Dogeaters

by Jessica Hagedorn

  An even younger caddy, still a child, threatens her with a set of Ben Hogans. He picks up the heavy golf bag with ease, swinging it up high and aiming it at Girlie’s head. “It’s my brother you want!” she cries. “Not me! Not me!” She is a coward and a traitor, she doesn’t want to die. In a final, pathetic attempt at saving herself, Girlie arches her back and thrusts her hips in the air, offering her body to the surly boys. They are not interested. It is the main thing Girlie will remember about the dream.

  Her Saturdays are spent idly, sitting on the terrace of the Monte Vista with a group of young men. She has not been able to reach her married lover by telephone, and Girlie Alacran is irritated.

  “Who’s that?” Tito Alvarez cranes his neck to get a better view of a woman running across the lawn. Boomboom Alacran screws up his nose in distaste and looks away. Joselito Sanchez smiles. “Manicurist. She works downstairs in the salon,” he says.

  “Achay.” Pepe Carreon dismisses her with a wave of his hand. “You can do better than that, can’t you?” he teases the actor. Boomboom Alacran giggles.

  “Oooh—who’s that?” Tito Alvarez whistles softly. He has just won the first round of golf with his friends, and he’s exuberant, itchy to get laid. Almost anyone will do. The movie actor, strokes his new black mustache, assessing the middle-aged foreigner in the short tennis outfit.

  “Kano, I’m sure,” Pepe says, not bothering to look.

  “Wow,” Tito murmurs in admiration, “nice boobs.” He hisses at the foreigner, then winks at her knowingly. The woman hesitates, embarrassed. She looks around nervously for someone she knows, but the only other people present are a table of little children with their yayas and the waiters hovering nearby. The matron walks hurriedly past Tito’s table, pretending not to notice him.

  “Watch it, pare. She’s the wife of the German ambassador,” Joselito warns him.

  “So what. I can tell she’s hot for me.” Tito grins.

  “You should shave off that dumb mustache,” Joselito says, “it doesn’t suit your image. I thought you wanted to start playing good guys in the movies—”

  “Women love it.” Tito turns to Girlie Alacran. “Doesn’t a little beard feel good…down there?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Girlie is unable to meet his eyes.

  “This guy is really something,” Joselito complains, indicating the smug actor to the rest of the table. “Remember that French model I was showing around Manila?” Pepe Carreon nods. The expression on Joselito’s face is a combination of admiration and disbelief. “I invite this guy along, one day—and you know what he says to her right after I introduce them? ‘HEY! YOU WANT TO FUCK ME TONIGHT?’ That’s it, man—no arte, no class, no style!”

  The men start snickering. “And what did she say?” Pepe Carreon asks.

  Joselito Sanchez cracks up. “She said: ‘The bed’s not big enough!’”

  “He’s got it all wrong,” Tito Alvarez insists, happy to be the center of attention. “She said: ‘NO THANK YOU, monsieur. The bed’s not big enough!’”

  “Ay! I’m hungry—” Girlie Alacran announces, yawning. Daw, she says to herself, unimpressed with Tito’s boasting. An image of her own wide mouth gapes open in her mind, the expression DAWWW stretched out to convey her unspoken contempt for what has just been said.

  Pepe Carreon snaps his fingers and a waiter appears. More drinks are ordered, a bowl of peanuts for Girlie. Pepe lights a cigarette. “The man confessed,” he says, suddenly. His eyebrows go up and down in Tito’s direction, to emphasize the significance of what he is saying. “Alam mo na, brod. The methodology of our Urban Warfare Unit—talagang effective!” Pepe looks pleased with himself.

  “What are you talking about?” Girlie asks, sitting up straight in her chair.

  She is ignored. Tito smirks, helping himself to Pepe’s pack of imported cigarettes. “I told you—it would all work out, di ba?”

  “What are you talking about?” Girlie repeats, louder. Tito smiles one of his seductive smiles. He slips a hand casually under the table, resting it on her thigh. “Shhh,” he says, in a mock whisper.

  Girlie turns to Pepe, who finally speaks. “Just a guy. Someone we’ve been after for a long time.” He is annoyed. He finds her presence an intrusion, as he does with all women. Barely able to keep up a civil front, Pepe avoids looking at Girlie. He wonders if Boomboom is responsible for inviting her along.

