The Madness Continues

Thrilled about a foray into the realm of mall-dom, we planned to spend our lunch hour at SM. We figured the 1-minute walk from the office to this spanking brand new edifice would give us a headstart on the rest of the city. Roming, in the spirit of bountiful bonhomie (and because he was near to peeing in his pants from the excitement), volunteered to treat all ten of us to lunch. There was a collective hurrah, and we settled down unto our wriggling behinds, every once in a while glaring at the clock and urging father time to hurry up.

Five minutes to the hour, we assembled our hick selves at the lobby, dragging along with us wrinkled Mrs. G., a septuagenarian from Sales, who started to complain about the heat the moment we stepped out into the noonday sun. But no matter, we were hungry and all keyed-up with the promise of a tour and the free lunch.

We crossed into the unusually heavy lunch hour traffic only to discover, with absolute horror, that the rest of hicksville (indeed, and citizens of the surrounding hick towns, as well) had the very same idea.

It was shoulder to shoulder, elbow to elbow inside the sprawling 16 hectares of mall. A throng of thousands crammed every available breathing space, sending the stench of humanity into our cringing nostrils. And where the day before the hum of centralized air-conditioning raised goosebumps on the stubble of newly shaved legs, the heat from the crush of bodies brought to us the humidity of the approaching summer. By the time we were inches inside, we began to sweat freely. Woe to the person whose deodorant was not up to par. And further woe to whoever was squeezed in next to him.

There were students on their lunch break, office workers, young lovers, old couples, berserking toddlers and screaming infants asphyxiating in their strollers. There were well-heeled hicks and rubber slipper-clad hicks. Was that the vice-mayor crushing past? (or was it the city prosecutor? Hard to tell in this slippery sea of faces)

We inched our way through, employing the sharpness of our elbows as was necessary. The escalator was blooming with people, and Mrs. G. gave a terrified squawk as this piece of moving stairway creaked in protest.

Forty sweaty swear-filled minutes later, we crowded into Shakey's Pizza and comandeered three tables, pushed together. Roming barked off items from the menu, and we huddled together in tense hungry misery, not envying the swirl of starving mall-goers wandering outside, looking for a space to eat. In fact, we practically gloated. From the corner of my eye, I watched Marivic stick out a surreptitious tongue. Sneaky.

Halfway through and still hungry

Second course, with Roming looking none too happy.

The meal, both first and second courses (who can deny the clamor of ten hungry bellies) was finished in quick quiet succession. Not a word was spoken until the last crumb was consumed. Then and only then did we rue our luck at placing ourselves in that unfortunate situation. We heaped abuse on our own hick heads, and ended up laughing and planning the next day's escapade (once a hick, always a hick).

Roming hemmed and hawed over the tab, but our server presented him with two free mugs and he promptly forked over his cash, satisfied for the nonce. Outside, the crowed ebbed and flowed, flowed and ebbed. We were stuffed, who cared about them.

On the way back, we passed through the hypermart and scored ten cups of free coffee. There was ice-cream too, but said cart was sprouting with students so we finally chickened out.

Waddling back to the office and sipping coffee, we ticked off the pros and cons of this new SM branch. All this will pass, we collectively agreed, give it a month or too.

We walked back leisurely and we were thirty minutes late for work.

Of course.