Amigos para siempre
In the ‘60s, when Ramon “RJ” Jacinto was creating waves in rock and roll through on-campus concerts, there was already another Ramon Jacinto who was at least 14 years older and therefore more “debonair” and “a man of the world” than the young RJ. (The quotes were spoken by the “dreamboat” himself.)
He was my brother, Ramon de Ocampo Jacinto, a.k.a. “Monching” or “Chimo.”
Monching was guapo and
He was a natural-born artista who could regale both males and females with his Fred Astaire-like dance steps, his beguiling smile, his baritone voice and the entrancing way he captured your attention with his magnetic appeal and sexy, penetrating eyes. Many felt that the latter was his secret weapon for winning women — any woman.
Monching loved the good life and dressed the part. He could say just the words to flatter, enchant and captivate any person he came in contact with.
Even spinsters or widowed aunties, known for their stringent and straitlaced attitudes, melted in his hands the moment he walked into the room. That’s because he sat with them, talked and cracked jokes with them and sang Spanish love songs that made them cry.
Ask him to transform any ordinary floor into his personal stage, and there he’d be, singing and dancing with our relatives, who would clamor for an encore. His signature song was the Spanish number, Quizas, Quizas, Quizas (“Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps”).
At that time, men dressed appropriately for all occasions, meaning light-colored suits with matching two-toned polished leather shoes and they always smelled good and refreshing.
They loved to gather in groups to enjoy the company of beautiful and intelligent women and if there was any sign of rivalry, they normally settled it with a gentleman’s word of honor or a verbal agreement.
If that failed, they took a brawnier stand: with a simple flip of the head, a signal for the “arguing” party to step outside the social hall, they removed their linen jackets and settled the score with an old-fashioned fistfight, mano a mano.
The victorious pugilist, gallant at all times, would even smile and help the vanquished to his feet: “Buddy, take care and no hard feelings, okay?”
Monching wanted to become a movie actor but our father was against it. It didn’t stop him from vicariously experiencing the movie life.
He surrounded himself with luminaries of the cinema and pretty soon they became his good friends. Sometimes he even acted as the go-between for some of the romantic pairings behind the camera.
Gorgeous movie stars like Delia Razon, Carmencita Abad, Emma Alegre, Edna Luna, Rosa Rosal, Corazon Rivas, Nida Blanca and fine-looking actors like Rogelio de la Rosa, Leroy Salvador, Eddie Garcia, Carlos Salazar and Tony Santos graced the parties he hosted at home.
In this charmed circle, there was a budding comedian who was the favorite sidekick of every matinee idol: Dolphy.
Monching was also fond of inventing nicknames that stuck to people like a second skin. For example, he called me “Borja” because of the way my name (Leticia) rhymed with Lucrezia Borgia, a femme fatale during the Renaissance period notorious for her sexual orgies and murders.
Huh?
He called our mother “Dermitas” (out of earshot, that is). Later on, when he became a father himself, his daughter, Mary Grace, was fondly called “The Hail” (taken from the prayer to Mama Mary that begins with “Hail Mary…”).
For his friend Dolphy, he coined the name “Pidol” (the comedian’s name inverted).
Monching contracted a rare disease that proved fatal. He was only 40 years old. At that time, cancer was already a dreaded disease but not much was known about it; we suspected that it must have been some form of cancer because he was a heavy smoker.
His wake turned into a lively gala with every friend laughing boisterously over their fond memories of Monching — their shared misadventures and mischief — clicking glasses in a hearty toast after another.
The most amazing phenomenon, which puzzled all of us, was that, while his body was lying in state, it continuously “sweated,” caused by some abnormal humidity inside the casket that drenched his suit, forcing his wife to change his suit every day, for nine days.
To his friends, it didn’t come as a surprise. They shook their heads and quipped, “Just like Monching to want to change his suit every day!”
Dolphy also came to the wake every day.
Last week, my other brother, Jack (or Junior), who is retired, texted me to say his coffee buddies had arranged for him to meet Dolphy in between taping sessions at ABS-CBN studios.
These coffee buddies have an informal clique, spending a good part of the day sipping coffee, reading books, singing Frank Sinatra ballads and reminiscing about the good old “hunting” days.
In this circle, the world passes by with no stress and pressure. What you see is what you get and there is an unwritten code that your presence turns on the charm, the kind soul, the good heart and the suave (although graying) gentleman in each one.
And so this bunch of Sinatra copycats dropped by ABS-CBN studios.
Dolphy came out of his dressing room and my brother, Junior, was introduced to him by retired movie director Ben Feleo.
My brother asked Dolphy: “Do you remember Monching or Chimo Jacinto?” Dolphy’s face broke into a broad smile and he replied, “Oh, yes. He was guapo and generous and charmed the ladies all the time. He was a real friend.”
Dolphy turned 80 recently while Monching, bless his soul, would have turned 75 last July 14.
Could one inherit friends?
