Death brings out the best & worst

(Second of  two parts)

Those in show business must be the happiest (and on the extreme the saddest) people on earth.

They find ways to amuse themselves even in cases involving death.

When actress Patria Plata died in the ’80s, showbiz friends of those she left behind reported — in jest, of course — what a box-office success the wake turned out. They actually meant that the funeral chapel where the vigil was held was always filled to capacity with people extending their condolences to the bereaved.

I never met Patria and I was not in that wake. But that’s where I trace the origins of the term box-office hit used in another manner — that is, to describe showbiz wakes overflowing with guests who want to pay their last respects to the departed.

And now, after several decades, regular Masses are being said nightly the past week for the repose of the soul of Patria’s son, Boots Plata or Marcelino Victoriano in real life.

But — and this I wasn’t surprised anymore — there is no crying or wailing in these nightly occasions. Ever jolly, Boots would have frowned on that.

After succumbing to lung cancer last Nov. 2 (after also suffering from other ailments), the remains of the late actor, director, acting coach and showbiz chum to everyone were cremated and a one-night wake was held at the Columbarium — that huge establishment near the intersection of Araneta Ave. and Quezon Ave.

For the succeeding nights, Mass-cum-dinner had been held at the terraza of the Vera-Perez gardens. There is a different host each night: Eric Quizon, Danny Dolor, PAMI — the list is long. This only shows how well-loved Boots was in his lifetime.

I cannot claim that we were extremely close friends. But we were always affable to each other every time we found ourselves in showbiz gatherings (at least, the few that I had attended).

To begin with, we had this commonality between us: Our nicknames — actually terms of endearment showbiz friends use to address us.

TV5 executive Jo-anne Banaga, for instance, always calls me Butche — never Butch and I know that’s how she shows her affection toward me. Other friends call me the same, but basically it’s Butch.

In the case of Boots, however, everyone referred to him as Bootse — and I mean everyone. That only shows how everybody loved him. And how — boohoo — fewer people care for me.

Boots — I call him that now to lend a little formality to this printed piece — had always been so lovable. And fun.

A memorable bonding we had was when I went to an auto shop some 12 years ago to pick up a car that needed fixing. It turned out there was a shoot there for one of his films (he was also noted for being a box-office director) and he and wife Dolor Guevara were having an early dinner break.

Having your vehicle serviced and being presented with the bill after is never a pleasant experience. But my tocayo Boots — thankfully — was around to lighten the mood and his presence that time made me knit my brows less as I made out the check that I later turned over to the auto shop supervisor for services rendered to my car.

Our last meeting must have been almost a year ago — also at the Vera-Perez gardens where a ninth-day novena will be tendered tonight by TV5.

The Vera Perez compound was my playground. I knew everyone who worked for that house. In fact, when I set up my own place, I would run to them for extra help — to prune plants in my little patch of garden, when a dish had to be cooked and even drivers whenever the regular one would opt for better opportunities elsewhere.

Since the kitchen staff led by Tessie Duay had always been chummy-chummy to me, I could point to any dish on the buffet spread to take home. But it’s always just the famed laing of the Vera-Perez family that I usually sneak out of the party.

I was with Boots when Tessie handed me my loot and I asked him how long I could keep it — considering the fact that it had coconut milk that spoiled easily.

 Freeze it — came his quick answer. That can stay in the freezer for as long as six months and would taste even better because by then the flavor would be “tiim na tiim.”

I am proud to be Bulakeño and proficient in Tagalog, but “tiim” was alien to me. I just figured he meant that the flavor would have penetrated completely after half a year of storage in the freezer.

He was about to expound on the “tiim” word — until we heard somebody call out: “Butche!” Or was it “Bootse?”

We both looked, but it was him that was needed. Yes, that created confusion when we were together in one occasion.

But — really — that is a minor inconvenience for the both of us. In fact, that even strengthened our bonding.

And now that he is gone, it’s lonely being the only Butche around.

I’m sure most showbiz people would rather have the Bootse — and I will not take offense. Boots Plata or Bootse had always been the more cheerful and I admit to that.

Bootse will be missed and everyone has to make do with Butche. I’m sorry, but he is a tough act to follow.

Poor Butche can never be able to measure up to the level of sweet and cool disposition Bootse had always been known for in showbiz circles.