Why I shouldn't have attended the open house

A simple token I got from my condo developer.

AS I SAT AT the dining table, I banged my hips against the chair. Which was almost paper-light that it fell like a twig to the ground. Maybe if not because of a nearby chair that had caught the fall, the impact might have stolen the other guests’ attention. Wrong move for me. I almost lost my composure. If I ever had.

The waiter served me with a dining plate, dotted with shades of greens and browns. A chicken fillet with brown sauce, the moisture of which had leached into the cold air. Fish fillet covered with green stuff I knew nothing about but reminded me algae. And veggies. A mix of corn and carrot and gumbo. Plus a meager amount of rice evenly strewn across the plate. Meager not because of cost-cutting but because servers think no one wants that much rice in this era where a bulging stomach is undesired. Maybe this is the food and lifestyle for the rich, I thought. Or maybe for the middle-class homeowners, of which sooner or later I will be a part. I paused a moment, just so my behavior wouldn’t betray me, so I wouldn’t appear too excited about the free dinner. Even if that was actually the reason why I’m here, since the agent from whom I bought my condo unit, Ana, advised me to go to this occasion. To make up for the lunch treat she couldn’t afford for her clients yet. For my officemate Agnes and me. She’d been telling it was fine even if I bring no guests, prospect buyers on their part, because I am their client. Already a homebuyer paying my monthly down payment. I’m still not fully convinced though. That it was really fine. And that I’m already a homebuyer.

The creaminess of the algae-like substance had filled my mouth when I suddenly remembered Marge and Diwa telling me they couldn’t come tonight. Because if they were here, perhaps it wouldn’t look so awkward. At least they could simulate as prospect clients belonging to my circle of friends, concealing my free dinner agenda. Suddenly from behind me I heard someone calling, “Sir!” Just with the tone of his voice I knew it was Noel, Ana’s boss, a pleasant-looking, skilled sales manager handling a team of property agents. I suppose. I looked over my shoulder and confirmed I was right. He extended a handshake―and so did I―and asked how was it going for me.

I was uncertain of my answer. The safest, I thought, was to be true to myself. No pretentions. Even if I’m in a sea of people who try behave according to a presumed status. Instead, I tried to recall the very long way I had to walk through to get to their venue. Meters, or a kilometer even. “Pagod ako” (“I’m tired”), I said. The words came out of my mouth without permission. What was I thinking? Even if Noel was not sensitive, he might have been offended. Because after my statement, he bid me joy to my dinner and left.
 

Out of the corner of my right eye, I could see the other guy wearing blue, there in the table parallel to mine. Someone who I assumed was also a sales manager because he had this air of approachable confidence like Noel’s. There he was, talking to someone else, someone wearing white. A guy whose face registered in my memory. I call him Mr. White, because I don’t know his real name, and because he had always worn white. A short-sleeved barong. The sight of him had always reminded me of my days in the sales field. Tediousness-invoking memories. Men of sales have this tendency to put too much pressure on their subordinates and Mr. White was, and is, reminiscent of such personality. Like my regional manager back then, or even my operations manager. Who were both female. I conjured up the first time I met him. When I signed my contract to buy. He was indeed very nice to Agnes, because Agnes is the likeable type. A homebuyer who wants to earn more money referring people also capable of buying a home. That explains why he’d been accommodating to her. And why he hadn’t been the same to me. Because sales-hungry people tend to like those who are capable of buying and of selling. I look neither of the two. Also, I have this inkling that Mr. White thought, and thinks, that I don't even belong to the middle-class margin of the society who can afford a home. That maybe I’d be backing out of this investment, sooner rather than later, if he even knew I bought one of their units. I really couldn’t blame him. Sales people find me disgusting because I always keep to myself, most of the time, except in the office, where I seem to be good at my field. And it’s not sales. Besides, even if I don’t back out, I own just a single unit. A small dot in their billion-earning business.

