Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 2: Isla del Fuego

I was in my early twenties, in the crossroads of my life; silently sobbing, flipping and clicking the top lid of my vintage Zippo lighter, muttering like a fool in the moonlight when a cold hand tapped on my head, and I looked up. He was back! He's huge: almost ten feet, I think. He's more or less translucent: I could see the avocado tree behind him, dimmed but still visible. His shoulder length hair is unkempt and had bits of bark and small leaves in it; his eyes bulged; his carnivorous teeth white and massive, made for foraging. He's the stuff of all my nightmares given flesh. His hairy arms and legs had intricate armored plates-- reminiscent of medieval armor, of woven titanium alloy peppered with rubies, agate, diamonds and black opals set in a complex amalgam that mirrors and reflect images from behind him which made him almost invisible at certain angles, an ingeniously designed camouflage. He is naked from the waist up. On his right hand he held a huge bejeweled itak. He took a step closer, and as he did he tucked his itak behind a leg as if he was embarrassed by it. He opened his mouth to speak, but decided not to; his breath smelled of leaf mold and the underneath of a rotting log. As he came closer, he became more and more solid; more and more real, and the world around us became a flat two-dimensional painting and began to fade into gray.

“Paano ka nakarating dito?”

He pointed to the vacant lot beside our house. I didn’t see anything that could pass for a ride, and so I asked:

“Ano ba dapat ang tinitignan ko?”

He motioned to me to take a closer look. He then led me over the fence. He was agile and fast for his size; he practically skimmed and floated over the fence and I had to double time to keep up. He pointed to a spot where I could discern a shape but it too was translucent. 

He said it was an airship; and, like the bands on his arms and legs, a woven mesh of titanium encrusted with black opals, rubies and diamonds; it works the same way, he said, it reflects and bounces off the images behind it to make it practically invisible. It’s similar to a hot air balloon, he said, but the bag-- made of some kind of transparent organic membrane to contain the hot air, could be tucked and folded to serve as a canopy to a cocoon of titanium, gold and jewels when not in use. He said it was quite safe and comfortable and he and those before him had used such a contraption for centuries to move around the archipelago.

He said he used to have a house but times had changed and it had been difficult; humans have built houses everywhere and there are now fewer places to go where there are no humans. He said the airship is now his home, too. He camps out on roofs of churches and on treetops where he is relatively safe from human intrusion. 

"... pero paano mo natuntun kung nasaan ako?"

He pointed at a hair on his upper arm, it was longer than the other hairs on his body. He told me to move around him; I saw that the singular hair pointed to me wherever I go. It was getting weirder by the minute.

"..pero bakit ka naman napadpad dito?"

Again he started to open his mouth, but hesitated to speak, he seemed to be forming words in his mind and somehow was not able to. He came across as diffident; almost like an awkward socially inept child. But, from folklore I've heard when I was a boy his ilk are notorious pranksters who would play tricks on unwary or disrespectful humans; leading humans astray and make them take the long route to where they want to go. If the human is wearing jewelries, they take some of it too. They were originally craftsmen of note; goldsmiths, and were likewise known for their fascination with jewels. But, they were never known for violence; and indeed I've never heard of an anecdote that they've harmed any human. I have asked him before about the pranks they play on humans and I remember he told me that they were not only for fun but for protection, too; humans have long hunted them for their mane of sharp spines. Humans believed that it brought them luck; a gambling amulet.

He told me that they used to congregate on the night of the March Equinox on Mount Bandilaan on an island in the Visayas which Captain Esteban Rodriguez of the Miguel "El Adelantado" Lopez Legaspi expedition called Isla del Fuego when his party first sighted it in 1565 because the island gave off an eerie glow. He told me that the Spaniards later attributed the glow to the great swarms of kulisap that harbored in the numerous Molave trees on the island, little did the Spaniards know that it was one of their gatherings that they stumbled on. The island, he added, is now known as Siquijor. He said: Siquijor island is a special place for them and they have gathered there for eons. The island actually lies at the center of the Philippines and is a portal of some kind to other worlds. It was through this portal that they have come to our world. Their race is of another dimension from where they have fled and escaped from persecution. But the portal had since closed and they couldn’t go back. They’ve been trapped in our world for centuries.

In their world they live fiercely independent and solitary lives totally dedicated to metallurgy and the craft of devising intricate mechanical contraptions and the study of the lost science of alchemy. They are also the keepers of arcane texts. Through the centuries they have learned to adapt in our world and have even forged an alliance with some of the early human settlers on the island with whom they have shared some of their ancient technology and wisdom.

In those gatherings, he said, they would summon all the kulisap on the island to the mountaintop where they would build a huge campfire, there they would gather to tell stories and dance in the moonlight. He told me that they held a contest as to who among them could first balance a chicken egg on its point; the only day in the year, he claimed, that such a feat could be achieved. It was also the night they synchronize their clocks and navigational instruments for they dabble in astronomy, too.

But humans soon found out. One day, while they lay exhausted after a night of dancing near their camp fire, a human crept up and pulled out one of three sharp spines from the mane of one of them. This man soon won the sweepstakes twice in a row. The man became a well known high stakes gambler and the newspapers heralded his exploits. The spine became worn down after years of handling, but it still brought luck. Then one night the man lost it all, including the talisman, in a single hand of cards. There were several versions of the story: some say the man was beaten in his own game by a creature who sought him out to get back what was rightfully theirs; while some say the man's luck simply ran out, that the talisman had lost its power. Whatever really happened, the man never recovered from his loss. Not long after, the man died without a centavo to his name. 

Through the decades that followed, he said that their numbers dwindled; especially after that well publicized incident since the humans who hunted them exponentially multiplied. It seems that their kind would soon die after even a single spine was pulled out from their mane. But, even then while they live long lives they eventually become way worn after two centuries or so and they too die as humans do. He was the last, he said. 

... itutuloy

Ang Huling Tikbalang

Chapter 1: Claire de Lune

It was a moonlit night. On a night like this, going out to play a game of hide-and-seek was the cool thing to do in those days. The air was hot and humid, my sando stuck to my back like a leech and beads of sweat were draining down my eyebrows, stinging my eyes. It did not matter, it was always fun. And I was good at this game. None of my cousins have ever found me-- not Olan, not Cho-cho, not Chuck, nobody! I've hidden in the most unlikely places and sometimes I just stood motionless in the shadows and let stray moonbeams filtering down through the tree branches to cut me up in unrecognizable parts. But, that night I did something more radical, I climbed up the Duhat tree. It was the best idea I've come out with thus far; nobody ever looks up, they won't find me, ever. 

I climbed on a fairly large branch, sat on it and after a while brought out my Zippo; I was tinkering with it when something snuffled and snorted behind me. I blinked my eyes and stared up at the stars. Then I looked down to the ground and then on my side. It moved from behind me to my side. I blinked my eyes again. It was still there; beside me; it was blocking my way down and I was too high up to jump down. I could feel its presence, I didn't have to look. But, I did look; well, not exactly, I took a sneak through the corner of an eye without turning my head. It was there alright. I searched my mind to pigeonhole the creature beside me.

"Ano 'to?..."

" 'di kaya isa 'tong--" I thought to myself, then tried to push the thought away by thinking of something else; it didn't work, panic seized me. I was a young boy then and would have been afraid if it didn't looked more afraid of me than I was of it. With a hangdog face it spoke gently; it sheepishly said it meant no harm and was even apologetic of how scary it looked. 

