THAT TIME, WHEN HEARTS WERE YOUNG

Today is the last day of classes of the First Semester. After lecturing, I passed by the elementary department (in ordinary days, this part of the university is very quiet) and saw boys playing war games. They have plastic guns, and some were hiding in a nearby bush. Others were crawling towards them. I was mesmerized. I sat down on a bench and let the breeze transport me into another world when hearts were young. 

OUR FAVORITE game way back in 1973 is called "pinnaltogan" or (wargames). There was an old bodega near the fields where we used as headquarters. Now, there was this bully, who also had plenty of friends by the name of Nestor. He was known as the El Toro (the bull) from the eastern part of our barrio. 

One day, they occupied the "kamarin" (barn). Pilo, one of my lieutenants, said, "Why? That is ours! These people are waging a fight!" My ego was also touched, especially when Nestor shouted, "This is ours! If you want it back, we will fight!" We had been using this barn as our camp. My face was red with anger. I told my friends to ready their guns. (Improvised, of course. Bullets were black and red fruits of a wild tree, soaked in a violet color of "dyobos.". Once it hits a person, it leaves a color). The guns were made of wood. There was a rubber attached to one end so it could push the rod to flick the bullet. 

When we were ready, I declared assault. With a yell, my friends ran towards the barn. Well, we were kids, but we were sporting kids. Once a bullet hits you, you pretend to be dead. Soon, half of my friends were lying on the ground. Pilo told me we cannot attack head on. I told him to abandon the gun. I gave all the black fruits to him. I told him to run at the back and throw these pellets inside through the window with all his might. Be sure to scatter, I said, my tenor like a priest giving a homily. I watched him run with his two palmsful of bullets.He did as instructed.

There were shouts inside, then silence. We ran towards the batwing door and discovered only Nestor was left standing. "This is ours," I said. All his men were stained in the face and in the shirt. He nodded. His friends also rose, and they followed him to the trail leading them to their playground.

Many more fights ensued in that field. Many more. Until, when we were teens, that barn became our rendezvous. There were no more guns. No enemies. Only the guitar and the songs we share. We filled the moonlit nights with songs by the Beatles, Bee Gees and Simon and Garfunkel until our gin-soaked voice turned into raspy sopranos.

I remember I went back home ten years ago. The barn was still there, weathered and decaying, but to my amazement, the posts did not budge to the test of time. There were some remaining friends, and they told me Nestor had gone ahead, maybe singing Wind of Change in heaven. We were silent, as I silently prayed for him. We exchanged stories inside, sipping the brandy I brought with me and savoring the fried tilapia, "paksiw a gurami and tinuno a dalag" they had prepared for me.

THE KIDS were going back to their classrooms. I stood up, feeling weak. How the years have passed by. I slowly walked towards the nearby cafe, ordered some juice and lit my menthol. I will be driving home after this jaunt.