Remon

I ran as fast as my spindly legs could take me. When I got to the public health clinic, I was not allowed in and so I ran around the back and peered into a window. It was Remon alright. He was splattered on a table like a broken rag doll, writhing in pain as three people were pulling on his arm. They were hurting him. Something didn’t look right, too-- Remon’s elbow is on the wrong side. I shouted something. I don’t remember exactly what. I don’t remember much after that. But I remember running one more time, this time to our apartment-- maybe more than six city blocks away from where we were. My lungs have shut down by the time I reached it. Out of breath and blue in the face, I tried to tell mother what had happened. But, no words came out. I was gasping but was not taking in enough air to fill my lungs. Laughably, mother first thought it was me who was in trouble-- like I was having a heart attack or something. It was just my asthma acting up again. Later that night, I still had a hard time breathing; I slept sitting on a chair with my head on the dining table.

I later learned that Remon was playing basketball, as he usually did after school, when it happened. Somebody deliberately went under him as he jumped to make him fall in a bad way. Unlike me, Remon was quite good at playing basketball and maybe for some it was enough reason to hurt him. An elder brother was good at it, too. I guess the talent and ability to play good basketball skipped passed me. If there is anything I was good at it's catching cold along with other air borne viruses.

I was actually surprised Remon was hurt in the first place. I genuinely believed then that Remon was impervious to pain. He was built like a tank with a body mass twice as mine. When we are together, people insisted I was the younger sibling. I was actually a year older. I was maybe eight then-- but I looked like a scrawny six-year old.

I remember the times I was asked to serve, as an altar boy, in early morning Church services. Our parish priest, the Rev. Fr. Kutcher, SVD, required that an older brother should accompany me. I brought Remon along-- who, by the way, never complained even if it meant waking up at the break of dawn. After each Mass, we shared snacks-- which the shops fronting the Church: the Frisco Bakery or the Mandolin Variety Store, provided for free. Of course, I was entitled only to one snack-- a bottle of Choco Vim and a piece of cake or pastry, from either of the two shops. But, I was so sure then that nobody would mind if I get a set of snack from each of the two shops. After all, I have “Kuya” Remon with me. And, he definitely deserved a snack, too.

We took different paths as we grew older-- maybe even grew apart, but I know that even as we seldom shared snacks as we did when we were young boys a long, long time ago, Remon, had stood up and spoken for me in times when everyone, everything was against me. Remon stood tall as my “Kuya” whenever I needed one. Yes, even if it’s not a Sunday.

Salamat Remon.

Sinistrality to Dextrality

I started out in life as a lefty. Which was okay until I encountered difficulties in grade school where right-handed habits were emphasized and even required. Learning to write was a struggle but having to write on an asymmetrically designed chair for right-handed people made it doubly hard. A chair with one arm on its right for use as a writing surface probably looked like any other furniture to right-handed people. To a lefty, it's a medieval torture device. For a lefty to effectively use the chair's writing surface he must position his body at an angle of 90 degrees to the chair's arm. Which is only possible if he sits at the edge of the seat and face right-- away from the blackboard, so he could position his writing arm-- his left arm, perpendicularly to the writing surface of the chair. It's excruciatingly uncomfortable.

And so I became right handed.

Well, not exactly. I continued to use my left hand to write when I'm writing on a table or a desk. I also continued to use my left hand for doing things that I'm already proficient at-- like shooting down "santol" and "Kaimito" with my trusty "tirador", "fishing" tadpoles from the sewer canal (-- with a mashed up bougainvillea flower for bait and a bent safety pin for a hook), shooting "katigbe" with my rubber band powered shooter, playing "teks" or "jokaleleng" or "siyato". But, then something happened. I became equally adept at using both hands. I wasn't conscious of it at first until a cousin-- who was, by the way, also left-handed, called my attention to it (We re-build our tree house every school break and he noticed that I no longer needed help to hammer down nails on the right side of the tree trunk). Apparently, I was unconsciously using one hand or the other for different tasks (I was confused even as a kid). But, after having been made aware of it I consciously shifted from one to the other. Before long I wasn't just a cross-dominant or mixed-handed-- a motor skill manifestation where one favors one hand for some tasks and the other hand for others (--writing with the left hand but shooting a basketball with the right). I wasn't left-handed or right-handed anymore. I was both.

For a time, this ambidexterity made me a curiosity in grade school. Because I have a natural talent for drawing I was usually asked to draw up a welcome sign on a big blackboard every time a guest-- a Bishop, the Cardinal or the Arch Bishop, would come visiting. Schoolmates would usually gather behind me to watch as I draw with either hand-- usually shifting from left to right and vice-versa at the corners of the board, and sometimes simultaneously using both hands to draw an arch or a crude Fleur-de-lis. For the finale, I would show off my synchronized writing: using both hands to write my name-- my first name with my left hand and my surname with my right hand, at the same time.

Later in life, I would use this motor skill to do simple sleight of hand tricks to impress the girls, to cheat at cards for money and to pick pockets (usually to "borrow" car keys and IDs-- a story I'm reserving for later).

