Absinthe

Chapter 20: Modus Operandi

Despite being the slut that I was, I still hadn't slept with Robert. In fact, I hadn't slept with anyone after

JM. And in hindsight, I kind of wish I hadn't resisted Rob.

If I had done it with him that night in my Jacuzzi, he wouldn't have probably taken things to the next

level.

And by next level, I mean the freaking flowers he'd been sending over to my place since that day! And

chocolates from Belgium and France! And stupid teddy bears and random stuffed toys!

Ugh, what did he think of me? A schoolgirl?

Had he never courted another gay guy before? Was he patterning all his wooing to how straight men

win over straight women's hearts? It was too cheesy for me to stomach. Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

Derrick passed by quietly as I was busy removing the sunflowers, roses, and tulips I had just received

from the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a can of beer, and opened it.

"Hey," I said, giving him a heartfelt smile. I missed him. Although he was still living in my apartment, I'd

barely seen him the past few days.

"Hey," he answered back lazily. "So Robert's still bombarding you with flowers, huh?"

"Yeah. It's pretty annoying," I said. "Wanna go out today? I wanted to do some shopping. My classes

are finally starting tomorrow."

"Shopping? Nah, I'll pass." Derrick started walking back to his side of the condo.

"Hey!" I said, trying my best to keep the conversation going. "Are we okay?"

"We will be." Derrick asked in reply. "I was the one at fault. And I need to make it up to you. But work

has been overwhelming. I promise to really patch things up with you once I get a breather from the

hospital."

I nodded as I watched Derrick walk away. Maybe it was not yet the time for us to fully reconcile. I just

wished I knew why he was so pissed off with me. It wasn't like it was his money I'd wasted on JM,

right? So what was there to be upset about?

After getting rid of the useless flowers from Robert, I took a shower and readied myself to go shopping.

This time, I wasn't going to go for the usual brands—I was looking to purchase several garments to

wear in class. They would serve as my 'work clothes' once we started baking and cooking with Chef

Maxwell. I couldn't possibly wear expensive outfits every day, right? I would just ruin them with all the

mess I'd make in the kitchen.

When I got to the basement and reached my designated parking lot, I took a long look at my cars: my

trusty BMW SUV, which was basically what I'd been using around the metro; and my closely guarded

gem, a full option SL 550 Roadster Mercedes Benz.

Don't get me wrong—I didn't buy that ultra-luxurious car. God, I could never afford it! Just like my high-

end suits and watches, the car had been given to me, too.

Now you might wonder who on earth gives ridiculously expensive cars to other people? That, ladies

and gentlemen, is the reason why people like me choose to stay in the corporate world.

The two-seater convertible had been given to me by the Samsong Group's heir, Jungsoo Lee. It was

the reward for half a year's worth of sleepless nights championing his merger project with the biggest

semiconductor factory chain in Taiwan and China. I didn't really head the project, but I had taken care

of all risk analyses and financial projections. It was vital for Samsong Group's heir to succeed because

it was his way to shut the mouths of his father's lackeys and win the power struggle associated with

transitions of ownership.

And boy did we succeed.

It had made international headlines—how Korea, or Samsong Group rather, finally monopolized the

production of semiconductors in the world.

I had been reluctant to take the car, to be honest. I mean, for crying out loud, it was the type of car

driven by millionaires like Faye and her husband.

I know it's difficult to understand my hesitation then. Hell, I doubt that I would've ever been able to

understand myself had I not been exposed to that aspect of capitalism. The simplest way to explain it is

this: these things are what capitalists use to bribe people like me to forget our dreams, to give up on

our hopes and personal aspirations.

Why quit Samsong when I can enjoy all the luxuries any other salaried worker would never be able to

lay their hands on?

Had I not been fired for kissing JM, I would probably still be slaving my life away, exchanging my hopes

and dreams for sports cars and fine suits.

I had been exploited like your average factory worker, only it wasn't just my body that had been used to

the point of deathly exhaustion but also my brain and my will to live.

I glanced at my cars again. Had it been worth it? Had I been happy back then? Was I happy now?

Before I could descend further into the endless pit of self-doubt, I figured I'd skip driving and use local

transport instead.

It had been ages since I last used the metro's trains and buses, and it felt like it had been several

lifetimes ago since I last rode the country's iconic jeepneys. I figured it would be an adventure to

experience it all over again.

