No one ever wanted to be on the commissary advisory board. When one member left the project, the newest member of the community became his replacement. I happened to join the community when a person had just left the project. My supervisor handed me a letter appointing me to the advisory board. “Congratulations, Jack.1 You’re going to be our representative to the commissary advisory board,” he said gleefully. “But don’t worry about it. There’s not much to do there. You just attend the monthly meetings, listen to their bullshit and bring up any concerns you might have.”
I intentionally missed the first meeting hoping no one would notice. The day after the scheduled meeting I was handed a note from our admin clerk telling me a lady named Teresita Ojeda had called for me regarding the missed commissary board meeting. I was thinking the clerk had mistaken her last name. I ignored her call. Two days later I was in my office when the phone rang. I picked it up, and the lady calling identified herself as Teresita. “I am calling for Mr. Ojeda,” she said.
“Who’s calling, please?” I asked.
“This is Teresita Ojeda calling about the commissary advisory board meetings. Are you Mr. Ojeda?”
“I am,” I replied still trying to decipher if it was a prank call.
Teresita spent a few minutes telling me about the board meeting I missed, the actions taken and recommendations for new products to stock. She asked me if she could bring over a copy of the minutes.
“Actually, I’ll be leaving for an important meeting in the next few minutes,” I lied. “Could you put them in a shotgun envelope and send it through distribution?” Telling me she would send it through distribution, she asked me if I was going to attend the following month’s meeting. I told her I would. She then asked me where I was from. I replied that I was born in Texas and grew up in Vietnam, a line I have been using after spending multiple tours in Vietnam.
“Oh, I don’t understand that, but that’s okay,” she said. “I was thinking maybe we were related. I’m from the Philippines. Do you have any relatives in Philippines?” Because I’ve always been a private person and thinking she was getting too personal too fast, I excused myself telling her I had to hang up because I was already late for a staff meeting.
“Okay, but I’m looking forward to seeing you in next month’s meeting,” she said.
I went straight to the finance cage at the American Community Association to cash a check for the weekend. The lady at the teller window looked at my ID card, looked at my check and then at me twice before she garnered up the courage to ask, “You are Antonio Ojeda?”
“I am. Yes,” I replied. “Is there a problem?”
She surprised me with, “I am Teresita Ojeda! You were going to a staff meeting just five minutes ago. That was a short meeting.”
I must have been blushing as I apologized for my lie.
“Oh, that’s okay,” she said sweetly. “I do that too when I don’t want to talk to somebody.”
Like me, Teresita had been appointed to the commissary advisory board, but she seemed to relish the assignment. She was secretary for the board. We met monthly after that for the board meeting and several times during lunch at the American Community Association.
At one meeting a member brought up a request that was presented to him by a project lady who was perturbed the commissary had been out of super-size feminine pads for several weeks now and wanted to know how this was allowed to happen. Not knowing any better, I was curiously thinking this must be one big woman desperately in need of large feminine pads. Fortunately, another appointed member had the same identical thought, but he was not as reserved as me.
“Why should we waste money and warehousing for super-size pads for just one person?” he asked. “I’ve not seen any large women on the project. Tell her to get them in Udorn.” he suggested.
As secretary for the board, Teresita gently informed him, “Super-size pads have nothing to do with a woman’s size. It’s actually about volume.” Dead silence for several seconds followed before another person in the group made a motion to requisition them. It was quickly seconded, approved just as quickly and we moved on to less unnerving topics. Good thing I had kept quiet.
Teresita became a friend and told me her uncle had been President Marcos’ Undersecretary of State. After getting her Business degree, she found a job in Vientiane and was saving her money to secure her future upon returning to Philippines.
“If you weren’t already married, think about the possibilities,” she once said over lunch at the American Community Association. “We could get married, and I wouldn’t even have to change my last name!” It was at that point I began distancing myself from her - and I went to no more commissary advisory council meetings after that.
1 - My code name under Project 404, US Embassy, was "Jack" and assigned to the position I held.
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