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.
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