As I grew older and maybe because I was constantly being subjected to right-favoring devices and tools, I used my right hand more and more and my left hand less and less eventually becoming a full time right-hander.

It's a right-handed world after all.

Prince and the Five Centavo Duck

My first pet was a dog. Well, it wasn't really mine. It was my aunt's (-- the youngest of my maternal aunts who, at that time, still lived with my grandmother); given to her as a gift by a suitor (they eventually married).

The dog-- still a puppy then, was called Prince. I'm not sure who gave it its name. Everybody just called him Prince. As Prince grew he warmed up to me. Well, at least, whenever I was at my grandmother's house. Prince was always glad to see me. I guess that would mean that, technically, Prince was my dog.

Prince was a tricolor of gray and tawny brown on white, with pricked ears and a tightly curled bushy tail. A cowlick on his wrinkled forehead and almond eyes gave him a perpetual stern Clint Eastwood squint. As long as he was tall, Prince had a square stance; he had a distinctive horse-like gait that was graceful and elegant. Prince skimmed the ground in a double-suspension gallop when running flat out at top speed. Prince did not bark like a regular dog; but I was sure he was not a mute (if indeed such a condition existed in dogs) for he could mimic the beginnings of a rooster’s crow and even manage a long drawn-out eerie howl (or is it a yodel?); he could growl, too; but mostly his vocalizations were a curious mix of yelps and grunts; seemingly desperate attempts at human speech which marked his failings as a dog. He had the aloof disposition of a cat; cleaned himself like a cat and like a cat was not dependent on the opinion of the people that fed him.

Prince was, I should say, his own dog and merely tolerated the displeasure of being kept as a pet. Still, Prince humored me by running to my side— and no other, when I whistle for him; pretending he was my pet.

For the record, my first true pet was a duck. During one of my vacations in Frisco, Dada, my beloved grandmother brought home a bibi-- a duckling, in a small brown bag, bought for five centavos at the market. It was given to me. Thus, it was mine. And that made it, I guess, my pet. But, nobody looked at it as a pet. It was more of a novelty, a cheap toy that is not expected to last for more than a week much less to grow into a duck. But, it did. Well, it almost didn’t. It had a few close calls: stepped on a number of times and a fall from the dining table gave it a broken wing, a twisted leg and a slashed webbing on its left foot. Life marks all who pass through it, even if you’re a duck. And maybe because its bones did not heal right, it walked in a double waddle with its head zigzagging sideways.

It wasn't long before it had gotten too big to be inside the house. It was making a mess and I had to bring it out. I let it loose where the kitchen sink drains out. Immediately, it dipped its beak into the water and did what appeared as a gargle. It was a happy duck. From a distance, Prince stood and stared.

I whistled. I saw Prince's ears pricked up but he wasn't looking at me. He had his eyes on the duck. I glanced down at the duck and it too was looking straight at Prince. For a moment they held each other's stare. Then the duck flapped its wings and made a show of its double waddle walk. Exaggerating each movement. Prince looked for a moment then turned and ran away. It was the first time Prince ignored my whistle.
Soon the duck was lording it over a patch of the yard it had marked as its territory. It would chase away intruders who had crossed the invisible border of its domain— an area around the main staircase of the house; and if by chance it were given the slip, it would pinch one of the intruder’s slipper or shoe, using its beak, and secrete it away. Prince tolerated these and kept distance from the duck's domain.
The mongrel without a bark and the odd duck without a name, two that were not whole, were free spirits that ambled along a path marked out by fate and at the crossroads where halves become one, they ultimately converged; it was inevitable. The duck disappeared after that, vanished.

Prince soon argued with a cousin. And for that indiscretion was hunted, cornered then whacked on the head with a steel pipe by dog-eating hooligans on orders of an uncle.

I never had a pet dog again after that. Or, a duck for that matter.

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

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.

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.

Bolet

Bolet walked with a swagger and projected an image of a tough guy. He talked street trash and punctuated his utterances with a Putang Ina and started or ended all his statements with Pare; he was street smart and he walked the talk. He lived on a side street perpendicular to the avenue fronting the university. The apartment they lived in accommodated boarders and bed spacers; it was crowded and stunk like the open sewage canal out front.

Bolet was actually a corruption of Bullitt, a character portrayed by Steve McQueen in a 1968 movie, a rebellious and borderline-insubordinate police officer who did things his way despite interference from his superiors (-- a real-life San Francisco homicide investigator named David Toschi-- the man who dogged the serial killer who called himself The Zodiac, is said to be the model for McQueen's character, including the use of a specially designed quick-draw shoulder holster for his weapon. The image projected by McQueen was later copied in Dirty Harry and The French Connection; and recently in Max Payne). The Bullitt character was the personification of cool; a beatnik reeking with machismo. In the movie, McQueen drove a Green ‘68 Ford Mustang GT 390 Fastback (-- the image of a police officer who drives a cool car, was later copied in Starsky and Hutch and Miami Vice; and recently in CSI: Miami). The movie also featured an American muscle car chase-- seven glorious minutes of it, McQueen’s turbo charged pony car going head to head against the villain’s 440 Dodge Magnum Charger. The chase was shot at normal film speed; heightened only by top-notch cinematography, sharp editing and multiple camera angles; there were no cranked-up footages, no "superhero" stunts, no impossible CGI tricks -- just adrenaline-pumping speed (-- replicated in The Seven-Ups and later in Ronin).

