I toast the memory of the hermaphrodite. “To the love of your life, El Professor—”
Andres nods, finishing his brandy. “To love, period—” he adds, grimly.
When I’m not at the bar, I stay in all day, sleeping. I love to sleep. I could sleep for ten, twelve hours at a time. I come alive at twilight, refreshed by my sleep and the cooling effects of the oncoming darkness, the setting sun. I’m energized and electric, a vampire ready for action.
“Night time / is the right / time,” as the old song goes, if I’m not with some stranger whose name I have to strain to remember. It’s a surprise, waking up like I do, trying to make out the form asleep beside me. Frantically assembling little details in my mind, so I can remember something, anything. So I can say the right thing, collect my money, and say goodbye. Sometimes it’s pleasant—waking up like I do, in fancy hotel rooms with clean sheets and the air conditioner always on. What I like best is waking up alone in bachelor apartments—the kind rich guys rent in Makati—surrounded by invisible servants, elaborate stereo systems, bottles of imported cologne and aftershave arranged in gleaming bathrooms Andres would die for, my money waiting for me in an envelope discreetly left on a table near the front door. My steady clients, my one-night stands. Some more thoughtful than others, surprising me with an extra cash bonus, or a chain bracelet with my name engraved in gold. Sometimes I’ll steal from them, just to make a point. A bottle of cologne, a Rolex left carelessly next to the bathroom sink. It keeps that element of danger alive in their luxurious rooms. I never keep what’s given to me as a gift; I like to let them know how little their trinkets are really worth, what kind of dope I bought with their money. It’s a warning, my philosophy of life—keeping things slightly off-balance. It’s how I survive.
CocoRico: Andres takes care of introductions at the bar. “You must meet Joey,” he’ll tell some foreigner, calling me over during a break. “Our famous DJ, he’ll keep you dancing.” Andres might wink if he’s drunk enough, before turning away and letting things happen. He’s not a bad boss. I’m paid in cash every night for playing my music. I can play anything I want, as long as the crowd keeps dancing and buying drinks. Andres wants nothing else from me. Everything on the side is mine to keep, as long as I’m discreet, as long as the crowd keeps dancing.
I go home to sleep on the floor of Uncle’s shack in Tondo, his square box of odds and ends with its tin roof and plywood walls. The toilet’s a hole in the ground Uncle dug outside, with a lean-to roof and a makeshift door. Andres would faint at the sight and smell of it, but it suits me fine.
It’s a cozy shelter from the rain, a step above a squatter’s hut. I’d never tell Uncle that, of course. He’d slit my throat. I could never insult the house he built with his own hands, it’s where I go when I need to get away. It’s where I grew up—Uncle’s orphanage for wayward boys. I sleep right next to chickens, pigs, goats, and dogs.
Hey, I’m just kidding. Uncle has one mongrel, that’s all. An ancient rice hound, probably older than Uncle, with yellow-brown teeth and mangy fur. Ugly as sin. Uncle named the dog Taruk.
One time, when I was around thirteen years old, me and Boy-Boy got drunk and mean on tuba. Prodding the dog’s scrawny butt with the tips of our shoes, we made it growl by pretending we were going to kick it. The dog was tied up; we kept lunging at it and laughing. Actually, I wouldn’t have minded kicking it for real. I’d been tempted, many times. That beast was so mean and ugly, there was no love lost between us. I knew better than to hurt him; that dog is part of Uncle. Boy-Boy and I were just teasing.
Uncle walked in and surprised us. “Don’t you bastards have anything better to do? If you’d think with your brains rather than your pricks—GET AWAY FROM THAT ANIMAL! If you touch a hair on his head—”
“That’s the ugliest dog in Manila,” Boy-Boy snickered, slurring his words. “I’m not even sure it’s a dog. Are you sure it’s a dog, Joey? See, Uncle—Joey isn’t sure!” he hiccupped. “You should have that poor dog put to sleep. That’s an ugly, sorry animal—”
Oh shit, I thought. Boy-Boy was asking for it. His face was red and splotchy, his eyes cloudy with alcohol. Like a Chinaman, Boy-Boy couldn’t hold his liquor too well. He was a dummy besides, and never knew when to shut up. I could see it all coming, as the old man flew at him.