It was a man's voice. A voice that, amazingly, sounded like the deep baritone voice of a news reader I listened to on the AM radio. Maybe it was his demeanor and his gentle voice for I do not remember being scared. It is not that I was inherently plucky as a child and I must admit I was afraid of the dark (still am) but I claim kinship with all things that thrive on moonlit nights. Besides, you could see in moonlit nights; it isn't technically dark. He kept looking at my Zippo; seemed to be fascinated by it. I told him I found the Zippo wedged between Dada's food cupboard and the kitchen wall; it was quite old and a bit battered; the hinge a bit twisted. The upper lid doesn't line up with the body and it doesn't close right. He asked if he could take a look. I wasn't exactly sure what happened next; maybe I had a brain fart or something, as if a sliver of memory had been yanked out of my brain. The next thing I saw was that he was holding my Zippo in his hand. I fought off the urge to try to grab it back. Nobody touches my Zippo! His strong hands looked human though, but they were hairy and had overly long sinewy fingers and dirty rending fingernails. He held and caressed my Zippo as if it was a delicate Faberge egg. I grimaced as he took a sniff at my Zippo; told me that it belonged to a private in the U.S. Army; a WW II soldier who fought the Japanese here; who had dysentery and later died of a gunshot wound. "Lahat ng 'yun nalaman mo sa isang singhot lamang?" Then he whipped out a glass bulb; he took off the lid and waved it about; in a few seconds it was full of kulisap; he hanged the glowing bulb on a branch; so he could see, he said. He said the Zippo was manufactured in 1941. Then he held out a humongous locket attached with a spinner ball to a thick chain he wore around his neck, an octagon shaped puzzle box with a mechanical trick lock. He deftly operated the opening mechanism: shifted a few panels and rotated a few pins then held it up in a certain way for a few seconds till it opened up to reveal an assortment of tools and other attachments stowed within the hollow that could be manipulated via a pivot point mechanism much like that of a Swiss Army knife but a lot more complex. Upon opening, a miniature cylinder-- with minute pins on it, started to revolve which then struck the tuned teeth of a metal comb, a tiny drum and a set of small bells to play a tune. He said he adapted and integrated the mechanism of a carillon à musique into his take-anywhere "tool box" because he was intrigued by the workings of it; the tune was Debussy's Clair de lune, he added. He pulled out what looked like a mechanical grab and a tool that looked like pliers. He worked on the lid of the Zippo; replaced the wick and put a flint in; polished it and handed it back to me. I flipped the top lid open then flipped it closed, it clicked. It was like new again. I stole a glance at him and saw his eyes glistened with pride. We talked in whispers for a while longer; then he said he’d seek me out again when I was older.

Sensing that he was about to turn around to go, I gathered up enough wits to ask him or it what he or it was. But, he seemed to have anticipated the question and didn't wait for me to finish. He grunted. It sounded like he was suppressing laughter. It was enough. It confirmed what I had in mind. And with that, he disappeared into the darkness of the night.

It took me quite some time to get down from the Duhat tree even as it took me less than a minute to climb up. And when I did got down, everybody had gone home. It seemed I spent only a few minutes up the tree but when I looked up the sky, it already had a tinge of orange on it, it was almost daybreak. And even as the tree was just a few steps from Dada's house it took me sometime to find my way up the stairs. Curiously too, everybody in the house was in deep sleep when I finally got to my bed. I must have lost track of time. 

Into the Abyss

After a year of camping out in an unfurnished 3-bedroom condominium unit in Manila, I packed up and headed for Makati. Well sort of, although the neighborhood is geographically and technically within Makati and shouldn’t be more than a 3-minute drive to Ayala Avenue, it is a different part of the city altogether. The neighborhood is separated from the Makati CBD by J.P. Rizal Avenue with Buendia Avenue providing a sort of a mid-gradation in between. It's astonishing that as you go farther away from Ayala Avenue, even if you're just a block away, you'd feel that you're not in Makati anymore.

It wasn’t the first time I lived in Makati though. It was in Makati that I first chose to live in after I left home. It was in Guadalupe Nuevo: specifically in Camino de la Fe Street and later in Anastacio Street. Guadalupe Nuevo was separated from the Makati CBD by the perpetual chaos of EDSA-- literally the wrong side of the street. To get to the good side of Makati one takes the pedestrian overpass either in Guadalupe or in Estrella, that is, if you could get pass the venders during the day and the hold-uppers at night. Then you take a short bus ride southward, only then will you be in Makati as the general population know it. The two neighborhoods I've been in exude the same mood with Guadalupe Nuevo offering a more edgy feel in terms of fear for your life and property.

The apartment I moved into was a block away from J.P. Rizal Avenue. It was a 2-storey house in the landlord’s backyard; the ground floor windows offering a view of the landlord’s laundry area and garage while the second floor windows offered a commanding view of their roof. After a while I transferred to a smaller two-level flat perched on top of the garage; here the windows offered a view of the other half of their roof and a glimpse of the street. I tried to make a go at making my apartment as normal as possible but no matter what I do it had that fly-by-night feel and ambiance; I tried to cook dinner but somehow it made me feel more miserable than I really was. So I got back to my diet of junk: early morning breakfasts at McDonald’s; and alternating between Jollibee burgers or Buddy’s pancit hab-hab and Lukban longanisa for lunch and dinner. It was just a short drive or jeepney ride to the Power Plant Mall at the Rockwell Center; a place which offered new weekend haunts. My usual weekend itinerary was: buy a book, coffee at Starbucks to read the book, walk around like a zombie, have lunch while still reading the book, walk around like a zombie, continue reading the book at a coffee shop while having dessert and coffee, take a long zombie walk, have an early dinner of Brother’s Burger, walk around till nightfall then repair to my crash pad and read some more. I have accumulated quite a number of books that I've stacked around my mattress, the books walled out the rest of humanity.

Then one night, as I was staring at my illegally cabled television the 9/11 attacks happened.

Thereafter, the 9/11 tragedy was casually included as a plot device in lots of insensitive fictional dramas in films and television series. I recently saw one of them: Reign Over me (--which comes from the song "Love, Reign o'er Me" by The Who, the film features a cover version recorded specifically for it by Pearl Jam), a comedy-drama film starring Adam Sandler as Charlie and Don Cheadle as Alan.

In the film, Charlie suffered terrible losses in the 9/11 attacks and he has completely shut himself off from the outside world; to cope he uses his iPod and headphones to selectively filter out the world. The film opens with Graham Nash's Simple Man and throughout the film Charlie listens to two songs from Bruce Springsteen's The River-- "Out In The Street" and "Drive All Night" and the music of The Who. People cope in different ways, I guess.

The film ended positively for Charlie; on the other hand, fate is not done yet with my life. My life will crumble further.

