(Dec. 1988)
A strong and cool December breeze sung its way from the eastern wall of Intramuros to Gate 2 of the institute, harshly hitting my face while I briskly walked outward towards the half-opened iron gate. I stopped momentarily, squinted behind my eyeglasses, and faced to my right, where I could see those telephone booths lined up like giant, glass dominoes, the brightly colored red rotary telephones clearly visible inside even in the duskiness. One of the middle booths was slightly tilted backwards and had its glass door opened wide, dimly reflecting and at the same time casting the shadow of the bust of our institute’s founder, Don Tomas Mapúa, the first registered architect in the Philippines.
You will need three 25 centavo coins to make an unlimited call (tele-babad) from those pay-phones but I learned a nifty trick from a fraternity brother that you could get away with it by merely using two 25 centavo coins only. And even a catchy song called tatlong beinte cinco was cleverly composed about it — a guy who has been scrambling and struggling to change and break his Peso bill for three 25 centavo coins in order to call his girl friend.
I hurriedly walked out past the gate and made a sharp left turn. It’s late in the evening already, and I have to catch the last bus trip in Lawton terminal to go home. Along the Muralla street, beginning from the opposite side of the Sta. Rita chapel of the institute to the perpendicular San Francisco St. (a street between Lyceum and Mapúa), there are many lined-up fast food kiosks that are recessed like caves through the wall of Puerta del Parian. In between about three or four stalls, old street lamp posts lit flickerly their yellowish color, attracting and guiding moths and students alike to their destinations — through life in the walled city.
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Veneraldo Apelo