The Old Man's House

The Old man's house is just across the street from our apartment in Brooklyn Street in Cubao, Quezon City. It stood on the middle of the property; on the left, a slippery concrete walkway, bordered with green shrubs; on the right, a dirt path; a Volkswagen "Beetle" is usually parked there. The house sat on a wood lattice painted kitschy green. The main stairway was on the right side of the house; it led to a small veranda; I remember a white cockatoo used to welcome visitors there; but the route I usually take is through the left side of the house; through the laundry area and up a steep flight of wooden steps at the back; a tinderbox of a shed was at the foot of the staircase. The steeple of the Immaculate Conception Parish Church-- now a Cathedral, could be seen at the top of the stairs.

At the top of the stairs, a toxic olfactory mix of liniment and stale cooking oil assaulted the nostrils-- it was like being in a hospital and in a greasy Chinese restaurant at the same time. It was still early in the morning, the usual time I ran this errand, and the house had an inexplicable stillness that approximates that of a mausoleum just before a storm on a Monday after All Saints Day. On the right is a toilet and bath with primitive plumbing; it smelt of Clorox with a hint of urine and semen.

On the left is the bedroom of an uncle with the slick hair of Fred Astaire, the beer belly of Homer Simpson and a nervous body tick that mimicked the exaggerated slapstick body movements of Charlie Chaplin and Chiquito. Further on is another uncle's bedroom, a standoffish man with an air of arrogance and indifference about him. Both bedrooms had Army Hospital issue single iron beds with Alcatraz issue mattress and blankets. A Tatung electric fan sits on a corner; light green Venetian blinds keep out the morning sun; a small bottle of Three Flowers pomade, a stick of Tancho Tique, an Ace comb, a prison grade 4x6 mirror and a dog-eared back pocket wallet decorated the exposed cross beams on the wall.

On the right is the kitchen; a Formica topped table on the middle. A wall separated the kitchen from a makeshift office. Beyond was an equally deary sala and on the left of it was another bedroom where, I suppose, the Old Man is held captive.

The lady of the house was a toothless hag with leathery lips; eternally dressed in a duster; her thinning white and gray hair subdued with an untidy knot above her thick neck. She toddled about in an ungainly swagger; shifting her body weight in a seemingly continuous struggle against gravitational forces; her stubby hands thrashing about as if looking for something to hold on to.

I went straight for what I have been told to get; it's right there on the table-- the Flip-top pack of Empress cigarettes. It's next to a box of Jar matchsticks. I clambered up a chair and reached out for the pack; opened it and slipped out a stick. I ran out as fast as I can before the male domination games and shouting matches begin.