Sweat Dreams

??: Still awake?
JT: Shucks. Wide awake! Why don’t you leave me alone.
??: ... can't sleep, huh?
JT: ... and you figured that out all by yourself, huh?
??: Are you upset?
JT: Hell, I am.
??: You’re not scared of me, are you?
JT: You give me the creeps. Are you happy now? Go away, I want to sleep.
??: So, what scares you?
JT: You’re not going away, are you?
??: I got nowhere to go. You got nowhere to go. We’re here in the middle of nowhere. I got nothing to do. You got nothing to do. You can't sleep. I got all the time in the world. Let’s talk.
JT: (holds pillow over his face)
??: Come on, let’s talk...
JT: (holds pillow even tighter on his face)
??: So, what scares you?
JT: Shit man, you just won't quit...
??: Come on... what really scares you?
JT: ...
??: Come on, dude.
JT: ... hmmm... I guess betrayal... deep water... stray dogs…
??: Yeah. I was betrayed once. But, who cares?
JT: Only the betrayed…
??: Yup, only the betrayed. In Dante’s “Divine Comedy”, the 9th circle of hell is reserved for betrayers. A glacial wasteland shared with traitors.
JT: I wonder if there is a place for the betrayed in the afterlife, too.
??: Isn’t being betrayed hell enough? The problem with the betrayed, I think, is that they just feel bad about it but do nothing.
JT: What do you want them to do, kill their betrayers?
??: Well, it’s totally up to them. It’s just that they should do something about it. For not doing anything about it, they truly deserve the anteroom.
JT: The what?
??: The anteroom! In Dante’s vision of hell, these plateau drifters-- the do nothing guys who doesn’t move and just wallow in and out of misery, are condemned to be vagrants outside the gates of hell. They have done no evil to be condemned to hell but have done no good either to deserve heaven. They don’t go to Purgatory because this half-way station is for those who have actually committed sin-- indeed, have done something about it, though in a forgivable way; and after serving time progressed up to heaven. The “sin” of not doing anything is apparently not a forgivable one; I say sin because if it’s not a sin then I figured they would have gone somewhere nearer heaven; perhaps outside the pearly gates-- where, presumably, the conditions would have been a tad better. It is a sin of being neither good nor bad. And, deservingly, their punishment is to be relentlessly bedeviled by wasps and flies. A punishment, in my opinion, that is neither hellish nor benign; I guess just in keeping with their “sin”. It is said that the cries and lamentations of these lost souls-- yup, the same lost souls your priest talk about, could be heard in the stillness of the darkest nights. But I digress, my point:-- the betrayed should do something…
JT: But, what freezes the betrayed, most of the time, is that the betrayer is someone they love. They can’t kill them because they love them and so they do nothing or worse they kill themselves instead.
??: Ever considered killing yourself?
JT: I think so… when I was younger and didn’t know better.
??: Was it because of this love you speak about?
JT: In my immature mind, maybe. The thought crossed my mind, but I figured life is a lot more dangerous than death. Dying is a cop-out. Death is what happens when you fail in life. It’s inevitable so why rush it. Besides, there are still a lot of things I want to try and other reasons to live for.
??: But, aren’t you scared to die?
JT: What’s scary about it? After you’re dead, it’s done. And in a week’s time, you’re completely forgotten.
??: Oh…
JS: Do you mind moving away from me a bit?
??: Ummmph… So, what’s your beef about dogs?
JT: When I was a boy, an uncle’s dog attacked me. It was a colorless muscular dog they kept in a cage too small for it to move around. It got loose and dashed out for a romp around the family compound-- until it decided it was more fun to eat me instead. It charged me. It was big (or was I small?) It leapt and with snarling jaws went for my throat. Instinctively, I grabbed its throat as I stumbled over on my back. It was on me; sharp teeth millimeters from my face; drool dribbling on my neck; I could smell its breath. Its two paws were digging on my chest. We struggled a bit then a household help came and pulled Cujo off me. I’ve kept a distance from dogs since then.
?? : Was it one of those Pit Bulls?
JT: In those days dogs are what could be called “natives”-- a mongrel or a mix of no particular breed. Pit Bulls, any purebred for the matter, are unheard of. Well, at least, in our part of the woods.
?? : What’s the pride in that? Why keep a mongrel as a pet anyway?
JT: It’s a bit different then; they start out as puppies-- constantly cuddled, fed and cared for by children after having been given up by a neighbor who had a bitch that had more puppies that could be cared for. Then these puppies get bigger. They’re not fun anymore so they’re thrown out of the house: chained, caged if space won’t allow otherwise; unwashed except when it rains and fed with table scraps. These dogs have no place to go so they camp out in the periphery of human tolerance. Most live independently on the streets-- “self-supporting” dogs we used to call them; supplementing their meager diet by scavenging; staying within a radius of their camp where there is, at least, an assurance that they’ll be cursed, kicked and beaten less than in any other place. It’s more like a co-existence with humans rather than being kept as a pet.
??: Ummphh…
JT: There used to be a phenomenon that a newly built house comes with dogs, too.
??: How’s that?
JT: Well, if you’re having a house built or renovated, the construction workers come and establish a community within the construction site-- they build makeshift rooms to sleep in, on their free time they stake out the housemaids around the area, they shack up eventually; with the housemaid minding a carinderia-cum-store while waiting for the baby to pop out. Dogs-- and a sprinkling of cats, turn up much the same way. When the construction is done, the puppies and “left-over” dogs-- those not eaten, are left behind just like the ex-maids and their babies. When you move in the house, there’s a bunch of dogs hanging out on your doorstep and if you’re really lucky a housemaid could be waiting, too.
??: Well, I guess you could say that native dogs have no breeding… (laughs)
JT: On the contrary, I think native dogs are more intelligent and better adapted to the unique Filipino psyche than purebreds. A native dog is a demonstration of Darwin’s theory of the survival of the fittest. On the other hand, a purebred lineage could be traced to a Petri dish. There is a lot of in-breeding in purebreds to obtain a particular characteristic making them look good but genetically inferior; which is probably the reason keeping them as pets cost a lot of money for immunization vaccines and commercial dog food. Anyway, I think the askal could pass for a breed in itself.
??: I’m more of a cat person myself. Stray cats fare better than dogs, I think. They start out much like your askal but they keep a greater distance from humans and they’re less deprived than dogs because they’ve added stealing in their survival skills repertoire. They have gone beyond survival and actually live exciting lives.
JT: You just referred to yourself as person.
??: Oh, it’s more like a figure of speech. Convenient for our purposes, that’s all.
JT: Really? I think you’re not at all sure what or who you are…
??: Let’s not go into that… So why are you scared of water? Did you get washed away in a flashflood? Were you in the Titanic or something?
JT: Nah, it’s just that being in chest deep water makes me panic. I can’t swim... at most I guess I could paddle around a pool like a dog, but that's it. So instinct dictates that waist deep is just about right. Anything deeper would be pushing my luck.
??: Do you think deep water dredged up the terror of the dog attack?
JT: I don’t think so. My fear of water came much later in life. I almost drowned more times than I care to remember but I don’t think those episodes increased or decreased my fear. I’m not sure how or when it started, but just to be on the safe side, I now limit my interaction with liquids to drinking and showers.
??: Do you think there’s a connection; the mean dog standing on you and water crushing your chest? A man’s fear is built on another and the sum total is paranoia.
JT: Maybe you are the sum total of my fears. I sense that you’ve become bigger and bulkier through the years. What have you been doing, feeding on my fears?
??: Freddy Kruger!
JT: You’re Freddy Kruger?
??: Shit no! Freddy is a deadhead character in a B-movie. I’m for real. But that’s what the Freddy character said: He feeds on fear. People are scared of him because he is the personification of fear. And as people get more and more scared, he gets stronger and stronger.
JT: Is that what you are trying to do, scare me?
??: Hey, it’s just a movie we watched.
JT: You were with me when I saw the movie?
??: How else could I have seen that crappy movie...
JT: You been hanging around since that time? Since when?
??: Well, let’s just say that I’ve been with you for some time...
JT: Were you with me in November 1999, in Bambang? Or, that night I spent in a Legaspi City motel in 2003? How about that night in 1977 when I slept alone in a seedy hotel in the corner of Avenida Rizal and Aranque? Or, maybe that night I spent alone in Camiguin Island? How about that night I spent in a pension house in Infanta, Quezon? How about that night in an abandoned building in Bukidnon?
??: Wow, you’ve been around the whole block, haven’t you? Well, I could spin a tale like that corny Footprints on the Sand song but I don’t think you’re going to go for it…
JT: Were you with me in 1977 when I went for days without food and water?
??: Whoaa. No food? No water?
JT: It was after my fourth day as stok-wa; I made a promise to go back home; when I did, I went straight to my room and stayed there in the days that followed; lying on my bed, not eating nor drinking. I’d come out in the dead of night, move in the shadows, slip out of the door and sit in the moonlight. I’d sit there motionless for hours; thinking about nothing, pursuing random thoughts, holding it in my mind for a while and letting go. Maybe, I was hallucinating; lightheadedness induced by lack of nutrition-- mesmerized by a phantasmagoria of two-dimensional grayscale images moving in and out of focus in my mind’s eye. Maybe I was in the brink of insanity. Then before daybreak, I'll sneak back in and sleep. There was no way out of it. It’s one of those things that began with no clear ending; until one night my mother can’t take it anymore and she broke down. She screamed. I ran up the stairs, jumped over the banister and embraced her. She asked me to stop. And, that was the end of it. The next day, I begged leave to go out. I went out for a walk; then it hit me; I have a plan; for the first time in my life everything was clear: I now know what I have to do. And, in a cool December night in 1979, a few days before Christmas, I walked out for the last time.
??: That’s it? You just walked out?
JT: Yeah, with just the clothes on my back and a change of clothes in two small plastic shopping bags.
??: You never came back?
JT: Nope, that was the plan.
??: Just like an askal, huh?
JT: ...
??: .... a pusakal?
JT: z…
??: ?
JT: zzz
??: ??
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzz
??: ???
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
??: zzz
JT: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
??: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
JT: How long has it been?
??: zzz… What?
JT: How long did we doze off?
??: I think it was around 2:00 a.m.
JT: Shit, just an hour of sleep.
??: Let’s go back to sleep…
JT: ?
??: ?
JT: So, what is it that scares you?
??: ?
??: ??
??: What???
JT: Do I scare you?

