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.
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