So how did I get into TV?

(First of three parts)

Many years ago, I was cruising EDSA in my first brand-new car, a 16-valve grayish green Toyota which I bought from my hard-earned savings. It was a beautiful car. It was mine.

Previous to that, I had a string of second-hand cars which would unceremoniously stop at the wrong places at the worst of times because of a defective clutch or a worn-out engine or some faulty brakes.

Once, I was stranded in some forlorn area somewhere in Maragondon, Cavite, because of a malfunctioning radiator in the middle of the night. Another time, in the middle of Ayala Avenue, my second-hand car conked out. I was on my way to a PR presentation for a French design company. I didn’t get the job and my new shirt was dripping wet because I walked from Rustan’s Ayala to some building near Mile Long Arcade. And before my second-hand cars, I glided from one public bus to another like a Milan-based runway model.

Back to that afternoon in my brand-new Toyota car. This was also during the time when cellular phones were huge and you had to carry them with heavy battery packs. I had one of those. Everytime I would go to Bistro Lorenzo for a meeting, from afar, I would have looked like I was carrying some heavy radio component, similar to what explorers bring when they explore cavernous jungles.

That afternoon, my gigantic cell phone rang boisterously. I picked it up and it was Bobby Barreiro on the line.

Bobby was one of the big bosses of Channel 7. I had met Bobby in some consultancy meeting where I must have talked like there was no tomorrow. Traffic was bad so talking to someone on the phone was fashionable and that must have looked good from the outside. If Bobby didn’t call, I would have pretended someone called me, so I would look fabulous inside my first brand new car (it was wrong to have its windows tinted).

Bobby was talking about a late-evening show that Channel 7 was putting together and if I would consider co-hosting it with the divine Gretchen Barretto. I thought my waistline deflate to an eight-inch sweet crispy ice-cream cone. I felt a different kind of sensation that crept through my whole body. It was both a carnal and spiritual kind of high. I must have smiled like I won the Miss Universe, as some people in the streets started to stare at me.

I pretended I was normal to Bobby when, in fact, I was insanely excited. I said, "Ok, just let me know about the details." Bobby said, "Ok." And we said our goodbyes. I never dreamt of becoming a TV host. But the idea was suddenly sensational. And Bobby was serious.

What did the brilliant, young Bobby Barreiro see in me? My body was not at all exciting. Not my big nose! My lips are not TV friendly. My hair was starting to fall. My teeth are real but they are shamefully imperfect. What was it that Bobby saw in me? I wanted to flatter myself but I could not find one good reason why Bobby Barreiro would be interested in me. Yes, I talked like it was all there is in life. I still do. But many others did and talked even better and more sensible.

Was it because I bragged about being a first-rate social climber and the program concept was a weekend party? Was it because they needed someone to abate the blinding radiance of La Greta? Anyone who stood beside La Greta would have looked like a dead urchin. And that’s exactly how I looked beside her. Except that I was a live urchin.

That was not the first time I was asked to do television work. Cristinelli (Cristy Fermin), a dear friend, once dragged me to Channel 13 where I did the voice-over for a Weekly Extravaganza. I thanked a biscuit company, some cooking oil and body alcohol, Cristy and I went home carrying biscuits and alcohol. I think we also brought home some cooking oil.

Was Bobby Barreiro serious? I thought, if he was, it could have only come out of his kindness – for Bobby Barreiro is one of the kindest men I’ve ever known in this world. (To be continued)