Si Bal, si Al

Si Bal ay Bisaya at si Al ay Batangueno
Kapwa ko kasama sa trabaho at kinalaunan ay naging mga kumpare
Sampung taon kami magkakasama sa isang unibersidad sa dakong Maynila
Nag-aayos, nagbubuhat at nag-lilipat ng kung anu-anong mga bagay bagay
Minsan ay ilalagay doon at minsan naman ay ilalagay dito
Isasabit at tatangalin at isasabit muli
Walang katapusan na utos ni Ma’am
Tagaktak ang pawis ni Bal gayun din si Al
Kawawa naman
Hayaan n’yo at mam’ya ay papainumin ko naman kayo
Pero sa ngayon ay sige at buhat na naman tayo
Kailangan matapos ngayon gabi at bukas ay simula na
Ay naku may utos pa uli si Ma’am
Ilipat daw yun dito at ilagay ‘to dun
pasensya na mga pare ko
Sige at iusog mo pa na kaunti
Pareng Bal pagkatapos nito ay lampasuhin mo uli ‘yun banda ‘dun
Sige t’song
Pareng Al pagtapos ay walisan mo ‘dun
Sige p're
‘di nagtagal ay ako ay lumisan
at sila ay iniwan
paalam pareng Bal, gayun din sa iyo pareng Al
matagal muli bago kami nagkita-kita
matanda na si Bal, gayun din si Al
minsan pa muli ay kami ay nag-inuman
sinundo ko si Al at kami ay nagpunta sa bahay ni Bal
medyo nagkaiyakan pa ng kaunti
at medyo nagkayakapan
masaya naman kami kahit ganito lang
aba pagkaraan lang ng ilang araw ay nagpaalam na si Al
Pareng Bal, wala na si pareng Al
Magpahinga ka na pareng Al
sadyang malungkot magpaalam sa isang kaibigan
lumakad ang panahon at si Bal naman ang nagpaalam
Pagod na rin siguro si Bal sa buhay
wala na si Bal gayun din si Al
Paalam mga mahal kong kaibigan
Magkikita kita tayo muli para mag-inuman
At dun ay wala na si Ma’am
‘di na kayo magbubuhat at ‘di na rin pagtutulak
Paalam pareng Bal, ganyun din sa iyo pareng Al

Condemonyo

A week after I moved in to a Manila condominium building, an earthquake rocked Luzon. I was terrified and felt helpless as the walls creaked and moaned for a few seconds and then it stopped; after I few more seconds it swayed again as the building's foundation shifted and settled back to its original position. The earthquake jolted back the images I saw on television in 1968-- a few days before my birthday, when an intensity 7 earthquake hit Manila and flattened Ruby Tower, a six-story apartment-building on Doroteo Jose and Teodora Alonzo streets in Sta. Cruz, in a rubble of twisted metal and hollow blocks. The street corner where Ruby Tower once stood is just a few blocks from my condominium building.
Almost 400 of Ruby Tower's more than 600 tenants lost their lives. I remember seeing in television the badly injured survivors being extricated from the rubble in rescue efforts that lasted for more than a week. Two hundred seventy survivors were rescued but twenty-seven among the injured later died. An undisclosed number of tenants, mostly Chinese-Filipinos, were never found.

Like the Ruby Tower, my condominium looked out of place. Manila is a city where the homeless and fringe dwellers congregate and somehow condominiums doesn't fit into the dire landscape-- a slap on the face of people who are down in their luck. The sprouting of condominium buildings even in the seedier parts of the metropolis is the main reason, I think, why nobody goes to the Manila zoo anymore. These condominiums had allowed people who had more in life to observe people who had less-- much like people watching animals in a zoo, while safely perched on a balcony beyond spitting distance of those wretched creatures called the urban poor-- the great unwashed.

The Manila Zoo offered a similar visual treat in reverse-- people could observe a solitary ape in a cage. When I was a boy the Manila Zoo was always one of the stops whenever our school would have a field trip. Everybody eventually gravitated to the famous ape in a cage. People who visited in the 60s and 70s will remember this ape (He’s probably dead by now; probably shot dead by one of his unsuspecting victims). You can’t miss him. He was some sort of a celebrity then-- the main attraction. Nobody could come close without being exposed to the hazard of being inflicted with the salivary excursions of the bored primate. One time, I remember going for a closer look and sure enough the damn ape was accurately spitting to his heart’s content. I later observed, and I could be wrong, but it seemed then that it wasn’t random spitting. He was only aiming for my better-dressed classmates. Boy, this ape had issues. Or, maybe he was making a statement; whatever, but he sure did it with the chutzpah of a rock star.

There was also an island where a bunch of monkeys were allowed to roam free within the small environ of the artificial island and there was a group of juvenile delinquent misfits who threw trash to onlookers; but, their accuracy paled in comparison with the spitting ape. Juvenile delinquents in the poorer sections of the metropolis would later copy the antics of these monkeys; calling themselves gangs they would terrorize neighborhoods at night; they would throw bottles and stones at each other; attacking and retreating throughout the night causing little damage to themselves but wrecking parked cars and the display windows of commercial establishments in the neighborhood. In my brief stay in a condominium in that part of Manila I have watched quite a few episodes of this senseless destruction of property. I have witnessed a few bag and cellular phone snatches, too; a hold-up and a knifing.

The morning after the earthquake, I fancied taking a walk to the site of the Ruby Tower. I found out that the 1,293-square-meter property where the Ruby Tower once stood was donated to the survivors; a two-story building now stands in the property that houses a shop selling industrial gaskets, lubricants and heat insulation materials, a hardware, an eatery and a cultural club. On the building’s top floor is the Ruby Tower Temple, built a couple of years after the tragedy by the survivors who formed the Ruby Tower Memorial Foundation. I climbed up the stairs to the temple; but the gate leading to the temple was padlocked. The grid iron gate is rusted, it needs a new coat of paint. Nobody seems to go there anymore. Maybe people have forgotten the tragedy that happened here. As I climbed down the stairs, I felt a slight tremor; it was an aftershock.

The Dork Night

I’m on my own now. I got a room in Makati. It was on the ground floor of a two-storey building of seven rooms. Perpendicular to it was a freestanding structure that housed a common kitchen and two toilets/bathrooms. There was a dinner table, but none of the tenants took there meals there, all preferred to eat in their rooms. One-burner electric stoves-- one for each tenant, was lined up on a counter on one side. The tenants shared an old battered fridge, filled mostly with Tupperware tumblers of water and leftover food. A common laundry area was on the far end of the ground floor. There was a small garden in the middle that served to screen off the main house from the apartment building at the back where, according to the landlady, her pigpens once stood. The door on each room is framed by jalousies, and each room had a built-in cabinet, a dresser with a chair and enough space to fit in a double bed.

