Walang Kupas

Published in the Youngblood section of the Nov. 12, 2009 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.

For five straight weeks, I have been wearing the same jeans to work. And when I say the same, I mean one and only, at least eight hours a day, five times a week. On Mondays, with my pants fresh from the laundry, I am Will Devaughn on a billboard. On Wednesdays, when they have become sweaty and stained, I’m Jack Kerouac on the road. On Fridays, when they feel like a mop with gazillions of germs, I am . . . me.

I am not sure if my officemates have noticed (or smelled) it, but so far, no one has made a remark on my sartorial impoverishment. Not that it would matter: Even if others frowned at me, made fun of me, or nailed me to Magellan’s Cross, I would still keep my stocky legs tucked inside my tacky pants.

Blame it on my ignorance. I came here to the big city thinking everyone went to work in their funeral best. From our obscure province in Mindanao, I had packed my bags with my black leather shoes, black slacks, and short-sleeved polo shirts—all my “teacher clothes” as I call them. I only brought a pair of blue jeans as an afterthought. “I might need a trip to the mall,” I told myself.

Then I was informed we had to wear slippers in the office. “Slippers?” I asked the human resources staff in my mind. “You mean slippers, as in flip-flops, tsinelas, ismagol? Great, no matter what they are called, they would never constitute my teacher clothes.”

Until now, I have not found out why the company has this unusual policy. Some of my officemates said our workplace is Japanese-style, as evident in the minimalist architecture of our building and the bamboos and fish pond in our lobby. We are supposedly embracing the tenets of Zen. (Sounds like hara-kiri to me.) Some said the higher-ups didn’t want the carpet to get soiled. (Sounds low-brow, but logical.) Whatever. I did not bother to confirm which theory was correct, for I was more keen on finding a way not to look like a scarecrow or a mascot.

I guess I succeeded in not looking like a scarecrow or a mascot, for I ended up somewhere in between. Though I did away with my shoes and slacks, I decided against ditching my button-downs, since I could not afford to buy new shirts. So with my teacher tops, I started donning my denim pants day in and day out (so much for a trip to the mall), pretending to be an avant-garde fashionista instead of a stone-broke hillbilly.

More than two weeks later, when I received my first paycheck, I could have bought a new pair of pants. But I found myself inside a bookstore and got possessed; no straitjacket or exorcism could have prevented me from hoarding Booker Prize winners. My newfound purchasing power overwhelmed me because before I could only drool in front of bookshelves, open my wallet, and go home like a jilted lover.

Books were the number one item in my budget, then food, then room rental, then jeepney and tricycle fare, then clothes. Of course, nary a cent trickled to the bottom of the list, but I wasn’t worried much. There was no pressure for me to be preppy in the office; it looks more like a cafeteria in UP than an office. Most of the ladies strut their stuff in their latest ukay-ukay find, and the guys are just as proud of their well-worn shirts and their goatees. Besides, with the nature of my job, what matters most is not the brand and style of pants—or what’s inside those pants (oh well, this is another story).

After five weeks, however, it looks as though it is time for a real trip to the mall. It is time to say goodbye to my sense of style (or lack of it). I just had my first Saturday overtime, and the laundry shop is closed on Sundays. Even if I could wash my pants myself, without a dryer and with the heavy rains coming, they might still be clammy by Monday.

There is no moral to this story. Certainly, my dress code is not for everyone, especially to those whose work requires them to deal with clients face-to-face.

There is no moral to this story, only celebration. It is fun to be in a place where you can look poor, be poor, or both, yet have a healthy self-esteem. It is fun to have a work that most people find boring, but which you feel you can do for a long, long time. It is fun to be in the company of people who wear glasses or need glasses but don’t wear one for fear of being labeled nerds (which they are, just the same). It is fun to look like a scarecrow/mascot and still be treated like a human being. It is fun when you are not judged by the fabric covering your skin.