Chapter 8: THE ART OF THE FOOLS ON THE HILL




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My friend Juan Tabagwang and I did not go to Tomadors' Tavern for a while until Kurso's anger cooled down. Actually, we were afraid of his pitbull. However, we went to another tavern which offered their customers a drink called "kuwatro kantos," a fake imitation of the "agua de pataranta." We drank eight bottles of it. It was past midnight and we were intoxicated when we decided to go home. We walked along a deserted street with houses far apart. To sober up, I challenged Juan to a race. He accepted my challenge, and we raced. After a while we stopped, catching our breaths. It didn't do us any good because we were still drunk. Instead, the race made us exhausted and hungry. Luckily, we passed by a wild guava tree heavily laden with ripe fruits. I picked up some ripe fruits and sat on the green grass under its canopy. But Juan, who was exhausted and extremely drunk, just threw himself down beside me. He stretched himself comfortably as if the grass was a cushioned bed.

Far from us, up on a hill, we saw the silhouette of a shack with a flickering lamplight through its slightly opened window. It was the abode of old Ago. He was known throughout the area as the old baldheaded fool on the hill. And his lifestyle is an art of "quixotic" living.

"The old fool is still awake," Juan said, "this late in the night."

"Like a king, with the shack as his throne, the hill as his palace, and surveying his domain with regal boldness. Probably pondering endlessly again upon the foolishness of the world and calling everybody fools," I elaborated. Then I asked Juan, "Is he really a man of wisdom or a charlatan fool?"

"What do you think?" Juan asked back.

I did not answer Juan. But I said, "He reminds me of one of the great prophets of old who said that all the wisdom of the world is just foolishness. And he was also called the old baldheaded fool."

"C'mon, not all baldheaded men are wise," Juan remarked with a look of doubt on his face.

"We'll know tonight if old Ago is wise or foolish," I said.

I then offered some guavas to Juan. He declined. However, he positioned himself and opened wide his mouth directly beneath a very ripe, big guava.

I curiously looked at Juan as I scratched my head. "What are you doing?" I inquired.

"I'll just wait for the guava to fall into my mouth," he answered, "then eat it."

I burst into laughter and almost spit out the guavas in my mouth because of Juan's ludicrous answer. Nevertheless, I was not totally surprised by his antics. I've known many drunks who did idiotic things due to the effect of "kuwatro kantos," compounded by hunger and exhaustion. Since I was also drunk, I just played along.

"Why don't you just pick it?" I asked Juan. "That would be easier."

"That, my friend, is not interesting and everybody is doing it that way, including you," Juan explained. "I want to be different. Besides, eating guava is an art."

I suddenly laughed. "Your foolish art of laziness," I commented. "This reminds me of Juan Tamad. He did exactly what you are doing now."

"No. What I'm doing is different!" Juan countered.

"Nonetheless, you're worse by imitating him," I said. "No wonder your family name is Tabagwang, the mother of all plain laziness."

"I beg to differ," Juan protested. "Mine is artistic laziness, while Tamad's was just plain laziness." He then chuckled. "Mine is also scientific, discovering the intricacies of the time involved in the falling of the guava into my mouth, like Newton's banana."

This time I really exploded into laughter and almost choked and gagged on the guava I was eating because of the amusing and foolish rationalization of Juan. I recovered and gathered myself. "Newton's apple, not banana," I corrected Juan. "Speaking of time, you're not far off from the likes of Berto and Carlos, who formulated their time related scientific theories, which are actually more of an artistic semantic under the canopy of stars and fossil bones. Their foolish endeavors are also the consequences of laziness."

"Now you're talking like old Ago," Juan remarked, "the old baldheaded fool."

"I'm not yet bald," I countered Juan. "But because I said that the works of the likes of you are foolish, you compared me to old Ago to silence me. Most are humiliated to be branded like old Ago and be called a fool."

"Whatever. But how can you prove that my theory of artistic and scientific laziness is just foolishness?" Juan asked, still testy.

"Your theory is similar to some extent to the theories of Berto, Carlos, and others," I expounded. "But yours is easier to comprehend and an excellent illustration of foolishness. With just a little pushing and shaking here and there, your theory will fall like a house of cards."

"Then prove it!" Juan said.

"Simple!" I remarked. I then pushed and violently shook the guava tree. Practically all the ripe fruits fell and crashed on Juan, splattering all over him.

"What did you do that for?" Juan asked as he suddenly jumped up. He then wiped off all the guava pieces all over him.

"That, my friend, is to make you come to your senses," I answered. "It is also to show you the foolishness of your theory of artistic and scientific laziness under the canopy of a guava tree."

The cold, late night sobered us up, and the guavas somehow temporarily relieved our hunger. We resumed our homeward journey. We passed by the shack of old Ago.

"Fools!" shouted old Ago from somewhere inside his shack.

"Thank you!" I shouted back.

We then heard some laughter from old Ago.

"Now what!?" Juan inquired.

"His laughter is a compliment," I answered Juan. "He's happy that there's someone passing by who understands him."

"How come you know this?" Juan asked. "Is he really wise, or a fool?"

"You haven't figured out yet why your comics illustration sucks, remember?" I replied. "If you can figure it out, then you can figure out the answers to your questions." And I added, "In this foolish world, Juan, sometimes there are those who are branded fools but are really wise. And there are many, many more who are called wise, but are fools." I then roared with loud laughter.

I was joined by the laughter of old Ago, the old baldheaded fool on the hill. Juan laughed with us also, though he was still confused. Our laughter reverberated throughout the hill. Then to liven it up more, we sang the song of drunken fools.

What happened that night became a recurring story which became bigger and weirder by time among the nearby townsfolk. It eventually became the legend of the drunken, laughing, and singing "headless" midnight fools.