  The drinks and a bowl of peanuts are set on their table by a distraught waiter. He hands Tito a note from someone requesting his autograph. Tito gladly obliges, then waves the waiter away when he is finished. Girlie picks at the oversalted peanuts while the men gulp down their drinks.

  “Where’s Baby?” Tito asks Pepe, with a sly look. Pepe shrugs and looks bored, his standard reaction when any reference is made to his pregnant wife. “Home asleep—where else! I never knew a woman could spend so much time in bed—sleeping.”

  “You don’t know about women,” Tito Alvarez tells him, moving his hand further up Girlie’s thigh. “They need TLC, man…Alam mo ba ang TLC? Tender Loving Care! Every day of the week, like brushing your teeth. I guarantee the results!”

  “My cousin’s expecting, any day now—” Girlie mutters, pushing the actor’s hand away from her crotch as discreetly as possible. She isn’t sure why she doesn’t just get up and leave. The men wouldn’t even miss her.

  “I know that,” Tito snarls at her, “everyone knows that!” His flushed face betrays his anger, but he grins hastily, flashing gleaming white teeth. Girlie is disgusted by and afraid of him, but it is as if her body has grown heavy with fatigue and become part of the chair; she cannot move. She fights with herself to get up, to tear herself away.

  Boomboom giggles again. A large round version of his sister, he is a pink-faced mestizo with light eyes and thinning hair, his enormous paunch protruding under the tight T-shirt he wears over his Madras-plaid bermuda shorts. You are a big baby, Girlie wishes she could say to her brother. A man with soft, pudgy hands, Boomboom’s never worked a day in his life; he lives off a monthly allowance. Girlie gazes at her brother and wonders if she is any better. She quickly finishes her drink.

  She takes a deep breath and pushes herself out of her chair. “I have to make a phone call,” she says, to no one in particular. Without excusing herself, she walks away from the table. She almost starts running but stops herself, relaxing only when she has passed the sign by the guard post which reads:

  YOU ARE NOW ENTERING THE MONTE VISTA

  GOLF &COUNTRY CLUB

  MEMBERS & GUESTS ONLY

  PLEASE DEPOSIT ALL FIREARMS HERE

  The men watch with some curiosity as Girlie walks away, taking in the sway and curve of her generous hips, the angry click of her high heels against the tiled floor. “Your sister is sexy,” Tito Alvarez observes, winking at Boomboom this time. “Ever tried her?”

  Boomboom’s face remains bland and impassive. “Your sister’s pissed off,” Joselito Sanchez remarks. No one pays attention to him.

  Tito pours himself another beer. He has just finished his third shot of Jack Daniels. “What did I say? I didn’t mean to offend her—”

  “Women,” Pepe Carreon mutters. He is glad she is gone, and hopes she won’t return. The men sit in silence, the afternoon light soft and flat on the golf course before them. The children and their yayas have long gone.

  Severo Alacran, Pepe’s father-in-law, appears in the green distance, intent on a game with two Americans. In their torn and muddy Converse sneakers, the caddies lag behind respectfully, hauling cumbersome leather golf bags and oversized golf umbrellas on their bony backs. Severo Alacran waves absently as he passes the younger men sitting on the terrace. “Are you going to play another round?” he asks, not waiting for an answer. Pepe smiles automatically and waves back.

  Tito looks around for the waiter. “Ano ba, pare—the service stinks. You’d better tell your in-law.”

  “I’ll inform the Secret Squadron,” Pepe quips, but no one la
ughs.

  Silence hangs heavy over the deserted terrace, broken only by the low, rustling hum of cicadas. Tito wonders if Girlie will come back. She’s a little too touchy, but what the hell. He’ll apologize for his behavior, offer to buy her dinner. If he persists, he knows he can persuade her to go with him to a nearby motel and finish off the hot, tense afternoon. Tomorrow promises to be grueling, the start of work on a new movie. Tito prays for Girlie’s return. A day without sex is inconceivable to the movie star. Satisfying his desires comes easily to him, and he doesn’t give up until every whim is gratified. He remembers the manicurist running across the lawn, her long black hair streaming down her back.

