But have you read the books, Lola?” they asked. “Why do you want to see the movie?”
The tables had turned. Usually it was I asking that question when the grandchildren wanted to see a movie because they had to make a book report.
“I read ‘The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo,” I said defensively. “All three books. And then I saw the Swedish version of the movie and then the US version.”
Now they were no longer children but tall, lanky boys and one medium-sized girl. I thought it would be difficult to harness them because in their younger days they would either be at Kumon or karate, or art, or guitar or Japanese or Mandarin lessons.
But three of them had graduated college, and they were all eager to see “Hunger Games.”
Meeting place: Gateway, in front of Bread Talk. I texted, 6:15 on the dot, don’t be late, Lola treating to movie and cheap dinner, like tacos and burritos.
“Junk food!” they complained. “And there’s loud hipster music playing there. You won’t like it at all.”
Heck, that used to be my line. “That’s all I can afford,” I said, “No Italianni’s, no Cibo, only tacos, Lola’s old and poor.”
Someday they will be gainfully employed and can treat me to Mandarin or Peninsula or Diamond. And we will eat escargot and blue point crabs and, who knows, caviar, too. But they darn well knew it was their parents, my children, who were doing that for me. In the meantime, hunger games.
Immorality!
But after the tacos and burritos, cheapskate lola felt guilty. So I bought them giant popcorn and Dairy Queen sundaes and mondaes with cheesecake and banana pie toppings to take into the movie.
“The two who have read the book will sit on either side of lola to tell her the story,” they said. “The other can carry her bag and her cane while she is being steered to the correct aisle. In case of emergency, someone will take lola to the Ladies’ Room.”
All throughout, we argued about the burned bread (why couldn’t they just give it away to the starving?) and the boyfriend who seemed to have connived with the rivals of District 12, and the immorality, immorality! of the whole movie.
“It’s post-apocalyptic, Lola,” they explained. “I loved Peter Ustinov,” I said. “He’s not in it!” they said.
At least I’m not like my mother who looks intently at the screen and asks, “Ano ’yan, lalaki ba o babae?” Next time I’ll take them to a movie whose book I’ve read. I’ll turn the tables on them. Plus I’ll wear my Ninja Turtles jacket.
After the movie (about 11 p.m.), the girl and one boy took an FX ride to go back home to the Antipolo mountains. The other two rode with me to sleep in my house. I’m glad, because I needed to ask some more questions about the movie.
Pal forever
I’m so happy to have many grandchildren even if they are no longer little weevils that I can still bola-bola, and koochie-koo and boobi-doo. Because, when half of them are busy with projects, there are still some left over to exploit. Also I get to meet their boyfriends and girlfriends and gayfriends.
It seems I’ve been their pal forever! When they were toddlers, Juaneo was punished for not wanting to eat. I brought his lunch up to the stair landing, laid it out on the floor like a picnic and he ate heartily. Franco was also put in a corner for some offense, but he sure entertained himself by trying all kinds of shapes with his shadow.
When they were still almost babies I soaked with two or three of them in our big sunken bathtub along with a motorized submarine and a wind-up mermaid. When their mothers were away, I let them bathe in the rain. Or I let them remove their shoes and walk in the mud.
In my room, we lighted tea-candles and scattered them on the floor with leaves and flowers and the kids and I danced a free-form meditative dance. We locked the door so that some busybody would not look in and say, “Now, what crazy thing are you doing again!”
They will not realize till they’re old that it’s okay to be improbable, beautiful, free—and a little bit mad.