The landlady was quite a character; on most mornings, I would be roused from sleep by her loud voice; she would be bad-mouthing the housemaid or her husband or both of them. Other than that, it was generally quiet and peaceful.

The tenants kept to themselves and other than a nod of acknowledgment when we bump into each other on our way to the bathrooms or the kitchen; there was not much social interaction. Tenants come and go: two Ilokano brothers occupied a room on the second floor, a pregnant woman occupy another, a young couple occupied the room above mine; I could hear them having sex on the floor every night, they'd switch positions then they'll go again. The others were like ghosts that I could hear but never ran into.

It will soon be Christmas.

Christmas is a curious thing. We were brought up to believe that Christmas should be the happiest time of the year; yet it is the time of the year when the suicide rates are the highest. It seems that we have been misinformed. Contrary to what we have been told, statistics show that it is the most depressing time of the year. The problem I think is that people expect to be happy each time Christmas comes around; and when that expectation doesn’t happen people feel depressed. There’s nothing like being required to be happy and if you're not, being made to feel that everyone but you is having a good time. Suicide is usually a good option.

When I was younger, I remember being genuinely happy only in some instances of Christmas so I thought I would be immune to this holiday malady, but being alone with nobody to try to be happy with on my first Christmas alone pushed me over the edge. An unrecognized emotion reigned over me; before I knew it I was on a bus in EDSA intent on spreading Christmas cheer. Bad idea.

"May bisita pala!"

It was in that tone that I knew very well. It's astonishing how harmless words can be turned into toxic weapons of mass destruction simply by the way it is said, its inflection; its tone. While cuss words were taboo in our household we grew up to recognize annoying tones and inflection that could hurt more than the baddest cuss words a boozed up Tausug pirate could regurgitate.

Most families have eccentricities and quirks: maybe a subservient mother silently suffering spousal abuse or a father who wears only his underwear in family gatherings, but I had a childhood that could have been taken from a Charles Dickens novel. I was an orphan trapped in a big family of siblings. I never figured out what brought about this detachment, this estrangement. But, it was there: the prejudice, the aloofness, the hostility and that feeling of inconsequentiality. I’ve always felt alone. I would have been a good study of how a quirky childhood had an affect on the mind of an adult.

I was soon on my way back to Makati. Smiling revelers on the sidewalks and on the bus constantly reminded me of how miserable I was. I made it back to my rented room before 12 o’clock. I sat alone in the dark and stared at the luminous dial of my wristwatch watching the minutes and the seconds counted down. Tears ran down my face. At 12:01, I perked up considerably. I actually felt good and was uncontrollably laughing at myself. It was over. I've survived Christmas.

"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger"
--Friedrich Nietzsche

The Walking Wounded

When I was younger, I would ride buses that ran the length of EDSA whenever I get hit by life’s curved balls. Buses back then were reconditioned and refurbished army trucks and re-fitted with Lawanit body panels; the floor were wood planks; seats were wooden park benches; and most were red in color. I prefer to sit up front beside the engine mound. While it’s hot due to the escaping heat from the engine, it had a window all its own that could be opened or closed as the passenger pleases. I keep it wide open to feel the blasts of wind on my face; I'd keep my face on the window until my eyes tear up then I would half close my eyes and everything would be a blur. It was also a good way of covering up my tears when I cry. I'm not exactly certain why I rode buses back then; maybe it was not unlike a mustang’s wild run to a comfort zone.
Now I drive. It is, I should say, I step up but it is still a medium for flight. I'm still running away, but today I actually have a purpose and a destination. I’m heading for a clinic down south. The drive on the SLEX was easy and in a matter of minutes I have eased out of the highway and the concrete is slowly giving way to provincial vistas. I was making good time.
The clinic wasn’t hard to find and I arrived much earlier than expected. It’s not hard to miss. Curiously rendered in orange and green; it stuck out like an afterthought on the front lawn of a bungalow along the highway. It was still early and it's bolted shut. In a while, people congregated on the two bamboo benches out front. An overhang offers shade but it also funneled the heat— much like a chimney, unto the waiting area.
The heat was getting to me so I walked to a nearby sari-sari store and bought a bottle of water; I drank most of it then offered what’s left to a man who was nervously smoking beside me; I saw him earlier sitting on the waiting area with a girl. I casually asked him what’s up. He said, still with a nervous twitch, that he just accompanied the woman with the girl. I inquired further and learned that the girl— barely in her teens; in scruffy cheap bootleg jeans and a still scruffier bootleg shirt, was raped by a fifty year old man. The girl looks a bit emaciated, had an ordinary looking face bordering on ugly and looks like she terribly needs a good scrub. These say much of the kind of predator her attacker was— not that the animal completely robbed her of her future for clearly she had none. The girl looked oblivious of what had happened or what was happening on that particular afternoon, but the people with her seemed more lost than she was.
In a while, two women walked in with a teenage boy in wrinkly high school uniform. He had a tattered backpack for a school bag and shoes with uneven wear on the heel and sole echoing the boy’s clumsy and hobbling gait. The trio sat on a bench across from where I sat. I would catch the boy, who held on to the woman beside him, repeatedly sneaking a glance at me with increasing uneasiness. The boy would whisper to the woman’s ear and the woman would nod with assurance and sometimes a sheepish smile would break up her tired face. The other woman is a generation older than the other and had a stolid countenance. Both women are modestly dressed that would have been more appropriate in a funeral. The boy looked sad and seemed to know that something was definitely wrong with him.
Hovering at the periphery of the assemblage’s guarded social interaction is a ghost of a young man— in a gray walking shorts and white cotton T-shirt. He had a decent wristwatch, an item missing from the other people there. He kept on looking at his watch as if he would rather be anywhere but there. Obviously a regular for he had that blank intense look of a young man seemingly balanced on a tightrope strung between cockiness and despair. In his hand he held a crumpled piece of paper— he was there to re-fill his prescription.
It was a circus of the walking wounded— a boy with a bleak future of pain, ridicule and shame; a half-wit rag doll whose only respite from deprivation is sexual abuse; and a young man looking forward to a lifetime of steady doses of controlled substances. I could feel a headache coming on...

SanDasal

Hindi na mapilit ang sarili upang dumalangin at dumulog pa muli sa kinagisnang Diyos.
Hindi ba niya naririnig ang damdamin kong nagsusumigaw sa galit?
Hindi ba niya nararamdaman ang lamig ng nadurog kong puso?
Mayroon pa bang hihigit sa katotohanang ito?
Mga nabubulok na laman ng damdamin at isipan na hindi mabigyan ng laya ng dahil na rin sa kakulangan ng salitang natutunan.
At dahil dito ay mananatili na lamang bilango sa isip at damdamin…
at paglaon ay hahawaan ng taglay na sakit ang kalahatan ng kinaluluklukan.
Siguro’y wala ng hihigit pa sa lahat ng uri ng dalangin ang katotohanang ito.
Noon sana’y diningin man lamang ang sasaloobin bago pa tuluyan ng nalunod sa luha…bago pa tuluyan ng dinurog ng nagsusumikip na dibdib…bago pa nilamon ng galit ang nalalabi pang pagkatao.
Tama na... ayoko na.
At hindi na kakailangin pa ang tulong upang maiintindihan ang mga nangyari.
Matagal nang nakapinid ang pinto. Pilitin man ay hindi na magawang bigyan pa ng puwang upang tanggapin ang kapunuan ng kakulangan.
Suko na.
Wala na ring dahilan.
Hindi rin lamang maiwawaksi sa isipan ang sumpang ito.
Isang bangungot na hindi na kagigisnan pa.
Diyos ko, ako'y nagsusumamo sa iyo muli hindi para hilingin na pawiin mo ang sakit o kaya’y ibsan lamang ang bigat ng pasanin.
Hindi...
ipakikiusap ko lamang na kung ang puso ay durog na…
isipan at damdamin ay patuloy na sinasaktan at ginugulo ng nakalipas…
ay kunin na rin ang aking kaluluwa.

