By Richard Marranca and Renah Marranca
Sleep had been an epic of delirium, eye-peeling sunlight, footfalls, karaoke blasts, scooters, baby wails, snoring, itinerant sellers, creeping shadows and underworld drip. I pondered the matter. “It could be day or night.”
I jumped up with that depressed elation you get when you’re traveling far away but know that you’re missing the trip. I did a zombie descent on the stairs and into the alley, looking into the small store. Cats snubbed me. People looked at me or pretended not to look. They smiled if I smiled. I dodged puddles and teenagers, guys carrying chips and beer, and those heading toward the brain-mash of the main street.
The alleyway had the blur and floating sensation of a fishbowl and I was in it.
This was Caloocan City in Metro Manila, one of the most crowded places on the planet. The alley was like a village in the midst of a megalopolis, a hidden place, and no one in the world knew where I was.
My plane from Philadelphia had been delayed and I arrived very late in Manila, the first stop. My real destination was a nearly-deserted island to see my old college friend, Dr. Daniel Alonzo. Daniel was studying unusual varieties of seaweed in order to feed a growing population on an overheated planet Earth. Good luck.
But the taxi had let me off at the wrong address with no other taxis around. No Plan B. I could die and no one would even find my teeth.
An older couple in front of a pet food store asked me to follow them into the alley where they pointed at a concrete building with a balcony and some plants – the only hint of greenery in this decimation. What was late for me was early for the owners, as they were refilling giant bags with pellets and restocking shelves to open the store. The woman made tea.
I was too tired to function and saw this as good luck. I needed a place to stay. Everyone in the alley seemed to know each other and even be related, and some were quite beautiful and kept popping out of shadowy doorways. I gave it five stars for its depiction of reality as it was a dripping ark in a sea of humanity. It seemed one got there only by traveler’s luck.
*** As cigarette smoke curled upward and beer descended down throats, I drifted toward the men playing cards in the alley. They first appeared gruff and uninterested and then all looked up and smiled.
“I don’t know this game,” I said to the card players, hovering.
“Tong its. You can learn,” said Mang Angelo, opening a pack of cigarettes. He was the landlord of the building in which I was reposing. “Beer for me, friend? I’m winning.”
“Hey, Joe,” said one of the other players. “Red Horse, thanks.”
Though I wasn’t Joe, I went over to the un-caged window on the bottom floor and bought two bottles of Red Horse and corn nuts; I held my hand out to the seller and she grabbed 100 pesos. Nearby, an old lady put her whole being into staring at me but, when I turned to smile, she waved with both hands. She was thin and twisted in her seat yet still held much dignity in her sun-beaten face.
“That’s her,” whispered Mang Angelo, pointing with his lips. His black bangs and caramel face melted into a frown.
A teenager came to the table with noodles for the card players; he grabbed some watermelon seeds and went off on his motorbike. During lulls in the action, the players sucked up the noodles but still had their eyes on the cards. Down the alley, a karaoke machine had been set up by some family that took turns singing, finishing with Don’t Stop Believin’ and My Way.
“Look,” one of the card players said, turning his head. His front teeth were missing.
“What’s there?” I asked.
“The box,” said Mang Angelo.
I rubbed my forehead. The box was on a table alongside the wall a short distance away. I threaded my way through the alley, passing the tiny storefront with the woman called “the mother of six” poking her head out, a child wearing a Spiderman t-shirt, and the two money lenders from India. I felt like I was sleepwalking, but in someone else’s unconscious, tired and unwell. A wall caught me from falling.
I crept close to the box and looked in. A clear spot emitted light. It was a mannequin in a black suit and white shirt, as if resting after too much liquor and food. When I fished my reading glasses out of my pocket and moved closer, I stepped back with a shiver.
“Mang William,” said the landlord, “that one dead, her husband.”
Behind their fists, the players laughed. I swiveled toward them, pretending to shame them with a shake of my index finger and a grim face. The widow was laughing too.
