Note: This article is about my Film Theory substitute teacher Paul Daza. I wrote this as my birthday gift to him in 1997 and submitted it to the Youngblood column of the Philippine Daily Inquirer. "Sir" was published in Youngblood on August 9, 1997.