Auring

"Aalis na ako..."
 
I croaked as I walked pass her on my way to the kitchen door. She was cooking dinner. She glanced at me then looked at the two plastic grocery bags dangling from my arms-- all my worldly possessions in two wrinkled used plastic shopping bags. I must have looked stupid; pathetic even.
 
"'di ka na babalik..."
 
It wasn't a question. It was more of a conclusion. The house was empty but for the two of us; everybody had gone to Sunday mass; the only light that was on was at the kitchen; her voice though soft and gentle echoed on the walls. There is so much unsaid; there had been years and years of mutual silence between us; so much time has gone that now there is neither time left nor a suitable language to even begin to talk about the things we could have talked about. Now we only talk in syllables.
 
Three years ago I asked her to give me her blessing and allow me to go on my own. She refused. I asked her the same question every day for a week and each time she said it was not yet my time to go.This time she wasn't stopping me.

"'di na..."
 
I took a step toward the door and for a moment lingered on its threshold. The horizon was a swirling collage of dark blue and gray. Dusk slowly blurring into night. The night breeze was cool. The shadows hunting down what little light lingered after sunset. A chill that had nothing to do with the December air stole over me. Then a sharp sting swept over my face and a wisp of cool breeze slithered down my spine. Random thoughts were spinning in my head-- it's the end of a decade; next month will be a new year; what will I eat for dinner tonight; it will be her birthday in two weeks; so many questions; there were no answers. I held my breath, expecting to feel some cord draw tight on my neck, holding me, binding me. But there was no tether, no lurch. I took a deep breath and walked into the gathering darkness.

 

"Good-bye, Mommy".
 


In Memoriam: Aurora; 30 December 1932 - 16 August 2007

The Praktis: Mario

Beneath the fragile public display of normalcy, there exists a massive fault line that cuts deep into our dysfunctional family life. On a regular basis, tension builds up to a critical mass. And then all hell breaks loose. I dodge the lava flow as best as I can and pray that I don't take a hit; when I do get hit, I take to the streets.

The school year had just started and so I attend my classes in the mornings; then I hang around the campus until nightfall; then I find a place I could spend the night. Out in the streets, the first thing you do is decide whether you'll be a pusakal or a pushover pussy. Beg or steal? Hunter or prey? Wolf or lamb? Either way, you'll survive. It's a choice you have to make before somebody else make it for you. Self respect, that is the only prime commodity you could trade. You want to keep it or turn it over for scraps.

In Manila there are lots of all night places, but if you don’t have any money your choices are a bit limited: my all time favorite is a police precinct. You have to go to the bigger ones; the smaller ones with five or six policemen are no good; they’ll hustle you or break your balls. The bigger precincts, or stations as they are called have benches you could sit on; there will be an all night carinderya-- run by the favorite kabit of the Station Commander, where you could get cheap goto, mami or coffee. My next choice is the Baclaran Church. It’s opened 24/7 and you could walk in anytime and join in; there’s always a novena going on. It’s relatively safe because it’s always full of people. I wouldn’t recommend parks; it’s too dark and that’s where the petty criminals, sex deviants and perverts hang out. On my first night, I stayed at the Police Headquarters in Manila.

On my second night I slept in an empty dormitory. I made up a story that I was looking for a "bed space"; that I live in the suburbs and I’ve lost my wallet so I can’t go home. Half of the story was true; I was really looking for a place to stay; I was determined not to go back home. The dormitory had two rooms with bunk beds stacked on top of the other that reached the ceiling. There were about twenty beds in each room; there was one toilet. One room had no boarders because they were putting up more bunk beds; it looked more like a carpenter's workshop rather than a place to sleep in. I was welcomed to sleep there for free, but only for one night. The room smelt of semen and wet socks. By midnight, rats were running all over the room.

On my third night on the streets, I ran into Mario; or rather he ran into me, I was sitting on a bench contemplating my limited choices of lodgings for the night. Mario wore a red sweat-soaked ill-fitting track suit with the name of our university emblazoned in white on the back. "Track and Field Team" is stitched just below it. His name is printed on the left breast of the suit. Somehow the suit did not look good on him.

Mario was, like me, a student-cum-sometime-employee-- an extra hand until the university didn't need the additional work force anymore then he'd be laid off, too; like me. But, Mario had a back-up plan. He was also a track and field varsity athlete. He did not look like one though. He was short and stocky. He had a hair-cut that somehow did not suit him; it made him look like a bull dog. At the workplace, and probably at school too, he was the odd man out; everybody jokingly referred to him as Praktis. He was tagged with the name probably because his standard response to an invitation to an after-office round of beer was-- “may praktis pa kami…” I too laughed at him. He was the butt of most of the jokes, but he just kept silent and took it all.

In a while, Mario asked me if I was in some kind of trouble. “Stok-wa” I told him. He told me that if I needed a place to stay for the night I would be welcomed to their house. I didn't need much time to think about it.

We took a jeepney and got down in Puresa and walked towards the overpass. The Puresa overpass is the first flyover in the Philippines. Curiously, it doesn’t go over a busy street intersection, just a seldom used railroad track. While the tracks cuts through most of the busy thoroughfares in Manila, particularly E. Rodriguez avenue with more traffic volume, it is only in Sta. Mesa that a flyover was built. Urban legend has it that it was president Manuel L. Quezon who had it built because he didn’t want his car stopped when a train passes. President Quezon lived in Manresa, now New Manila, and he would have to cross the tracks to get to Malacanang palace everyday.

We walked until we reached the tracks. We turned right into the tracks and walked some more until we reached a talipapa. Mario bought a few strips of cara-beef and a few wilted pechay; for dinner he said. We entered an eskinita until we reached his house; it was a wooden house on stilts and stood in the middle of the slums.

While Mario cooked dinner-- picadillo de kalabaw (a soup of sauteed cara-beef strips, potatoes and pechay; I still cook the dish, using beef strips instead of cara-beef); I begged leave to take a shower. The bathroom was an elevated hollow block enclosure under the house; I have to crouch to get in; it had no windows; and the only source of light was a low-wattage incandescent light bulb at a corner which gave the cubicle a claustrophobic yellow-orange glow. Cockroaches were crawling out from crevices and flying about as I poured water over me with a tabo. It was my first close encounter with cockroaches; it was also the fastest shower I have ever had.

When I went up the house, there was a tub of clothes on the floor; Mario was sitting on the floor and counting loose change. He said it was what was left of his daily stipend. I suspect he was only into athletics for the stipend and food allowance and I think he knew in his heart that he wasn't cut out for it. But, I think he was an athlete who competed in a bigger arena; he was competing for a chance to a better life the only way he knew.

He lived with a sister who worked in Makati; she came home later that evening and went straight to the only room in the house; which was just bigger than a cabinet. After Mario was done with his laundry, he cleaned up the dining table and placed a banig over the top. It looked like we were going to sleep on the table. My suspicion was confirmed when Mario produced a mosquito net; I helped him string it up over the table-cum-bed. We sat on the floor and had a dram each of lambanog before we clambered up the table.

The lambanog helped, it made me feel drowsy; I stared at the wall and waited for sleep to come; cockroaches began to swarm and crawl all over the mosquito net.

I stole a glimpse at Mario; he was already sleeping soundly... "may praktis pa kami bukas", I could almost hear him saying.

Salamat Mario. Mabuhay ka.