Bolet lived with his mother and two siblings, curiously named Baby Boy and Baby Girl as if their mother didn’t have the time to give them proper names and instead described them in their birth certificates. I never saw their father; he seemed to have abandoned them, I’m not sure; but I counted at least two policemen who were banging their mother; one during lunch breaks or early afternoons; the other comes home with her after work then leave after dinner. She worked at the nearby Manila City Hall and she would come home at odd hours to get banged by either of the policemen.

Bolet ran card games at their apartment:-- 41, 44, Lucky Nine, Red Cow, Russian Poker and Five Stud Poker; there was always a game going on among the boarders. It was mostly a small stakes game, sometimes a mark comes in and they hustle him and soon he was separated from his money. I soon learned the art of marking cards, card counting and using “buntis na baraha”-- a tricked out deck of cards that we get in Quiapo.

Bolet, I think, was a borderline-sociopath. On occasions we drank Beer-Gin-Coke at a nearby carinderia or on the pavement and he would beg leave to go for a while; he’d return after five minutes, take off his shirt and throw a wristwatch or a wallet on the table. One time when we were drinking on the pavement, his mother’s lover-- the second shift banger, joined us; he couldn’t sit comfortably on the sidewalk because his .38 Cal. service pistol rammed against his paunch. He unzipped his pants then he took out his gun and sat on it. In a while, he stood up to take a leak. He left his pistol lying on the ground; I grabbed it and tucked it behind me; I took it as a practical joke and waited for him to look for it; he didn’t. He totally forgot all about it. After a while, he stood up and left. Somebody remarked that he'll probably bang Bolet's mother for a while then come back; we all laughed; but after an hour, he hadn't come back. Somebody said that he must have dozed off. We all laughed at the thought. I eventually gave the pistol to Bolet. He tucked it on his waist and begged leave to go; he returned with two wristwatches and three wallets. He wasn't done yet, he walked up to an oncoming jeepney; pointed the pistol to the driver and demanded money.

Bolet went on to be a policeman. He was on his way to live up to his name: a cool Steve McQueen with a fast gun and an even faster car. Later I found out that Bolet hijacked a truck and was jailed for it.

Bolet was killed in prison.

Outlaws only do wrong when they feel it's right;
Criminals only feel right when they're doing wrong.
-- Smiling Jack, Stone Junction

Somniloquy of a Somnambulist

When I got back from Frisco, My younger brother, Remon, and I shared a bedroom with our eldest sister; a cabinet was moved in the middle of the room to divide it in half. Every night we’d lug up the sitting and back portions of the sofa and lay them side by side on the floor. We’d string up a mosquito net over the sofa panels and with learned skill pull in the ends of the mosquito net under the panels. With the window blocked by a cabinet, a mosquito net and with the plastic upholstery on our backs, it was as hot as an oven during the summer. On really hot nights I would wake up in the middle of the night with a parched throat and in a crouching position with half a body out of the mosquito net.

Later we got a bigger sofa; the kind that curves around the corner; it breaks up in three pieces. The new sofa was too heavy for us to carry upstairs and it wouldn't fit through the stairway; so we transferred and slept on the sofa in the living room; he got one end and I the other. Screens had been put up on the windows so we need not worry about mosquitoes anymore; the open windows brought in fresh air, too. One moonlit night, I woke up and saw Remon sitting up. I pretended to be asleep and watched him; he was talking to himself. After a while, he'd lie down again and go back to sleep without missing a beat. One time, I woke up with a jolt; I was face to face with him; he was squatting at my end of the sofa and was mumbling something to me; I couldn't understand a thing though. Then one night I saw him rose up and walk to the kitchen sink. He stood before the sink with his head against the cabinet door and had a conversation with the wood paneling. After a while he'd walked back, lie down and go back to sleep again.

In 1987, in another part of the planet, 23-year old Kenneth Parks drove his car 15 miles to his in-laws' house. There, he attacked his father-in-law, leaving him unconscious; stabbed his mother-in-law, killing her. He then went to the police station saying, "I think I have killed some people." He was bloody, and his hand was badly injured. Parks was unable to recount anything about the murder, and he had no motives for committing them. He was unemployed and stressed. He went to sleep that night thinking about how he was going to visit his in-laws the next day with his wife to tell them about his financial and gambling problems. Criminal charges were filed and after trial he was found not guilty of murder or attempted murder. There was an appeal, but his acquittal was upheld. He did not serve time in a mental ward because non-insane automatism is not legally viewed as a mental disorder.

We moved to another house and finally had decent beds of our own. He slept in the big room upstairs with our other younger brothers while I shared a room on the mezzanine with an older brother. Remon, I believed, stopped altogether from ever walking and talking in his sleep again.