Uncle slapped Boy-Boy, hard. Boy-Boy’s head snapped sideways with the force of the blow. Uncle lifted his arm to hit him again. Boy-Boy said nothing, just stared at him—one cheek redder than the other, his eyes watering with pain. “Uncle,” I said softly. I could see Boy-Boy trying to suppress his own anger, fighting back tears. “He didn’t mean it,” I said.
“You boys are dumb shits. Think you know everything. Bigshots! You don’t even know how to drink,” the old man sneered, relaxing enough to let his arm drop. He stroked the back of the dog’s neck. “Taruk is my dog, you understand? My dog. And this is my house. If you don’t like it, get out!”
In silence, we finished the rest of our tuba, puffing nervously on harsh, local-made Marlboros. The animal crouched near Uncle’s feet, eyeing us with suspicion and growling from time to time. It’s hard to challenge Uncle and win. There’s always that moment when Uncle loses his sense of humor. His face sets and hardens. He refuses to budge; it’s no use arguing with him. He’d just as soon kill you.
As for chickens, goats, and pigs—you can forget it. It’s just another one of my jokes. Uncle’s no peasant—he’s a city man, born and bred in Manila. Busy with schemes and hustles, his various transactions with the Chinese and the cops, he functions in an opium haze, most days. But his mind stays sharp and cunning, no matter what. Don’t make a mistake and underestimate the old man. You’ll be in for an unpleasant surprise.
There are those who resent Uncle, who call him a pusher and common pimp. There’s nothing common about him. When you think about it, the old man’s been my savior. Raised me like his own son, along with Boy-Boy, Chito, and Carding. We’ve outgrown him, but we come back to visit whenever we can. Everyone else has a place of their own. To tell you the truth, I’m the only one who hasn’t really left.
Soon.
I’ll have it all worked out, soon. I know I will. I have to. I’ll hit the jackpot with one of these guys. Leave town. I’ll get lucky like Junior. Some foreign woman will sponsor me and take me to the States. Maybe she’ll marry me. I’ll get my green card. Wouldn’t that be something?
I love it when everything falls into place. Don’t you?
Soon.
Everything will change, soon.
Jungle Chronicle
The most inaccessible lairs of these wild mountains are inhabited by a great number of those small Negroes called “Negritoes” whom we spoke about earlier; sometimes they are chased out of their homes, taken prisoners, the youngest among them being chosen to be raised by inhabitants in their homes until the age of reason, in the meantime being used for diverse chores, after which they are set free. One of our friends owned one which he gave to us; he was called Panchote, was not lacking in intelligence and was most of all very mischievous.
—Jean Mallat, The Philippines (1846)
His Mother, the Whore
THERE ARE THOSE WHO say my poor whore of a mother sold me to Uncle for fifty pesos. Zenaida: desperate, half-crazy, unable to feed me and herself those last few months. They say she was still young and still beautiful, they shake their heads solemnly at the terrible waste. I’m not sure they’re telling the whole truth; maybe she was more ordinary than they remember, an ordinary whore with a ravaged face. They describe how she jumped in the river, a watery grave black with human shit, every dead thing and piece of garbage imaginable: the rotting carcasses of wild dogs and cats, enormous rats with heads blown off by bullets, broken tree branches and the tangled bouquets of wilted banana leaves, palm fronds, and kalachuchi flowers. When they pulled out my mother’s blue corpse, they say her long black hair was entwined in this mass of slimy foliage and decay, a gruesome veil of refuse dragging o
n the mud beneath her.
This is what they tell me, this is what I’ve chosen to believe. They say Zenaida’s ghost still haunts that section of the river, a mournful apparition in the moonlight. Boy-Boy claims he’s seen her more than once, but I don’t believe him.
Zenaida. She was a legendary whore, my mother. Disgraced and abandoned, just like in the movies. Driven to take her own life. My father was not the first man to promise her anything, that much I know for sure. Uncle identified her bloated body, arranged for her pauper’s burial. That’s why I owe him. No one knew her last name, what province she came from, if she had any other family besides me. They say I was five or six years old, that I was mute for months after her death. I was so dark, small, and thin, they called me “Gagamba”—little spider. I went home with Uncle and never shed a tear. I don’t want to remember anything else about my sad whore of a mother. I’ve heard enough. That’s why I never ask Uncle. That’s why he never brings her up.
