They always arrive about quarter to seven, them in their big F-150 truck. I can only assume that they're Americans, judging by the white color of their skin and the diplomatic plates hanging proudly on their vehicle. Oh, and they're also loud, laughing boisterously at whatever it is they're talking about.
I call them the two old farts. And I hate everything about them. I hate the fact that they always park their big truck blocked on the gasoline station driveway, making it impossible for the other properly parked cars to get out. I hate the fact that they're the only guys that gets the door opened for them AND gets a salute each from the coffeeshop guard. Now, almost anybody can get the door opened for them; but the salute? No, you have to be one of the old farts to get that. The old farts have the door opened for them on their way out. The old farts automatically get an ashtray on their table. The old farts get a lapdance from the Starbucks girls. Well, maybe I'm getting way too ahead on the last one but I wouldn't be surprised if one or both of the old farts already has the cellphone number of that cutie behind the counter.
So what's behind all this anger for these two guys, you might ask? Because I know, that for the third time in as many Wednesdays, I will be asking them to kindly move their truck so that I can go on my way to the office. The third time! The nerve of these two people coming to the Philippines and acting as if they owned the whole country! Do they actually allow illegal parking now in America?!
My coffee's almost finished and it's almost 7:30. I should be going but I'm pretty damned sure they're just halfway through their drinks. Time to rattle at the asses of these two old farts.
For those who want to know, this is at Starbucks Fort Bonifacio, early morning of November 3rd, 2004.