I sat and looked in both directions of the alley. A cat came over and saved me from humiliation. I felt like apologizing to anyone, even the corpse. I tucked in my shirt and adjusted my shorts. I remembered when my late aunt had told me she was opting for cremation because she didn’t like anyone staring at her if she couldn’t stare back.
I went over to the card players.
“Mang Angelo,” I said, “no wonder he didn’t ask for a beer,” then turning to the widow, “I’m sorry for your loss. You gave him a good life.”
She probably understood some of what I said. She nodded and tears emerged. I handed her money, and she held my hands and gave a smile mixed with the deepest anguish – I recognized that biblical look from ancient places I had visited. She was gracious and wore a blue dress with gold buttons. She shook her head and folded her hands.
“’Went to the lungs, died,’” the landlord translated her words to me.
“He not see ugly pictures on cigarette box,” the other player said between puffs on his cigarette.
The widow retreated to her house. Mang Angelo told me that the money was for the widow to bury her husband. I wondered how long it would take to collect the money or what would happen if the collection fell short.
She returned with a child and a chair, insisting that I sit down. I eyed the coffin and the card players, not wanting to be caught between them. A few kids ran by, backtracked in a cartoonish way and stared, only to dart off in a halo of deranged laugher. I ignored the card players when they started looking for cigarettes. It felt sacrilegious. Though the landlord smoked and drank a delirium of beer, they were having too much fun. Death was a big excuse to get drunk and spend money; death added life to the community. I nodded off in the chair, aware, yet not aware, of the action going on in this crossroad of village-city life. These people were geniuses of survival and community, humor and karaoke. One of the singers in the distance seemed better at drinking alcohol than singing.
My body jolted when a light crossed my eyes. Mang Angelo was pointing a flashlight at a window on the second floor above his store. Seconds later, he ran after a young guy through the alley and across the street, which one could only cross with great faith. A jeepney let out a blast like an airplane engine as it raced up the incline of the darkened street.
The card players and I followed as best we could, but Mang Angelo and the young guy vanished behind jeepneys belching smoke in the golden predawn. A few hundred feet away, I noticed an elevated highway and new mall being built. This village in this monster city, this faith in survival, would be erased, shoved aside like an old boxer.
My pulse was drumming but I didn’t know what had caused Mang Angelo’s eruption. Nor did I know how he could run so fast with his beer belly. I went back to the card players and picked up more Red Horse beer, losing myself in the bitter suds. Warmth settled in my stomach and glee in my head. I bought candy for the neighborhood kids who kept stopping by the game. The beer was a delight with the mixed nuts. I suddenly felt sad that I couldn’t share this experience with others back home, nor could I bring this village back with me. It’s sad we can only share lifeless photos that hold interest for a few seconds. Like the Tao in Chinese philosophy, good travel can’t be explained.
No one said anything and I didn’t ask.
Then the landlord, red and puffy like a tormented fish at the market, suddenly returned and fell into his chair. The others continued with the game.
“Son can run.”
“That was your son?” I asked, with squinted eyes.
Mang Angelo nodded. “He missed exam. Bought him study books. No exam.”
“He didn’t take the exam?” I asked.
“Never show up. Tanga eh! My son!”
“Why was he above the store?”
“Hiding,” said Mang Angelo. “Anong plano niya? What if exam can’t take again? Not be policeman.”
“Oh, he better take the exam.”
“He went to the college. We did it.”
I nodded. But I wondered, what future was there for any of us on this human-forsaken planet?
Mang Angelo looked around for his glasses and rubbed his forehead. Then it was his turn to bet. The widow appeared and held her chin in one hand, swaying as if time had been erased fifty years and she was in a romantic glow, watching the cards flick across the table, amidst the gravitational pull of the corpse in the box, her husband. In the distance, another singer filled the air with a happy tune. She sounded like she had some training, especially when she cranked it up and excited the onlookers with Abba’s Dancing Queen. I got tingles. The widow clapped and lifted one foot and then the other as the music wafted through the alley and beyond.