He started me doing odd jobs on the street. I sold cigarettes, boiled peanuts, Chiclets, sampaguita garlands, The Metro Manila Daily, and movie magazines. Legitimate little things that never got me anywhere; I had to compete with all the other kids on the street, running up to cars and buses, pestering tourists, hawking our wares. I hated every minute of it. Then there were times when Uncle pretended he was crippled and blind. I would lead him up to the air-conditioned Toyotas and Mercedes-Benzes where rich people and foreigners sat with their doors locked, trying hard to ignore my outstretched hand at their windows. But Uncle had no patience and little time for begging. “That’s for lazy people,” he would say.
When I was seven, Uncle taught me to steal. I was wiry, fast, and fearless. A natural talent, according to him. More daring than Boy-Boy, who was two years older than me and cried all the time. I was one of the best pickpockets in Manila; just ask anyone around here. Ask Uncle. I enjoyed stealing, the heady rush that hit me as I disappeared into a crowd, stolen goods burning in my hand. A ring, a watch, a chain around someone’s neck. The money sometimes still warm from someone’s back pocket. A heady rush of triumph like dope, a pleasure so private, delicious, and powerful. I never once got caught—that’s how good I was.
I would do anything for Uncle in those days. We all would—grateful orphans who earned our keep, eager to please and turn our loot over to Uncle. I was the youngest and the smartest, Uncle’s favorite.
What they say about me and Uncle isn’t true. Just ask Boy and Carding, or Chito at that dress shop in Mabini where he works. The only thing about Uncle is he made things possible. He taught me everything I know.
One of Uncle’s whores fucked me when I was ten. I don’t remember her name—only her sour smell. A smell that clung to me for days. She looked weary, her movements slow and lumbering, like an ox’s. Her broad, ox-face and dark, bloody lipstick repulsed me. I turned my face away, wouldn’t let her kiss me.
Sitting at the only table in the middle of the one-room shack, Uncle watched us fuck on the mat a few feet away from him. He was smoking opium, leaning down to scratch behind Taruk’s ear while the dog slept. I remember feeling ugly because all my hair had been shaved off by Uncle after he discovered lice. But the ox-woman didn’t seem to care, or notice.
Uncle watched us hump and writhe as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, his expression benign and serene. The woman never spoke, grunting occasionally and shifting my body on top of her with rough hands. With my bald head, I felt ludicrous and smaller than ever, poised on top of the ox-woman’s hefty body. I rode her as I would a horse or carabao. In the dusty light, her flesh quivered, covered by a film of sweat. I shut my eyes, imagining her giving in to my earnest, awkward thrusts. She may or may not have actually moaned, but I heard what I wanted to hear. Then I forgot about my bald head, my small, skinny body. The pleasure I suddenly felt was extreme and overwhelming. I came quickly. To my surprise, I was eager to fuck the ox-woman again.
Maybe she did it as a favor to Uncle; maybe he had to pay her. I don’t know. After the second time fucking her, I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, she was long gone. Uncle and his dog were nowhere to be found. All that was left was her smell.
I’ve had my share of women since, but they don’t really interest me. Don’t ask me why. To tell you the truth, not much interests me at all. I learned early that men go for me; I like that about them. I don’t have to work at being sexy. Ha-ha. Maybe it’s my Negro blood.
Uncle says I prefer men because I know them best. I take advantage of the situation, run men around, make them give me money. For me, men are easy. I’m open to anything, though. If I met a rich woman, for example…If I met a rich woman, a rich woman who was willing to support me…TO LOVE ME NO MATTER WHAT…You’d better believe I’d get it up for her too…Be her pretty baby. I know how to do that. Make them love me even when I break their hearts, steal, or spend all their money. Sometimes, you’d be amazed.
Maybe I’m lying. Uncle says I was born a liar, that I can’t help myself. Lies pour out of my mouth even when I’m sleeping. The truth is, maybe I really like men but just won’t admit it. Shit. What’s the difference? At least Uncle’s proud of me. I know it, though he’d never say so.
