Spawn and Serendipity

I had just finished reading Sean's latest entry about dogs being surrogate children to some of his pals, so I figured that was my cue to relate a curious thing that happened a couple of weeks back.


Now, thanks to my liberal guilt and the vestiges of my bleeding heart, I'm no stranger to strangers (and the estranged) showing up unannounced. From the ragtag detritus of my ex-bff's once-impressive coterie of hangers-on, to random acquaintances and unwanted distant relatives, people often materialize like wraiths from the past, refusing to die and fade away into oblivion.

"Dammit, don't you get it? I don't WANT you anymore!"

Hence, I wasn't too surprised one drunken night as I stumbled home at 3:00 a.m. (well, sitting woozily in a cab, if you want to be precise about it) when the night guard informed me that someone had been at the gate looking for me. I assumed it was yet another of my ex-bff's stragglers - the collateral damage of a misspent life and fortune - come to beg for mercy, assistance, and/or money (not necessarily in that order).


No, what caused a twelve-beer hangover to dissipate instantly was when the guard went on to say that the people looking for me were claiming to be relatives of my children.


Oh yes. 


Children. 


Not just a singular unhappy accident, but plural.


And the icing on this cake of whatthefuckery was that they were still in the blue FX parked on the street outside my gated compound.

Bursting with fruity whatthefuckery.

Like any red-blooded male confronted with living evidence of his virility, I naturally instructed the guard to tell the intruders that I had been abducted by hostile aliens a scant week earlier and that they were doing unspeakable things to me in a galaxy far, far away, and thus might be a tad unavailable for a nice chitchat with my long-lost offspring.


I also told him to tell them that goddammit I have no children. At least none that have come forward yet and lived to tell the tale.


The next morning, I was ready to assume it had been a bad, baaaaaaad alcoholic dream. But as she handed me my morning java, my maid cheerily informed me that indeed, a trio of adults - one man, a woman, and an older woman - had inquired after me that day. The guard had summoned her to the gate because the strangers had been insistent that I show myself to them and demanded that I accept responsibility for the two young girls they had thoughtfully dragged along for this farce.


My God. I had daughters.

Mis hijas.

I considered the gravity of the situation and, upon giving the matter some deep thought, asked my maid a tremendously important question:


"Ano'ng hitsura nung mga bata?" I queried.


"Ay, magaganda, ser!" she enthusiastically exclaimed.


"Mabuti naman," I replied, deadpan.


I mean, goddammit. I value my dogs on their good looks. What more some potential - and more sentient - drains on my finances?


I grilled my maid like a cheese sandwich and got the following tidbits:


1. My "daughters" looked like young Marian Riveras.


2. They came from Cavite, like the real Marian Rivera.


3. The woman who introduced herself as the yaya got her act busted when the younger of the girls, at one point, burst out with the oh-so-telenovelaic-line "Ma, gusto ko nang makita ang daddy namin! Ang tagal-tagal ko na siyang gustong makilala!"


4. The older woman - possibly the fake yaya's mother - played the bad cop in this comedy duo and, when refused entry into my compound, drew herself up in a huff and announced "Hindi niyo ba ako kilala? Kabit ako ni Bulaong!" Which was hilarious in and of itself, but triply so because one, I actually know Bulaong, and two, he would never have a mistress over the age of 30, much less this imperious crone.

La madre de mis hijas.

To my maid's credit, Hitler would've had a better chance of getting into Jewish Heaven than this five-ring circus getting into my compound. She impressed me by asking them if they knew my full name.


Unfortunately, they did.


Fortunately, they got my middle name wrong. So there.


My Gestapo maid also asked if they had a picture of me, whereupon the erstwhile yaya triumphantly pulled out a photo of Bigfoot.


Well, not really Bigfoot, but from my maid's description of the hapless man in the pic, he might as well have been. Either that, or it was Joaquin Fajardo.


Bitch, please. I'm hairy, but not that hairy.

"My God, can't anyone enjoy some private nudie time anymore?!?"

I was the scandale du jour of the compound for a couple of days afterward. A couple of days I also spent wondering if the party of five would return to demand that I man up and do my fictional children right by sending them money and educating them and introducing them to my mother who would probably swoon like a saint in the throes of divine rapture.


But nah. They haven't bothered me again.


But I can't help thinking of my poor, poor daughters. These evil people were so, so cruel. To almost let us be reunited, only to wrench them away from my loving arms again. To give me hope of a normal life, only to murder these dreams with an axe.

Ah, bueno, que sera, sera.

Damn scammers.