  Boomboom Alacran is happy, content to listen to his friends brag about real or imagined exploits. He hopes the afternoon goes on forever. The identity of the man who confessed, the confession itself are inconsequential to Boomboom. All Boomboom craves are the details: the look on the man’s face as Pepe’s meticulous agents or Pepe himself prodded and probed in their search for answers, the exact number of seconds, minutes, or hours before the man finally succumbed.

  Pepe Carreon rubs his stomach. “Pare, if you offered me a bowl of the purest cocaine on one hand, and a bowl of my cook Francisca’s adobo on the other, and I had to choose—” Joselito Sanchez rolls his eyes. Tito Alvarez begins to laugh. He knows the punchline, but he plays along with the earnest military man. “You’d choose a game of golf!” Boomboom blurts out. Tito slaps Pepe on the back as the other men join in the laughter. Pepe looks at them with suspicion. He does not appreciate being the butt of anyone’s jokes, especially the jokes of a fool like Boomboom Alacran. It only takes some slight insult, real or imagined, to set him off, and he makes sure everyone knows it. Fortunately, the alcohol has relaxed him; Pepe’s tight, thin lips break into a reluctant smile, then his mouth falls open with the force of his high-pitched, hooting laugh.

  For one drunken moment, Tito Alvarez is terrified by the man shaking with laughter in front of him. He is convinced Pepe has been transformed into a salivating dog howling on the terrace of the Monte Vista. The hallucination only lasts a few seconds. Tito’s hand trembles as he brings another cigarette up to his mouth. The acrid taste nauseates him, and he quickly puts it out. He rubs his burning eyes, and feels badly in need of a bath. “I better go home,” he says, “I don’t feel well.”

  “You need another drink. Hoy!” Pepe shouts belligerently, looking back toward the shadowy, deserted hallway, “Is anybody there?” The table is littered with empty beer bottles, too many glasses, ashtrays crammed to overflowing, and a half-filled bowl of peanuts. A warm breeze scatters ashes on the white tablecloth. Pepe Carreon curses under his breath and smashes his fist on the table.

  Insect Bounty

  MANILA, PHILIPPINES (IP)—THE police commander in a trash-filled district of Manila has offered to pay residents $5 for every 1,000 flies they capture.

  Lt. Col. Romeo Maganto, who is well known for going after suspected communist assassins in the slum district of Tondo, said the bounty is part of his area’s effort to prevent an outbreak of insect-borne diseases.

  “If we cannot do away with this garbage, I think it is better to eliminate these creatures that bring sickness,” said Maganto. He said inmates in his station’s jail have been assigned to count the flies before they are burned.

  Tondo is the site of Manila’s dump, called Smokey Mountain, where officials say 300 tons of garbage is dumped daily. The bounty project is being funded by several civic and business organizations.

  —Associated Press

  Hunger

  GUILTY MOTHER WAS THE first jeepney to slow down and stop for Joey on Epifanio de los Santos Avenue. Joey didn’t care which direction the jeepney was headed. All he wanted was to get away as fast as possible from what he had just seen.

  Across the windshield, a smaller, hand-painted sign boldly proclaimed in bright blue letters: FOR CHICKS ONLY. Joey gave the driver money and squeezed in between two women obviously on their way to market, carrying their straw and plastic bayongs. Next to one woman sat a chubby boy of six or seven, his bristling crew cut shiny with pomade. Dried mucus encrusted the boy’s nostrils. His khaki pants were neatly pressed, his starched shirt embroidered with the fleur-de-lis emblem of the San Antonio de Jesus Academy. He stared at Joey with sleepy curiosity. Joey forced himself to meet the boy’s gaze, trying to appear at once friendly and detached. Children made Joey nervous. He attributed to them too much power, the uncanny ability to see through other people’s disguises. Joey shifted uneasily, trying in vain to settle himself comfortably in the jeepney’s cramped space. The boy’s mother moved her bags away from Joey, frowning. The child kept staring, his mouth slack and partially open. Joey looked away.

  Across from Joey sat a row of triplets, their jaws moving as they chewed betel nut. They appeared to be in their nineties, two men and one woman. The brothers were dressed in identical soft camisa shirts and loose brown cotton pyjamas, and leaned forward on carved, pearl-inlaid walking sticks. Their slightly hunchbacked sister sat in the middle, regal and delicate in a handwoven camisole with butterfly sleeves worn over an ankle-length, rainbow-striped skirt. She smiled prettily at Joey, her sunken eyes like glittering beads, her teeth stained red with betel. Resting at her feet was a magnificent white rooster in a bamboo cage. An omen or a sign perhaps, Uncle would say. The white rooster surely meant death, but the triplets might bring Joey luck. His heart beat wildly.

