While still in Vienna, someone in the Phils I knew from my town asked me several times on FB to get him a bottle of a designer EDT, promising to pay me when I got home in January that year. He followed it up with several reminders lest I forget. Friends and relatives who knew him warned me, but I didn’t listen. Walter—emphasizing his skepticism—doubted that I would ever get paid. Give him a chance, I said. Let him prove that he was not the person people thought he was. I lost touch with him until that “sad” day in May last year, when I ran into him at a mall.

He got the EDT alright. But, unfortunately, I didn’t get paid. His employer at the church does not pay them on time—his alibi. So he hasn’t been paid for December yet. Faking embarrassment, he asked if I would mind waiting until the end of January. No big deal, I said. He left with a smile on his face, my EDT safe in his bag.

I never saw him again after that. His broken promise and my repeated reminders made me feel ignored and frustrated. He was offended when I sent him a private message reminding him of his obligation. Said he wouldn’t forget to drop by my place before the week was over. I waited. And waited. Still waiting to this day; it is now the 11th of May.

He doesn’t run out of excuses. Once, he said he was in Cebu. Ostensibly, the Bishop told him, on short notice, to attend an international Catholic conference. He would get in touch with me upon his return. Hohum! Another time, he was in Lingayen on a religious retreat—he could not say no to the Bishop. Drat, Your Eminence! He would cut his spiritual retreat short and come home, he said, so that he could pay me.

Not wanting to risk eternal damnation of my poor ass for disrupting his one-on-one with the Lord, I suggested that he could use money forwarding services instead. Good, he said. I believed him, but he did not keep his word. It’s not much money he owes me, roughly €100, but I get furious when I realize that I trust people easily. That I never learn my lesson is sad. This incident reminded me of what my sister told me many years ago, and she keeps rubbing it in—that there’s no cure for being tanga (idiot). I always hope against hope that there is a cure. I am incurable, she said. Do you think I should take any specific steps or seek advice on how to handle this better in the future?

That same day, Nora told me she had come across this person at a pharmacy in my hometown. She reminded me of his overdue utang (debt). He assured her he would see me sometime later that day. No show! He could not find the way to my paradise. The way to hell was much easier to find for this congenital liar!

A friend in uniform volunteered to handle my problem. Hmm! The offer is tempting.