Foraging For Food Before The Duck Hunt

The days faded and I had not gone home. The weeks flourished so swiftly and it witnessed the growing desperation that had been dwelling on my execrable self. I was such a loser and I let it. There were times I would go to sleep with other friends who had eloped from their homes with the disturbing thoughts of my father. He was still a habitual drunkard then and it scared me to death thinking that anytime he might just storm in Kuya M’s ( a friend and the owner of the house where I found temporary shelter and consolation) house and forcibly drag me to get back home. Nothing of that sort happened though and I took it to signify that my parents must have understood my rebellious behavior.

I was deeply hurt and the longer I stayed at Kuya M’s, the more brooding the future got envisioned in me. I wasn’t hopeless but I acted I was. My frailty gave in to the thrills my youth could offer. I started sucking in on cigarettes more than I had used to and got more exposed to the different tastes of inebriants.

In some occasions, I’d get surprised to see some of my classmates paying me a visit or two. I’d hear them asking where I was in the village and my neighbors who knew me would direct them at Kuya M’s. They’d always convince me to go back to school and that there was enough time I could still catch up by taking special exams. They were also witness of my jeremiads but they didn’t get the reciprocation they’d wanted from me. I’d tell them how the recent event in my life had ripped off the zeal and passion I once had wrought and feared I’d never step back in college again.

The life at I had at Kuya M's was not a bed of roses. Living without their parents somehow taught us to depend on each other and find means for survival. It was a give and take relationship for a certain period of time. There were days we had to support ourselves foraging for food around the village. There were open neighbors’ yards with sweet potato tops and openly wide lattice of chayote. We’d furtively scour promising targets for our next meal and sheepishly deal with the hostile looks of some neighbors. A lot of them though were generous and understanding enough to let go of our notoriety. Mostly, we’d fare on some chayote tops mixed with a small can of sardines for days. We intermittently fared on these edible greens and though jobless as we were, we miraculously survived for several weeks.

I was on the verge of giving up realizing that my pride might have worsened my situation. I thought I was ready to go back home.