Potion 88

A distinct confusion one feels when someone, unaccustomed to the worldly wares and bustle of the noisy bazaars that line the century-old Quiapo church, venture alone walking the brick-layered streets with utmost exposure to street-smart hustlers and cunning vultures in the venerable art of haggling. A moment’s hesitation, a sudden flick of the eye, and the uncontrollable twitching of the hands, are signals for prices to fluctuate like gasoline to either side’s favor, all depending on each other’s read. Such is the trick of the trade, and for the uninitiated, more often a feeling of loss is his sole companion when one bought an overpriced magical shrinking shirt, and for the oblivious, an empty pocket.

“How much for this amulet?”

“500 pesos.”

“What?”

“It can make you dodge bullets. 450.”

“No, thanks.”

For someone growing up on books detailing man’s history and eventual technological sophistication, Armand found a little humor in his current predicament. Surrounded by endless stalls run by snake-oil merchants and camphor-smelling faith healers, it came as a surprise to him that with all the current advancement of chemistry and applied science, one only need to come in this God-forsaken-place-beside-a-church to make impossibility a reality with just a few of your hard-earned allowance money. Instead of buying a Kevlar vest, why not buy a bulletproof agimat for 50-100 pesos; want your business to take-off?--- buy a gold-plated cat statue instead of having a degree, that should do it. Fancy a girl? Buy a love potion with food-coloring as an additive. What am I doing here, he smiled to himself.

“You’re a high school student,” shouted an old woman beside him.

“How did you know,” Armand asked, surprised.

He tried his best that day to appear as mature as a junior high school can, both for anonymity and practicality. Nobody takes a comedo-faced adolescent seriously in this snakepit.

“I drank the Amon Ra potion yesterday. Potion 15. Here, you need one?”

“No thank you, it’s obviously 1 part cooking oil, 2 parts water and whole lot of lie.”

“Ah, a skeptic. Irritable one too. It’s a girl isn’t it.”

“I… uhm…”

“Oh relax, young man, I’ve been in this for years. I know my customers.”

Armand, impressed as he was for the old woman’s acuity of wise deductive thinking or luck-powered intuition, eyed the woman with suspicion. You can’t trust anyone in these streets. Though here he was, after days of doing research asking his most trusted confidants about potion 88, this is the woman many referred to only as Madam Norma. Most claimed the efficacy of her potions but every one swore their life on Potion 88. Her description fitted perfectly: the decaying front teeth, the smell of analgesic balms, and the surprisingly youthful eyes accompanied by an ever-ready smile. Of course, there’s the uncanny ability of irritating perception.

“I need Potion 88,” Armand said at length.

“Oh here’s potion 10, said to bring success on business.”

“Potion…”

“Potion 2, my best-seller. For you, I’ll give it for half the price.”

“You don’t understand.”

“Ahhh, potion 4, intelligence is essential, don’t you think?”

Armand, famished by days of eating shrimp-flavored noodles to fatten his savings, felt his desperation welling inside him. He saw images of himself sitting alone at lunch, with his highlighted books on physics, trigonometry and literature on the canteen table, completely mesmerized at the angel-faced beauty with long flowing hair of dark silk sitting across him. He could almost recall how powerless he was whenever he tried to talk to her, thinking how many have tried, the richest and the coolest guys in class, only to walk away with broken hearts. He remembered one instance, summoning all of his wire-framed strength, approached her and uttered those words:

“Hi, Nikka.”

“Hello.”

“Are you familiar with the Quantum Entanglement Penomenon.”

“The what?”

“It states, simply, that even if two objects do not exist on the same space or dimension, they still affect each other.”

“Is that true?”

Armand could still feel the tinge of embarrassment brought about by the foolishness of his apparent amateurish approach. Why he didn’t opted for one of the pick-up lines taught to him by an infamous Casanova friend was beyond him, for he found it a feasible strategy rather than discuss atomic particles with the girl of his dreams. So here he is, trudging the mid-afternoon heat of Manila surrounded by rotting vegetables, shouting palengkeras and a weird old woman standing between him and the love of his life.

“Potion 88. It’s all I need.”

“Hijo, it’s a love potion, and it’s priceless, needless to say very effective and not without danger.”

“I don’t care. It is what I’m here for.”

“You a rich kid?”

“No.”

“How much do you have?”

“500 pesos.”

“Hmm, an average kid’s weekly allowance.”

“It’s all I have.”

“You must really love her,” continued the old woman. “I went to high school too, you know. Are you familiar with the theory…”

“The potion please, Madam Norma.”

Armand reached inside the pocket of his tattered jeans and brought out the 500 pesos he’s been saving for a whole week. The old woman handed him a miniscule vial of reddish liquid labeled Potion 88, pausing momentarily as if she would say something as important as life itself.

“A word of caution, young man,” the old lady said. “This formula’s potency lasts for 8 years. So you better be sure.”

“I’m sure.”

“One more thing,” the old lady grinned. “If you see the effects of this potion, you need to pay additional 500.”

“What the…”

“If you don’t, its efficacy won’t last. You have a choice, see.”

“Alright,” Armand said in contained frustration. “I’ll come back.”

“Good, so long then.”

******

A week later, Madam Norma gingerly offered her open palms as she reached out for a crisp 500 peso bill, blowing stiffly with the monoxide laden atmosphere of the plaza. She stared smiling as another satisfied customer has returned, confirming the mastery of her craft in making these mystical concoctions. She looked at this silent, mysterious girl-woman, with an angelic face and a long hair of dark silk, happier now than the week before.

“Thank you,” said the girl.

“You had your rich guy then, or a celebrity perhaps.”

“The man of my dreams.”