His Name Was Gilmer

He was a tall guy, perhaps well on his thirties at that time. He was then a bachelor, well read, lived with his dogs and the ashes of his deceased cat, and it was the dawn of the decade. The 80s have just begun, and I was on first grade, aged five.

Gilmer was a DJ, an onboard jock at then DYBC (Jamies @ 102.3 in the late 90s) at the roof deck of Manuela Building (now Manuela Arcade) of then famed sugar city. His radio voice modulated, a far shadow of his everyday speaking voice. He, along with his siblings were regulars at our corner store either to purchase stuff or pass the time away. He had shelves full of books and magazines on various subjects – travel, culture, arts - which I would while away reading with occasional breaks playing with his canines. Not much with Ludwig, a grumpy aggressive white terrier, but more with Lavi, a half bred white spitz.  

At one occasion, it was from one of his magazines that I saw something that burned in my soul, that which I will always carry to death. 

“Rotring Rapidograph” read the ad – the opposing page was a fine illustration of an Apache indian totting a rifle. I was hooked. I loved to draw, but it was this illustration that had set my own aesthetics – which started a lifelong appetite for comics and illustrators. Little did I know that this illustration of cross hatches with the weaving thick and thin lines would open an unsatiable  hunger for worlds according to Serppieri, Toppi, Wrightson, the 70s DC Comics wave of Filipino Illustrators – Fred Carillo, Ruben Yandoc, Alex Niño, Vicatan, Nestor Redondo, ER Cruz, etc. 

One weekend morning Gilmer sat at the side of the street, facing the northern view of the intersection. He had an easel, cheap Guitar Watercolors in tube (which cost quite a fortune at that time), and proceeded with his meticulous urban sketch, a process which I would know decades later as plein air. It was never the same for me, though I would revisit the medium at a much later period.

27708 was the local number for DYBC, which I would pester for requests at that time. It is a guilty pleasure to admit that until now, I would secretly dream of having at least an hour’s slot of going onboard an FM broadcast, playing an absurd playlist ranging from Eno to Panopio, thanks to Gilmer.

It was his voice that was recorded on a C60 cassette that read a 3-page feature from the Reader’s Digest. The piece’s title was “Fred and the Fireworks”, and I would listen to it everyday while playing or drawing, and end up memorizing it verbatim. I memorized it in time for the declamation contest at school, where I would eventually take home the first prize.

Last time I heard from his siblings, Gilmer got married yet stays most of the time alone at a nearby island right across their home by the sea. No social media, no accounts, ever the non-conformist, total bohemian.

As to the three-page piece, only three sentences were left in my cluttered brain but I’m sure these were the highest points of the piece:

Suddenly, there was a piercing shriek.

“My eyes, my face!” cried Fred. 

Fred was rushed to the hospital.

I can only remember three sentences now, but Gimo, as we all called him – is far from forgotten.