A robbery and a newfound bond
I’ve had my fair share of bad and sad experiences, not necessarily experiences common to our demographic as seniors, but among the major ones, these: my car stolen from my driver, being swindled by someone who cultivated my friendship and trust, cheated out of a real-estate sale commission, double-crossed by my own lawyer. And among the minor: losing two cellphones, one to a snatcher, the other to a pickpocket.
It had been easy enough, given my younger years, to recover from those, but not when my advanced-senior heart got broken, very recently, over the loss of guardianship of my granddaughter at a crucial time in both our lives—she was 16, I was 84. It was so bad I landed in the hospital, and my heart doctor precisely called it “a broken-heart syndrome.”
I had not been out of the hospital long, when another tragedy struck, nothing comparable at all to the previous one, but somehow the saying crossed my mind—when it rains it pours—and I now wonder whether I released some negative telepathic energy.
The day started like any other day, nothing much planned except a grocery trip by kasambahay Lanie. An unexpected text from the son of a close friend. “Lanzones again for you, Tita Chit!” I could hardly wait to pick them up, the sweetest judging by the first batch.
Efficient coordination
We were feasting on the lanzones when I got a call from Lanie, huffing and puffing. She had been chasing the cab driver, who, ignoring her reminder as she was paying about her purchases in the trunk, had driven away with them.
Our condominium was no help; its antiquated CCTV showed an indistinct picture. Fortunately, Landmark’s own machine got everything clearly—Lanie engaging the cab (My Babe, UYC 385), the driver opening the trunk to take her purchases as the bagger transferred them from his cart, she getting in and being driven off.
With guidance from our barangay security office and help from the police—it was certainly reassuring to observe their efficient coordination—the culprit was quickly located, a 70-year-old, raising in my husband the suspicion that he was no newcomer in the sordid business. He lived in a neighboring barangay, and the cab also operated from there, from no visible company garage.
Unable to make any excuses when confronted with stills from the videotape and the receipt listing the purchases he had run away with, the driver produced within less than a couple of hours a replacement of the purchases that had been presumably consumed or otherwise he could not—would not—account for. Obviously, someone had gone to the grocery on an emergency. We decided to leave it at that, hoping the costly lesson had been learned.
For our own part, we put out a running report of the case on our citizen thread. Nothing works better for the safety of a community than when citizens, community leaders, and the police work together for common good and, not to forget, in mutual respect and mutual understanding of their respective roles and responsibility in community building.
My husband and I—him one not to miss out on an opportunity for political proselytizing—took the two policemen, with our kasambahay, to a nearby Filipino restaurant—for their long-missed lunch. Over pancit and crispy pata, we sat down with them and had some conversation, not unlike during a home meal.
The policemen—one a post-martial-law baby, the other too young to have any memory of the dictatorship—listened attentively to Vergel as he filled the gaps in the history they had been taught, evidently poorly taught. At the end of lunch, they hugged Vergel and shook my hand in a newfound bond.