I should have known that it was a bad decision from the very first sign: I'd forgotten that there were no

public transport vehicles coming in and out of the subdivision because, well, everyone who lived there

was rich enough to have their own cars.

I almost gave up halfway as I walked from my building to the main entrance as the distance was quite

lengthy and the morning sun was roasting me alive. As soon as I reached the gate, however, I was told

by the security personnel that public transport vehicles do not pass by the area because of the general

lack of passengers.

Apparently, the staff who work on the premises all use a scheduled shuttle bus provided by the

property management. I ended up requesting the lobby staff to drop me off at the nearest place where I

could take a jeepney. The property driver insisted on taking me straight to my destination, but I politely

instructed him not to.

I got off a good number of kilometers away from the property. The driver said that was the place where

most of the property staff would wait for the property's shuttle service. I took a jeepney headed for the

EDSA-Taft LRT Station. I was one of the first few people inside. We waited for the jeepney to fill while

the barker kept shouting our destination to get the attention of potential passengers.

It was a slow wait, probably because of the time. It was past 10 AM, and since most passengers on

weekdays are employees, a lot of them were most likely already at work.

"Six more! Six more and we're leaving!" shouted the barker.

I made a quick count of the passengers inside. There were six seated in front of me and the two other

passengers on my side of the vehicle. That jeepney is what they call a "niner" or "siyaman" in the local

language. The term refers to the vehicle's capacity to seat nine passengers on each side.

Nine stick-thin passengers, mind you.

I was sorely tempted to pay the fare for the empty seats so we could go, but doing that would make me

look like a big asshole. So instead, I waited like everyone else, and it took another 30 minutes to fill the

jeepney. I was reminded why I had been so happy with the public transportation system in Seoul and

why I had always dreaded the one here in my home country.

The only consolation I had was that we were all fairly slim and could sit comfortably.

Or so I thought.

"Two more! Two more! We're leaving soon!" cried the barker.

So the jeepney was not your usual niner but a "tenner."

Two more passengers came and squeezed themselves in the already full seats. Unfortunately for me, I

wasn't used to the day-to-day hustle and bustle of the metro anymore, so I got my ass booted out of

the seat.

About 90% of my total ass area lay hanging beyond the edge of the seat. I had to hold on tight to the

metal bar on the ceiling of the jeepney to stop myself from fully falling over.

Help me, God!

The slow process of each passenger handing their fare to the next person until it reaches the driver

started. I hastily took out my wallet, and what I saw convinced me that taking public transport that day

was the worst decision ever: I only had one-thousand-peso bills inside.

Naturally, I did the stupidest thing I could think of.

I called everyone's attention and asked them to stop paying. The passengers all looked at me like I had

several loose screws.

"Uh, it's my treat!" I explained, avoiding their skeptical eyes and fighting the urge to literally face-palm

myself.

I handed over a one-thousand-peso bill to the driver and told him to keep the change. Everyone,

including the driver, was staring at me in disbelief.

"Kuya, please! Eyes on the road," I pleaded to the driver.

"Thank you! God bless you!" he said.

I don't know if it was because I had paid for everyone's fare, but the people beside me tried to squeeze

into each other even more and succeeded in giving me enough space to accommodate my entire ass.

I smiled awkwardly as I reinserted myself between my seatmates. It was highly uncomfortable as I

literally had to hunch my shoulders in order to maintain the precious, delicate balance we had achieved

inside the jeepney.

To make matters worse, the soft rubber band the lady beside me was using to tie her hair up snapped.

With that, my hopes of experiencing a peaceful jeepney ride disappeared. Her hair started slapping the

shit out of my face because of the wind, and I swear I accidentally swallowed a strand or two.

Please, just let her hair be free of lice! Please!

When we arrived in front of the LRT station, everyone started alighting from the jeepney. I followed suit

and stretched my sore arms and shoulders as soon as my feet touched the ground.

I crossed the street together with other pedestrians, dodging people midway as those from the other

side of the road crashed against our group. I then climbed the stairs leading up to the LRT platform.

The scene hadn't changed much since I'd last taken the LRT fifteen or so years ago. The station was

still busy with people getting on and off the trains, vendors selling all sorts of goods, and small food

kiosks all lined up just before the turnstiles. Lo and behold, one of my favorite food stalls when I was a

kid was still there: Mistress Siomai!

