The ballad of Oyster Boy

Photo1108These past few weeks after work, I take to drinking with the hottest, most bad-ass date I can drag from nowhere at the last minute: myself.

Not that I had a falling out with friends. They’re still out there, the flag-carrying members of the Forever Thirsty Club, all one text message away, especially if the message contains the word “beer” preceded by “free.” They’ll be in front of me in seconds, big toothy grins and all, if I want them to. I drink alone simply because, these days, I feel much more comfortable when I’m all by my lonesome.

Alone, but not lonely, I must say, as I have my Kindle to keep me company.

This started after a particularly hellish shift last January when I went to the Antipolo FX terminal near Farmer’s and saw a line of passengers stretching all the way to Ortigas Center. Since I was feeling down that time and in no mood to look at the fat old yentas and bored-looking (thus boring-looking) Singles for Christ types on the queue I decided to kill time in Cubao. In Oyster Boy near Shopwise I saw a vacant outdoor seat and a wallet-friendly price list (wallet-friendly in the age of sin tax, that is).

I’ve been an Oyster Boy regular ever since.

Of course I could also go to those watering holes in Cubao X, the go-to place of all cool people in the area. But when I’m on these solitary late-night yoga sessions the last thing I need is a hipster next table having a verbal diarrhea about art exhibits. So: Oyster Boy. They already know me there.

It’s always two beers for me. Three tops. One time I ordered four and spent the long miserable trip to Antipolo at war with my bladder. Two are enough. And then I’d leave the place feeling better than when I sat down an hour or so earlier.

Simple joys.

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