We felt as if we had stepped into the set of the Jack Nicholson starrer ?One Flew Over the Cuckoo?s Nest.? People were scurrying all over the house LOS ANGELES, California?526 Plymouth St. is the address of Manny Pacquiao?s ?official? residence here.
The reason for the quote marks is that the boxer has apparently another residence on ?East Palazzo? where, as the sign on the door of ?526? instructs, his fans, wannabe deal-makers, and assorted other kibitzers are directed to go. I would learn later that Palazzo is where many Hollywood celebrities have homes.
But we (I and my business partner, who doubles as my backup) were no kibitzers. We were on assignment to interview, not the champ himself, but his wife Jinkee, and to give Inquirer readers a peek, through pictures, into the reported multimillion-dollar mansion in a swanky part of this vast, vibrant city.
Google, however, came up with two 526 Plymouth (pronounced ?plee-mooth,? just in case) addresses, one North, the other South. We figured satellite images of both would help us decide which is likely the house of a sports icon who this year stands to earn just as much, if not more, than sports icons as Kobe Bryant and Tiger Woods.
Google?s image of 526 North Plymouth was pretty detailed. A bird would see a small pool in a pretty cramped backyard. The street view showed an insignificantly pretty and modest-size home. Not your average Hollywood celebrity crib.
But 526 South, which was about a mile away, was something else. The Google satellite image was not as comprehensive; it did not have a street view. But from above, the lawn expanse in front, a rather sizable distance from the road, as well as the dense foliage covering most of the grounds, indicate that the house appears more to approximate Pacquiao?s price range.
So 526 South is it, we figured. It may not fulfill Brentwood?s zoning requirements, but it?s none too shabby either.
Wrong, one of Pacquiao?s close buddies, who was helping set up the interview, said in a text message. It?s North.
So we proceeded as directed, and lo and behold, a black Hummer stretch limo, almost as long as the street block, was occupying two-thirds of the street?s width, its emergency lights flashing, apparently awaiting its prized cargo. Who, it would turn out, would be not the boxer himself but the wife.
Manny himself was not in the house, and we could later guess why.
So we parked our rented Malibu a few houses down and walked up to the door which, as if on cue, opened. But not for us, but for Jinkee who, in a form-fitting red dress with a watch so big it should be licensed as a lethal weapon, was on her way out.
My reporter?s instincts kicked in and yelled: ?Hey, Jinkee, aren?t we supposed to have an interview with you and take photos of the house??
?Ah, kayo ba ?yong taga-Bulletin?? she replied.
Ow, that stung. I immediately straightened her out. ?Philippine Daily Inquirer,? I retorted. I spit out the whole masthead, not just Inquirer, just to be sure she got the significance of the message.
?May pupuntahan kami, eh. Pero sabi nila kukuha lang kayo ng pictures ng bahay,? she said, seemingly simultaneously guilty and annoyed. ?Sige, pasok na lang kayo para sa pictures, ?tapos balik na lang kayo mamayang 5 o?clock.?
One of her chief acolytes thus summoned a seemingly sweet young thing holding what looked like a clipboard and instructed her to look after us.
Whereupon Jinkee, stunning enough in a tight short dress, her nails done in Red Cross red, was swept away by a tsunami of ?alalay? to whatever was more important than having a serious conversation with the Inquirer.
Still, we took our idiot-proof Nikon DSLRs out of the bag.
But as soon as we stepped over the threshold, we felt as if we had stepped into the set of the Jack Nicholson starrer ?One Flew Over the Cuckoo?s Nest.? People were scurrying, some seemingly aimlessly, all over the house. People were shouting over each other?s heads. One manang said she was hungry, went to the state-of-the-art kitchen and proceeded to dig into a huge heap of Styrofoam boxes of Filipino dishes on the breakfast nook table.
On the formal dining room table sat an unfinished plate and half-empty water bottle. The chairs around it were in disarray. It was as if those who sat on it, including the one who was eating, felt an earthquake and scampered away.
Top of the line
The 526 North Plymouth neighborhood is a few notches below South?s. It?s no Brentwood, but no Inglewood either. Pacquiao?s house likely has three bedrooms, all upstairs, and two and a half baths; ?half bath? means just the crapper, no shower.
