Natsky

One look at him and Socrates, as typically modeled in plaster or drawn in paint, comes to mind. But in my opinion, he’s way better-looking than the Greek sage in that he has a bit more bump on the forehead, a bit more hair cushioning his head, and a more quirky stoop of the shoulders. And, well, if I may add, he wears glasses. I can go on and on here—but I won’t. On we move to more importantly interesting matters (such that transcend the physical.)

I hadn’t confirmed if he truly fought during the Japanese-Filipino War. (At the moment, I have no idea how to contact him.) I’m pretty sure though that he’s a teacher, a Philosophy professor, who’s fond of telling wartime stories—in first person (sometimes omniscient) point of view. My favorite among them tells of him walking home alone one quiet evening, when suddenly, he heard someone call his name. He turned around and came face to face with the ghosts of his comrades in war. There was a battalion of them, in full army formation and combat regalia, hopeful smiles livening up their cold pale faces.

“O, ari man kamo haw?” he asked.
(Why are you here?)

“Ari kami kay gusto namon magsunod sa imo,” said they.
(We’re here because we want to follow you.)

“Ngaa man gusto niyo magsunod sa akon?”
(Why would you want to follow me?)

“Gusto namon nga ikaw mag-command sa amon. Gapati kami sa imo.”
(We want you to be our commander. We believe in your ability.)

“Ah, teh sige.”
(Okay.)

(Hinugyaw)
(Rejoicing)

His voice sliced through the boisterous cheer. Sharp. Definitive. Every decibel in command.

“Attention!” (Ghostly cessation of movement)

“About face!” (Not a sound of feet sweeping concrete is heard)

“Forward march!”

And with that he kicked the ground hard too, in a spate of adrenalin and middle-aged brown leather steps, running the opposite way and not looking back.
[][][][]
In college, I was seldom early for an exam. One morning, around half-past nine, I was dallying along Solomon Hall, unknowing of my exam room assignment for “8:30 AM – Inductive Reasoning.” I was about to head to the General Exams Schedule when a khaki barong wearing Prof. Natsky emerged from S13.

“Good morning Jeprox. You took your time,” he greeted. His glasses were too thick; I couldn’t see the motive in his eyes.

“Hi, Sir Natz! I met an accident on my way here.”

“What accident?”

“I was seated beside a woman with a baby on the jeep. The ride was bumpy. The baby vomited. Right on my milky speck-free barong. I reeked of milk and baby morning breath. So I went back home to change.”

He pointed his finger at me. Gin-uwaan sang bata! (Child threw up on you!) He laughed. And beckoned me inside.
[][][][]
Endterm exam on Inductive Reasoning. I made it on time this time. I sat on the rightmost armchair on the front row, not because I’m a bright student, but because I wanted to get away from the room fast. My plan was set: I’ll breeze through the test items, stand up unobtrusively, submit my paper, and walk out. I couldn’t help smiling as I glanced at the questionnaire’s frontpage: Multiple Choice. I happen to be quite good at drawing circles.

I did breeze through the exam, then stood up, unobtrusively (as someone who submits his paper barely seven minutes after start time can), and made for light-drenched freedom streaming through the door.

“Jeprox, diin imo Test Three?” Natsky queried. (Jeprox, where’s your answer to Test Three?)

Test Three required us to make a Truth Table based on a given problem. I didn’t do it. Truth Tables are time consuming. Especially if you don’t understand a thing about them.

“Wala man gid ko Truth Table Sir. Pero okay lang man sa akon ah,” I gripped the doorframe. (I don’t actually have an answer for it, Sir. But I’m okay with that.)

“Balik to sa bangko mo, kag tapusa ini. Gisi-on ko ni karon.” (Sit down and finish this. Or I’ll tear this up.)

I took my paper back. Sat down. Worried my brains to jelly. How indeed does one make a Truth Table? It’s just a table with "True" and "False" scattered all over it, my fearful-of-being-jellified brain said. So I drew a table, peppered it with Truths and Falsities, making sure they’re nicely distributed, careful to create a more or less cohesive logical pattern.

Natsky’s face was straight when he saw my Truth Table. No more unanswered item left on my exam. This time, I really was going. My body was barely half-way in its twist for the door when—

“Jeprox, palantawa ko na bi sang ginakaptan mo.” (Jeprox can I see what’s that you’re holding?)

“Columns ni Tito Conrad (De Quiros) ah.” (Just opinion column clips of Uncle Conrad.)

He flipped through them, unfastened one entitled “Religion,” and said, “Photocopyhi ko ‘to sang ini bi, please?” (Have this one photocopied for me, please?)

He smiled at me. Tossed a peso coin on the table. And said “Thank you.”
[][][][]
I figured he’s a diabetic when he came to class, gave us a surprise quiz, set two slices of plain bread and a half-bottle of Extra Joss (an energy drink) on his table, and talked to us about Diabetes while munching on his “lunch”—and while 80 per cent of the class was osteurizing brains at an ungodly hour (it was around 2:00 PM.)