  Turning slightly, Joey faced the back of the jeepney driver’s head. He looked like an ordinary man, with long black hair and an orange TruCola T-shirt that showed off his muscular chest and tattooed arms. He was whistling along softly with Kool and The Gang on his transistor radio, his eyes shielded from the glaring morning sun by futuristic wraparound sunglasses. Joey felt the driver watching him in the rearview mirror, which was adorned with scapulars, assorted medals, a single rosary, and a rabbit’s foot keychain from the Manila Playboy Club. Joey sat up straight, preparing himself to jump out at any time.

  The fat schoolboy made a face and stuck his tongue out at Joey. Joey’s first reaction was to lunge at the boy, but he smiled feebly instead, as if he were amused. The boy’s mother scowled, pinching his arm. The child grimaced in pain but never made a sound, giving Joey an evil look. The ancient triplets studied Joey and the schoolboy curiously. As GUILTY MOTHER pulled up to a busy intersection, Joey jumped out.

  He knew he was somewhere in Cubao, and the unfamiliarity of the area was a great relief to him. Joey felt safe enough to wander around and clear his head. He even considered showing up for work later at CocoRico. He’d surprise Andres by showing up on time; he’d say hello to the boys, make some money, forget all the bullshit that went down. No one would connect him to the assassination at the exclusive hotel. Anyway, Senator Avila would’ve been murdered sooner or later. He was always saying his days were numbered on those stupid TV interviews. What the fuck, Senator Avila had asked for it. Someone had to shut that big mouth of his.

  Joey wondered if he should tell Uncle. He desperately wanted to tell someone. The matter-of-fact brutality of the murder seemed unreal, like a gangster movie, but he was unable to erase the vividness of the actual moment from his mind, the Senator’s body sprawled in a pool of blood on the plush carpet, the blood so red it vibrated black in Joey’s buzzing mind. And the holes in the wall behind the reception desk—there must’ve been dozens of holes, maybe hundreds. How many times can you shoot a man? Joey decided making him a witness was God’s peculiar way of punishing him for his sins.

  He had been to church only twice in his life. For Joey, God was definitely a white man, Charlton Heston in robes, with flowing white hair and matching beard. He toyed briefly with the idea of finding sanctuary in the church across the street—he could interrupt the morning service and demand to see the parish priest. Was the parish priest also the Father Confessor? Joey wasn’t sure. “Father,” he would say, “You’ve got to listen to me. I don’t know what I’m doing he
re…I don’t know how to confess but I have to confess, now. I don’t think I’m baptized, but if I have to die I want to go to heaven. I’ve only been to church a couple of times—one time was to bury my mother. I don’t remember much about the service—I think I fell asleep in the arms of an old man called Uncle. The second time was a catechism class some nun was teaching. She found me on the streets, selling cigarettes. She kidnapped me, dragged me into the parish hall of a church in Malate where she had all the other street kids rounded up. We held open bibles and little stampitas she handed out, with dreamy pictures of the Virgin Mary ascending into heaven on the front, and a prayer on the back…I saw Boy-Boy and Carding, giggling in the back of the room. ‘Have you had anything to eat?’ the nun asked me. She was a foreigner or something, with very white skin and red cheeks. She pointed to a passage in the bible. ‘I can’t read, goddammit!’ I yelled, throwing the book on the floor. The other kids laughed, cheering me on. The nun was petrified but she slapped my face, and when I tried to hit her back this priest came running in and took me to another room filled with statues. Jesus Christ stared at me from the cross, his face all twisted and bleeding. The priest pushed me down on my knees and ordered me to pray for penance. ‘Or else I will call the police,’ he said. Fuck penance. I had no idea what penance meant. I ran away as soon as the priest left me alone. I told Uncle later, and he laughed about the foreigner nun. Slum missionaries, he called her and her kind. He warned me to stay away from churches. ‘They round up all you lost children,’ he said, ‘and brainwash you in special slum missionary camps far, far away.’ Father, my name is Joey Sands. I’m a whore and the son of a whore. I just saw Senator Avila murdered. How come I feel guilty?”