The finish and the furnishings, which must have come with the house, are top-of-the-line. The ground floor seemed to be granite, as were the kitchen counters.
Still, the more than $2 million Pacquiao reportedly paid for the house seems excessive.
Through glass doors we saw that the backyard, which is about 300 square feet, was the only place bereft of people, and so proceeded there. Patios extending from either the living room and the kitchen led to a sculpted swimming pool.
At one end of the backyard was a barbecue pit, its grill still dirty from previous use. On a table in one of the lanais was an ashtray full of stubs, which stood out like a badly infected pimple considering that homeowner?s livelihood depended on his having, among others, clean lungs.
After taking as many shots as we could, we went back inside, hoping the crowd had thinned out. Wrong. There were more people now yelling at each other over the din, over things all seemingly about either Manny or Jinkee, and all having a sense of life-and-death urgency.
Still figuring out how to take pictures of the house, we asked sweet young thing to bring us to the bedrooms upstairs. Jinkee, after all, had said it was okay.
But before we could take a step towards the staircase, a heavily tattooed goombah blocked our path and demanded to see our credentials. We had none on us. I had left my business card wallet in the car and I was afraid that if I went out to get it, I would not be able to get in again.
So instead, I showed text messages from two people who, the goombah should know, are in the Pacquiaos? inner circle. He wouldn?t budge, saying he was just doing his job. But, I insisted… and pointed at sweet young thing who, in turn, had the fear of God in her face and was ready to throw me under the bus.
I decided to let go and figured out how to make the most of what we could see inside the house.
Familiar face
Then, in the midst of the madness, we glimpsed a familiar face. The last time we saw it was over Manny?s right shoulder as he was being interviewed inside the ring following his triumph over Antonio Margarito. In fact, every time Pacquiao has a fight, he is a lurking presence. Ilocos Sur Gov. Chavit Singson was a picture of serenity amid the chaos.
Hi governor, we approached and stretched our hand to shake his. ?We would like sana to take your photo beside Manny?s picture.?
?Sure,? he replied and proceeded to take his place beside one of the Pacman?s countless portraits in the house. Indeed, a sweeping glance at the walls would erase any doubt about the owner of the house and what he does for a living.
In any case, still biding our time, hoping that Jinkee would return, even better with hubby Manny in tow, we decided to interview the governor. First, I asked him how Ilocos was, and proceeded to inform him that I myself was from Ilocos, from the sweet town of San Esteban. Doing great, he said. The province?s main source of income was still tobacco, he added. Taken somewhat aback, I was going to follow up with, isn?t tobacco bad for the health? But I relented, not wanting to spoil his mood. So I instead asked him if he supported Noynoy Aquino during the elections. No, he said, but we have to support him now because he is our President.
He must have decided he didn?t want to ruin his day by answering more questions from us because he started walking away and pretended to admire a piece of a furniture in another part of the foyer. So I failed to ask him what, in the name of God?s good creatures, is a provincial governor doing in Pacquiao?s corner? A case could be made?though this, too, would also be really pushing it?when he was deputy national security adviser during the presidency of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo; after all, Pacquiao was, and especially is now, a national treasure.
In desperation, I decided to cross the line of journalistic decency and sneak upstairs to get bedroom pictures. But when I looked up, I saw on the hallway leading to the bedrooms an even meatier, more fear-inducing factotum, this one with menacing streaks of gold in his hair. It does not take much for me to guess that he wouldn?t care to distinguish between the Inquirer and Bulgar (though, on hindsight, I could bet that he would let me in if I told him I were with the latter.)
So, we decided to pack it up. On our way out, we had to wade through a horde of people milling about on the sidewalk, hoping for some face time with the champ. A familiar face from Northern California, in a suit and tie under a sweltering 80-degree LA noon sun, was among them. He had a manila envelope tucked in his armpit. ?I have a couple of contracts for him (Pacquiao) to sign,? he said without prompting as he shook my hand.
No wonder Manny has not shown up. No wonder Jinkee has taken flight.