Riding the Midnight Express

After a school day, I've gotten into the habit of walking in the direction of Divisoria, instead of just crossing the avenue in front of the university to catch a jeepney ride home. Most times I'd checked out the second-hand books and magazines sold along the sidewalks. Sometimes I would stand on the edge of the sidewalk and just watch the endless stream of people. There was always something interesting: a novelty toy being hawked or even a chess challenge.

It became too interesting one day when, as I crossed Morayta street, I saw a group of teens in High School uniforms, about my age, scampering in all directions. I knew some of the faces; a stupid street fight most likely, I thought. Instinctively, I darted to the side and leaned back on a wall. People were rushing about. Then someone handed me a gym bag. Stupidly, I held it and stood there; it was heavy. In a moment, policemen came into view; they were running after the hooligans. After the policemen had passed me, I dropped the bag. The bag hit the sidewalk with a thud and lead pipes, homemade bolos and knives jumped out from the bag. I started walking away, but a policeman collared me.

In a blink of an eye I was in Presinto Tres beside Central Market. The police precinct sits on a cul-de-sac with a tunnel view of jeepneys queuing for passengers in Quezon Boulevard.

There were ten of us; three had nasty gashes on their head; their shirts bloodied. I knew some of them by their faces; some looked familiar, but I’ve never been in their company until that day. All of them looked smug and talked with an attitude. Two were Chinese. They sport big biceps. They have bruised fists and tight buns; and were probably adept at some kind of martial art. I was skin and bones side by side with them, but I stood an inch taller than the tallest in the group. That was bad. I stood out.

A fat, oily man in a bedraggled police uniform who looked like he had just waken up from a nap-- the desk sergeant, sat on the front desk. He looked at us with lecherous eyes and asked for our names. He scribbled something on his logbook then told us that two boys had been hurt-- one was stabbed and another had a cracked skull. Criminal charges were being prepared. Immediately after that, calls were made; some handed over to the sergeant. By the time the sergeant opened the door to the cell only five of us remained. The Chinese looking boys were the first to go; the three smug looking characters were next. I haven’t spoken yet other than when I gave my name. There was no reason to. I was better off if they didn't know why I was there. I don't know who belong to which group and I figured it would be better to keep everybody guessing.

Truth is I'm not known as a talker; not then; not now. In fact, I was a late talker. Well, not exactly. I preferred not to talk, and my first word was "...tado". It was meant to keep people at bay. When I was an infant, I didn't cry much, too-- in fact, I hardly ever cried. I preferred to be alone, and the only time I'd cry was when somebody was nearby. As a toddler, I preferred to observe what was going on around me and then have conversations with invisible persons. People would find me sitting up and having an earnest debate with the air. It didn't change much even when I was a boy. People would later conclude that I was talking to myself. A conclusion that probably kept more people away; which was fine by me. Even then I never had the compulsion to explain myself; that would require talking, and I don't do that. Ironically, gabbing is a favorite contact sport in our family, our paternal uncles like to talk, loudly. It wouldn't be accurate to say they talk loud, they shout when ordinary mortals find it sufficient to whisper. Whenever, there is a family gathering I would watch them and observed that for an uncle to be able to say his piece, his voice should be the loudest to smother the other voices for a while. Then there will be a lull and only the loudest talker would keep on talking. But, I could see that though the others have closed their traps nobody really bothered to listen; they just wait out whoever was talking to tone down the decibels then the shouting contest began again, whoever won would talk next. They looked pathetic.

We were led into a detention cell; four people were already in it, all with taunt athletic bodies-- snatchers and stick-up artists. As we came near to the cell door, everybody crowded behind me.

A half naked thin man with gaunt face and a tattoo of the Nazareno on his chest, sat on a makeshift hammock; another was fanning him with a tattered abaniko. He looked at us like we were dinner as he rolled his dentures in his mouth. I cast down my eyes and let my shoulders drop to show a body language of submission. The man started to stand up. I took a quick side step and whacked his mouth. He didn't see it coming. He dropped back to the hammock. His eyes desolate pools of confusion, his denture stuck on his upper palette. Blood oozing from his mouth. I grabbed him by his arm, pulled him up and dropped him on the floor. I sat on the hammock and ordered the man fanning him to fan me instead. The five boys huddled around me. I've been voted Alpha Male.

I've earned their respect.

Out in the streets respect is the only thing that mattered. I told the cowering boys around me to hand me all their money. I tossed some coins to the bleeding man and calmly told him to get some cigarettes. I pocketed the rest of the money. The man scrambled to his feet and asked leave to go out. He was let out. I took a mental note of it. He came back with a handful of cigarettes.

In less than an hour, only two of us remained. It seemed everybody had flashed their get-out-of-jail cards and they had pulled all the strings and the stops to get out. Time was running out; as soon as the only other boy gets out, the snatchers would surely jump me. The man I've punched in the face is becoming bolder every minute. Now he's looking straight at my eyes. It is time to go.

I asked to be let out to get some snacks. The desk sergeant looked at me and nodded to a trustee. I walked out of the precinct-- counting each step that I took, to a small sari-sari store a few steps from the main road. Forty steps. That's all it took. I bought a pack of Hi-Ro biscuits and a Coke. I took a swig on my Coke and looked at the sergeant. He wasn't even looking. I got a few sticks of cigarettes, too. I closed my eyes and counted my steps as I walked back. Forty. I opened my eyes. Fat man is right in front of me. I tossed a stick of cigarette to him; the pig smiled. The trustee opened the cell. I sat down on the hammock for my Coke and Hi-Ro fix. As I downed the last of the Coke, a slight smile pulled on the right side of my lips. I've got it. I looked at the other boy, he seemed lost. Scared, too.

Each time I ran away from home, I spend my first night sitting at a police precinct and I’ve seen people thrown in jail. I’ve seen enough to know that the police would have to book you first before you're thrown in the can-- something that hadn’t happened yet because the police were still waiting who would get sprung. That was how the game was played. If you're connected, you use your connections to put pressure on the police to get you out. If you're not connected, then you figure out how to get some cash. The police were just giving you time. If you don't have the connections or the money then you stay locked up until the procedure catches up. That way nobody gets "embarrassed".

Calmly, I asked to be let out again; to make a call, I said. I don't really need to call anybody; I don't know anybody who could pull me out of this hell hole. I can't call home either, what for? The phone was on the desk right in front of the Sergeant; plastered on the back of the receiver is a note "Piso Bawat Tawag"-- one peso for a call! I tossed a peso coin to the man and dialed a number; a random number. The phone at the other end of the line rang. I coughed deeply into my fist. The fake cough was to get the man's attention and as he looked I pointed the phone's receiver to his face, just so he'd hear the ringing. Somebody with a gruff voice picked up the phone.

"Oo, nandito pa ako..."

"...?"

"Maayos naman ako..."

"...?"

"Ang tagal naman..."

"...?"

"Ano oras?"

"...!"

"Bilisan n'yo! ..."

Click!

The man on the other end of the line was still cursing when I put down the receiver. I again asked permission to get more cigarettes. He nodded.

As I walk to the door, I checked my pockets. I still have enough for jeepney fare. I walked out of the precinct as if I had just stepped out of Sunday mass; when I reached the curb I took a glimpse back then jumped into a jeepney.

Noragail

She had an unruly Felicity Porter wiry hair. And doe eyes that gave her a look of sadness and longing that was quite infectious. She didn’t hang around with the other girls; somehow she wasn’t accepted into any of the groupings that high school girls usually fall into. Largely due to the cinema scam I've grown an appendage of two hangers-on gopher boys and an entourage of girls that provide a crowd or a tool of misdirection for the little scams we ran.