One day, nearing dusk, I passed by the College of Arts and Sciences’ Chairpersons’ offices and found him lying on a bench by the window. He looked so… still, that I rapped on the closed window and the closed door too. What if he's having hyperglycemia? What if he’s slipping away on that bench? Unnerved, I looked wildly around me. Not a single soul in sight. Worry metamorphosed to downright Terror. I looked back at him; he was looking back at me, just a tad too moodily. What can I say? I looked every inch the unsophisticated voyeur, pressed against the glass.

“Sir, okay ka lang da? Abi ko kung naano ka na.” (Sir, are you okay? I thought something’s happened to you in there.)

“Nagtulog-tulog lang ko ya,” he said. (I was just napping a little.)
[][][][]
He’s fond of inventing names for his students. I’m clearly Jeffrey Gil G. Lingamen on the class list and my name and picture are both well brandished by the student paper, which (I believe) he read, on a monthly basis. But he still called me Procopio, Constancio, or when he’s polysyllabic-tired, simply “Ling.” I may like the Ally McBeal series but I seethe at the Lucy Liu character association that “Ling” conjures. One day, at the CAS office:

“Oh, Ling ari ka.” (Oh, you’re here Ling.)

“Maayong aga Mr. Fernandez.” (Good morning Mr. Fernandez.)

He smirked. That was the last time he called me Ling. (Or any other name aside from what my loved ones had given me.)

He’s Mr. Natalaray, you see.
[][][][]
I was walking alone, on the path between Solomon and Cody. Again, it was nearing dusk. La Salle was settling itself to Peace and Quiet, as the rooms are emptied of freedom-hungry students. Whereas I… I’m stuck in school ‘til 9:00 PM. Tons of work at The Spectrum. Why did I choose to be a student journalist anyway? Oh well, my choice, my consequence. Chaarrrggge! I watched my shoes inch forward on gray concrete. A voice—the extra-strong-mint-flavored-cotton-candy kind—made me look up. Natsky. Hand outstretched. Smiling.

“Jeprox, makaon ka dulsi?” (Do you want a candy?)

On his palm was a Dynamite. “Why not?” I smiled, taking the candy and moving on. It tasted just as a Dynamite should taste: minty, chocolatey, like brownies basking in Zonrox fumes. I got to the office and pinned the candy wrapper on my corkboard. It stuck there for months.
[][][][]
I was a rebel where the wearing of uniform is concerned. Tak-an ko ya magsuksok. (I couldn’t suffer wearing it.) Kainit. (It’s sweltering.) Hiligkuon (Prone to getting soiled.) Boring. In Natsky’s class, one Uniform Day afternoon, I wore a yellow collared tee, faded jeans, and brown patent tarsals-and-phalanges-exposing sandals.

“Ngaa wala ka ga-uniform ya Jeprox?” he asked. (Why aren’t you in uniform, Jeprox?)

“I don’t think wearing a uniform would make me think better in class, Sir,” I replied, sweetly.

“Teh, kung dakpon ka bi sg D.O.?” (What if the Discipline Officer catches you?)

“Indi man ko magpalagas ah. Indi ko bala kaintsindi ngaa kinahanglan ma-uniform gid. Ano ang bearing sina sa pagtuon ko man?” I said, knotting my eyebrows, bracing myself for the ID confiscation. (Worry not, I won’t have him chase me. I just don’t understand why I must be in uniform. What bearing does it hold on my education?)

He said: “Huo man noh?” (I reckon so.)

And the class went on. My ID hung around my relieved neck. Until the next class only, for my mentor and friend, Ping Varela had me surrender it. For wearing comfy clothes on a Thursday. (Sigh)
[][][][]
Natsky is the only person to have ever laughed at me when, months after college, he’d asked how I was doing, and I replied: Ari ho, inching towards my dreams. How I appreciated that! Getting my drift was one thing, laughing at it as if I’m about to wing it all is another. You see, Sympathy and Support need not always come across lugubriously.
[][][][]
I didn’t write this in memoriam of him, a wacky persona I called Teacher for most of the time that I was in his class, and thought of as Friend only now that I’m making my way in a bigger world where Truth Tables, maybe in a different but bigger way, matter even more. By the grace of God he is still up and about. He’s only retired, after years and years of teaching. I wish he’s at it gracefully, incorrigibly. I’d hate to know he’s sighing away diabetes, or boredom, or whatever else. If that’s the case, I’d eagerly put him up on the offer his ghost war comrades once tendered. I can well imagine him saying “Why not?” while laughter kneads his fuzzy face flat and wide. But Sir, your ghastly pals’ whereabouts elude me? How do we, er…summon them round?

Oh, I forgot, they could still be well under he’s command. I bet they’d surely like a breather.