My table and theirs were at the corner-most part of the hall almost concealed by a thick wall separating us from the rest of the guests and from the entrance/exit door. From this position and nearness, I’d overheard Mr. White talking with the other guy. We even had some occasional glances. It was weird that he was addressing him “sir.” Unless he was like me, addressing everyone else sirs and madams. Or unless the guy in blue was his boss. Something I wanted to confirm with Ana out of selfish curiosity. I was finishing my cup of dessert―fermented coconut jelly dipped into lychee juice―taking care not to mess up with the table because I found myself forcing to spoon the last jelly out of the cup. Not to mention that I found the presence of the two guys being so near to me a little jarring. I don’t know why.

The tartness of the lychee was bursting across my tongue when Ana came by to my table. Maybe to see how I was doing. I invited her to have a sit, get a dinner for herself. It was like me inviting the owner of the house to a dinner she herself had prepared. Maybe I’m not doing well in this, I realized. Of course, she agreed after some wheedling. To start my investigation, I asked, “Who is he?” referring to the guy in blue. From there I was able to extract some information. The one wearing blue was the operations manager, Mr. White was the division manager, and Noel was Ana’s manager. That was also their hierarchy in the corporate ladder. I might have somehow been wrong about the hierarchy at first because I thought Mr. White was at the top of the ladder, but still being a division manager requires one to put pressure. Not just on property agents but on all managers under you, in general. I don't intend to judge him though, as more or less my judgment of him―and the things I think he thinks of me―could rather be my own judgment on myself. Indirectly. Because maybe I don’t know myself.

The waiter had already taken my empty plate off the table even before Ana had started eating. So she asked me if I want some more, and I said no, that I’m fine and already full. I was lying of course. About the “already full” part. I didn’t turn up a nose at a good offer of another glass of iced tea though. She motioned the waiter to serve me one more glass. But when the glass was brought to our table, maybe Ana thought it was hers, so she drank from it and had totally forgotten it was for me. She ended up with two half-filled glasses beside her plate, and I found myself waiting for her to drink from one glass to another alternately. I find her funny at times. She had other concerns, too, like this one time she had to pause her dinner, when she was almost halfway through finishing her plate, and entertain a new guest. She left her phone on our table when she stood up.

I glanced over my shoulder and found her talking to a middle-aged woman. I hadn’t paid too much attention on her looks. Neither her getup. All I knew was that she might have been serious in buying a unit. An investment. You know those people who just don’t know where to put their money next? Who are unlike me who bought a unit so I could I have a place of my own in the urban? It took me some moments of looking here and there before I realized my eyes were searching for the two guys. Nowhere in my sight. Their table was empty and I didn’t notice they had left. I thought it was safe to leave without being awkward, without eyes who might have been observing my purpose of visit. I unzipped my bag and packed my tablet inside, which I was using only to simulate as if my attention was on my own world alone, and that the dinner they offered me was in fact a distraction to my busy surfing habit.

My eyes landed on Ana’s phone and unfinished meal, then my initial thought was to ask myself, was it really okay to leave already? But suddenly the waiter was already taking her half-filled plate off the table, so that was a good sign for me. I caught the waiter himself watching my movement, having a glimpse at Ana’s phone. Was he actually thinking I’m going to take it? Maybe not. Even if I have big condo bills to pay, I still have some spare money to buy a phone of even later technology. Unless that didn’t show on me. I stood, pulled on my backpack, and slung it on my right shoulder. This gesture made Ana stand, come near to me, and extend her hand for goodbye. I made one last scan across the area, just to make sure I exit without being noticed by the two gentlemen. All clear. Ana offered to usher me up to the exit.

 

When we walked through the small hall, right at the exit, my heart skipped a beat, as I found myself staring at the door guarded not by a security personnel but by a couple of people I didn’t like to notice my leaving. The wall had just been concealing them after all. Those two gentlemen.