A favorite with the girls was the green mango swipe: three or four girls would walk side by side; the "designated thief" (usually one of the boys, but the girls are equal to the task, too) would follow the girls two steps behind and two more would follow behind the designated thief to provide cover at the rear. The girls up front would converge on a sidewalk vender selling green mangoes in a parked kariton; they'd check out the mangoes as if choosing one they'd buy. The designated thief, in one smooth motion, would scoop up the mango on top of one of the tumpok and would slip it into the pocket of the girl on the middle. Then the girls would walk over to the next mango vender and use their charms to convince the vender to peel the mango. The girls usually walked away with some bagoong, too. It worked equally well for swiping packs of cigarettes, too.

At school, we targeted the siopao and candies in a campus store while the girls provide misdirection. In those days, cigarettes were sold inside the campus and we usually steal a few sticks as well. Everybody’s favorite was the pan-de-sal lean: we would crowd the counter of the employee's cooperative store on campus and place our orders of pan-de-sal one after the other; while the venders were frantically filling out our orders, the "designated thief" would lean in and reach out underneath the counter to get a handful of loose change, which we use to pay for our orders. Leftover change would be used to buy Coke.

Noragail tried to break into our group of juvenile misfits and thieves via my two gopher boys. But, somehow the girls didn’t warm up to her. She ended up hanging around with my two hangers-on. Somehow she made it clear that she wasn’t so keen on joining us in our movie house scams so she usually pay for our tickets when she was with us. Not that I mind, but somehow without the scam everything seemed so ordinary. And so we usually go without her. Besides when she was with us, she always sat beside me and that means we should make out. It was fun for a while but I preferred smooching with and groping the other girls; they tasted better; smelt better, too. She got other things on her mind. She made me and the other girls feel that she did not like the idea of me making out with the other girls. I, on the other hand, preferred the other girls who were not so touchy on the issue. We, the girls and I, were simply having some fun. And so that was the end of it. I distanced myself from her and after a while she stayed away. Later I would see her hanging out with a scion of a famous show business clan. We won't be seeing her the following school year; they said she eventually lived in with or married macho guy, some say she got pregnant.

Macho guy, together with a Jerry Lewis look-alike comedian and the son of a famous comedian, would later be involved in an arson-murder case when they would set ablaze-- while in a drug crazed and drunken stupor, the condominium unit of the wife of a music and movie producer. They would all be jailed for it.

Noragail, along with five other people, died in that senseless conflagration. Curiously, she was referred to as a "housemaid" in newspaper reports.

More Schemes & Scams: connecting more dots

I like movies. I liked it then and I still like it now. The main difference then and now is that there was only one way to watch movies back then-- you have to go to the movie houses; and you have to pay to get in. And that was the problem; I never had enough money to get in. But it did not stop me. I like solving puzzles; and how to get in was one puzzle that had huge returns: I get to watch a movie. I remember going to Makati for the first time. A classmate heard about a shop there that sold stink bombs and itching powder (-- two interesting novelties I would put to good use later on); I and two other classmates accompanied him. When we got there, however, we couldn't find the shop so we explored the Makati Commercial Center (-- there was yet no Glorietta). And then I saw the Quad. A cluster of four cinemas within meters of each other. I was in cinema heaven. I sat down enthralled on the floor, had Chiz Curls and observed the goings on. I must have sat there for an hour. When my classmates finally found me I told them that if they’ll pay for my fare and my movie ticket, I could get them to watch all four movies at the Quad for a little more than the price of a ticket. However, I told them that if we were going to do it we have to play hooky and come early so we wouldn’t be late going home; and, that we have to be in school uniform; and finally, that they would have to bring along three Band-Aid strips each. Without asking questions they agreed.

Unlike the Cubao movie houses, the Quad had johns inside each of their cinemas so there would be no excuse to go out during a movie for a piss and each movie house had a small snack bar at the foyer. But, I have observed that the ushers and guards would let patrons out to get snacks at the main lobby. The guards would mark patrons who had ask to go out with a stamp pad. And when the patrons come back with their snacks they would be let in again when they flash the stamp marks on their arms. I noted that the marks were all the same. And that was the flaw.

A week later we were back, we got our tickets; drenched our hair with tap water and combed it back; then I placed a Band-Aid strip on different places on each of our faces: one had a Band-Aid strip just above his right eyebrow; one had a Band-Aid strip across his nose; one had a Band-Aid strip on his left cheek; while I placed a Band-Aid strip across my chin. We practically looked alike if not for the Band-Aid strips on our faces. We went in and on an agreed time we would ask leave to go out to get a snack; then we’d switch the position of the Band-Aid strips on our faces and switch cinemas.

Schemes & Scams: connecting the dots

Along Aurora Boulevard in Cubao there are three movie houses-- the Diamond, the Remar and the Coronet, they are a bit rundown now and only show double features of second run movies. But in the early 70s, they were relatively new (-- they were built in the late 60s) and offered stiff competition to the New Frontier movie house-- which had the longest escalator and with a seating capacity of maybe a thousand people; it was the premiere cinema then and it was huge. But, we preferred going to the Diamond, Remar and Coronet because it was nearer to the jeepney and bus lines. These movie houses had box offices on the ground floor so you had to take an escalator to go into the movie house. Nowadays seats are priced the same, but back then you have to pay extra to watch the movie on the upper levels. But, we only go to the orchestra; it was the cheapest.

Because of the way these movie houses were configured, they ordinarily let in their patrons this way: after buying a ticket at the box office, the patron would then step up to the escalator, there the patron was met by an usher who took his ticket, tore it up; and, depending on the kind of ticket a patron had, would either drop the torn ticket in a box, if he was an orchestra patron; or give back half of it, if he was an upper levels patron. The upper levels patrons would then show his half of the ticket to another usher at the second floor; a balcony patron’s ticket would be taken and dropped in yet another box while the loge patron would be let in where he would have to find an usher inside the cinema, hand over his half of the ticket and be led to his seat. I observed that one of the three cinemas did it a little differently, instead of an usher a security guard was stationed at the foot of the escalator who merely check the tickets; patrons would then go up the escalator and walk up to an usher stationed at the only entrance to the orchestra or to another usher stationed at a pathway that led to the upper levels. It is only then that upper levels patrons handed over their ticket. At the second level, a snack store was on one side and at the corner were adjoining powder rooms for men and ladies.

In my young mind, this offered an interesting opportunity that could be exploited. Inside my head were the beginnings of a systematic mental codification of cartoons, comic books, the funny pages on Sunday papers, stories I’ve read, things I’ve pick up here and there and other trivial things I see everyday that are re-processed in the context of new things giving me a particularly organized way of cognitively perceiving what’s going on and to respond to complex situations or set of stimuli. I was fascinated with the predictability of how people get things done given a set of tasks to do; there was always an oversight; a loophole; a flaw. There was always a scheme cooking up in my head.

The next time we went to see a movie, I decided to test ran a scheme. I bought the usual Orchestra tickets for my brothers but I got a Balcony ticket for myself; we went up the escalator as usual, but upon reaching the second level, I told my brothers to go ahead and wait for me just beyond the doors. I went to the men’s room and after a minute, I walked out and slammed the door so the usher would see me coming out. I walked out to him and without stopping I pushed open the door to the movie house. I was betting that he would take it that I was already in and only walked out to take a piss break. I got nothing to loose, if he didn't let me in I would show him the Balcony ticket and I could still see the movie. But, it worked.

Later I would invite four of my classmates to see a movie in the same cinema, I bragged that I could get them in for half the price of the tickets, but they would have to follow what I say. They were a bit skeptical but they agreed. I got all their money and bought one balcony ticket. I got in first and went straight to the john. I got into the corner cubicle and opened a window; clipped the balcony ticket unto a Bic ball pen (-- the one with a yellow ocher body and a blue cap with an overhang, remember?) and threw it out of the window unto a classmate standing on the street at the side of the movie house. We all got in without incident.

After the movie, I sold the balcony ticket at a discount to a man on a queue to the box office. The man was more than happy to oblige. I walked off with enough money for two more movies!