John John

D. sent me sad news this afternoon. His stepson John John, barely 19 years old, was salvaged by men who might have gotten him involved in drug trafficking. His cadaver was found miles away from his home, in Dolores, Quezon.

I knew John John because his parents used to own an antique shop in Ermita, which was close enough to my office to visit on lunch breaks when I was still employed. I have, as a matter of fact, quite a few exquisite items from that shop, but the piece de resistance will always remain a one-meter-tall, porcelain Kwan Yin coveted by many.

John John wasn't exactly an ideal son. He was out of school and into drugs at 14, among other things, when I first met him. He got a girl pregnant at 15, later separated from her, and then shacked up with another girl. He got into brawls with the police. He tried a series of menial jobs that never lasted, mostly as a fast-food waiter and as a bag boy in supermarkets. I once tried to get him interested in theater and art, and brought him with me to the Cultural Center of the Philippines during Tatlong Tabing: Tatlong Dula Ni Tony Perez, but that didn't work because he was too maverick and couldn't shake off his substance habit. He became docile for a while after his mother suffered a stroke; he stayed home and conscientiously took care of her. His stepfather, D., moved the entire family to the province for a change of surroundings. It seems, however, that John John still managed to find his way to his old, crooked friends, and to always the wrong people.

For the past two years John John had been trying to reach me on my mobile, but I consistently ignored his messages. His last message was a request to teach him painting, but it was something that I just couldn't take seriously. In retrospect, he may have been calling out for help, and now I somehow feel guilty that I was too busy with other things and did nothing about it.