They sell Filipinized pork and shrimp wontons called "siomai," with the best chili sauce to boot! I

reminisced how my brother and I would share a single order once a month because we couldn't afford

to buy two. Those were the days.

For old times' sake, I approached the siomai kiosk and asked for two servings. It tasted exactly like

how it did back then. I also ordered a glass of their watered-down gulaman. That, too, tasted like how it

always did—a few milliliters of sugar water dissolved in tons and tons of ice.

When I was done, I took out my wallet to pay, and it was the jeepney situation all over again. The

vendor and I exchanged uncomfortable looks as I took out the one-thousand-peso bill from my wallet.

"Sorry, sir," she said. "I'm afraid we don't have change for that. Do you have a smaller bill?"

"I'm really sorry, but I don't have smaller bills. Is there any other store here that can break this up for

us?"

The kiosk clerk called out to the other vendors and asked if they could break the bill. None of them

could.

"Sir, what should we do?" she asked, sounding nervous and panicked.

"Can I go out and buy some stuff at the nearby 7-11? They should be able to break it."

"Hey! This sounds fishy!" shouted one of the vendors nearby.

"Don't trust him!" advised another. "That's their modus operandi now. They pretend to pay with big bills,

and when you can't give them their change, they'll ask permission to go and break it, and then they're

gone!"

I heard the other vendors murmur in agreement, and I could see their eyes boring at me with suspicion.

"It's not like that," I explained, getting more and more embarrassed as passersby stopped to find out

what the commotion was about. "Look! I only have one-thousand-peso bills!" I thought showing them

the contents of my wallet would help prove my innocence, but it only made things worse.

"Yes! That's exactly what they do! They show their wallets filled with big bills to convince you," a

woman commented.

"I bet those bills are fake!" cried another.

"Sir, please don't do this to me," said the Mistress Siomai kiosk staff. "I am just earning an honest

living. If you run away, they will deduct this from my daily wage. Sir, what you ate is already a quarter of

my daily wage. I beg you, sir, please don't do this." She was teary-eyed as she stepped out of the stall,

slowly advancing on me.

I was such an idiot. I had forgotten everything about the Philippines. I'd forgotten how difficult it was to

earn a decent wage. And I'd forgotten how most of those who work in the service industry are treated

badly by their companies and their customers as well.

Some of the other vendors—male vendors—also exited their kiosks and started approaching me.

Shit!

"Here," came someone's voice from behind me. "And add another order of siomai to that, won't you,

Jenny?"

I turned to see Jiwoo with a hundred-peso bill in his hand. He winked at me.

"What brings you to this part of the metro?" he asked, munching on his siomai. "And what happened to

your car? Color coding?"

I shook my head in response.

"If it's not banned for use today, why are you using the LRT?" Jiwoo pressed.

"Um, bad decisions?" I answered, unsure of myself.

Jiwoo chuckled. "You wanted to try public transport? Rich kid problems?"

I frowned at him. "I used to be poor, you know!"

Jiwoo's eyes popped wide open. "You? Poor? That's hard to imagine."

"Believe it or not, I was dirt-poor."

Jiwoo ate his last siomai and took my half-empty glass of gulaman. "Mind if I drink this?"

I motioned for him to go ahead. I turned away before he could catch me staring at how his Adam's

apple bobbed up and down as he drank.

I noticed that one of the other vendors had come over to the siomai kiosk where Jiwoo and I were.

"Hi," she said.

Jiwoo looked at her with his usual expressionless face. I gave her a respectful smile.

"You're Jiwoo, right? Jenny's told me a lot about you."

"Hey, Brenda!" greeted Jenny, the siomai kiosk staff, enthusiastically. "What are you doing here?"

Brenda shushed her and continued to address Jiwoo. "Can I get your number?"

Brenda offered her phone up to Jiwoo. I got to see her features clearly for the first time. She was cute,

fairer than your typical Filipina. Her hair was neatly tied in a ponytail, and it was smooth and silky. She

was not wearing any makeup, but she was still flawless.

She smiled and urged Jiwoo to take her phone for the latter to key in his number.

I turned to look at Jiwoo. He was frowning. Suddenly, I felt him place his arm over my shoulder, and

then he pulled me toward him. I was slightly off-balance, so I landed on Jiwoo's torso.

"Sorry, but I already have someone," Jiwoo told Brenda before pointing at me with his mouth.