Hell. Sometimes I feel the days go by too fast. I get worried. I won’t be young forever, and then what? I don’t want to end up a shower dancer like Boy-Boy, working nights in some shithole rubbing soap all over my body just so a bunch of fat old men can drool, turning twenty tricks after that, giving away my hard-earned profits to the goddam cops or clubowner! I’m nobody’s slave. Look at Carding—already finished at nineteen. He’ll do anything for money. They’ve got him by the balls.
Much as I respect him, I don’t want to end up like Uncle. With all his brains and experience, he’s still small-time. Just an old junkie who rules Tondo, with nothing to show for it. It’s not enough for me. Not anymore.
I know I deserve something better. Right now I’m biding my time. I take good care of myself, I’m in control, my life is simple. I do okay spinning my records and turning a few tricks. I’m dressed, fed, and high. I can take it or leave it, break hearts wherever I go. Life can be so sweet, sometimes.
Floating Bodies
MAKUPIT, PANGASINAN—THREE BODIES, one headless, were found in Makupit River earlier this week, police said yesterday.
Major Anacleto Rivera, Makupit’s police station commander, was visited by General Nicasio Ledesma recently as part of the continuing investigation by the Chief of Staff of turmoil and insurgency in the troubled area. Only last month the body of a woman was found washed up on the banks of the same river. The woman had been beheaded, and her hands and feet were also missing. She has never been identified.
In this week’s gruesome discovery, the bloated bodies belonged to two women and a teenage boy. Major Rivera said that the body of the beheaded teenager had been identified as Boy Maytubig, who has been missing since Holy Week. The other two bodies have still not been reclaimed. Rivera also said the victims could have been dumped somewhere else and carried down the Makupit River.
There were unverified reports of two more bodies in advanced states of decomposition found on the riverbank of the neighboring town of Lazaro.
According to a government survey, the frequency of headless and dismembered cadavers washing up on shore has reduced demand for fish in Makupit, which was one of the centers of a thriving fishing industry until these recent alarming discoveries. “It is unfortunate,” Major Rivera said to reporters at a press conference hastily called on the steps of Makupit’s Church of the Sacred Heart. “Housewives refuse to buy fish caught in Makupit River. We trust that this will prove a temporary situation.”
—The Metro Manila Daily
Serenade
ROMEO ROSALES WAS SULKING. Lately, Trinidad Gamboa couldn’t seem to pull him out of his dark moods or make him laugh. She had known Romeo for almost a year, and was the only woman besides his widowed mother Gregoria who knew his real name: Orlando. Trinidad G
amboa had fallen madly in love the moment she laid eyes on Romeo from the window of her cashier’s booth at the Odeon Theater.
They were sitting in a shabby Chinese restaurant on Ongpin Street, at 2:35 on a stifling Saturday afternoon. Before Romeo had met the determined cashier at the Odeon Theater, he had gone to the movies as often as his modest salary allowed, spending all the tips he made as a waiter at the exclusive Monte Vista Country Club. He would see anything: comedies, Tagalog melodramas, westerns, musicals, and religious extravaganzas like The Ten Commandments, which played to packed houses in Manila for what seemed an eternity. Audiences never failed to clap and cheer each time the Red Sea parted on the giant screen.
Whenever something miraculous occurred in one of his Hollywood epics, Romeo would turn to Trinidad in awe and say, “Did you see that?”
A solemn look on her face, Trinidad would nod as if she were privy to some secret information. “Camera tricks,” she would inform him, smugly. Romeo was often dumbfounded by how much Trinidad would take for granted; she had answers for everything. It was part of her power over the husky young man.
Today, nothing seemed to be working. Romeo sat in a slump, staring at his plate of dim sum, occasionally taking wistful sips of his bottle of TruCola. “Let’s go see the new Lolita Luna movie, A Candle Is Burning,” Trinidad said, eagerly. “I’ll treat—I just got paid.” She had been taught by strict parents to insist that the man pay the bills; to do otherwise meant a woman was easy and desperate. “Having a man pay your way is the only advantage of being born a woman,” Trinidad’s mother had preached like a broken record, one of the main reasons Trinidad, on the pretext of enrolling at the university, had moved to Manila.
“Didn’t you hear me?” Trinidad’s tone was indignant. It was noisy and hot in the fast-food restaurant, and flies were buzzing around their table. She fanned herself with a stained and battered cardboard menu, swatting at the energetic flies at every opportunity.
Dogeaters Page 5
