One night in her life

By Emmanuelle

THIS was not a gentle one. It came hard and harsh. One moment there was dust and dirt and heat and sweat on sun-sore skin. Next moment, water was everywhere.

Thundering angst from the sky fed and bloated the streams that were once streets of the city. There is no escaping the wetness. Cold, sharp needles poured from the sky. Ash-gray torrent, sometimes darkly mud-brown, sometimes streaked with oil-black slime coiled round the feet. Rubbish sailed insolently by.

If she could fly, she would have gladly done so. She leapt, instead, from one high ground to the next. And splashed through the rest.

Until she sought shelter through the worst burst under the striped awning of a karinderia tucked between two two-storied buildings. She shivered close to the others, fellow wet dogs and ducks and ducklings. She had no choice. Between the long bench and the dripping edge of the awning, is a two-persons-width of space. And that space was chocked full as it was.

She sniffed the wet-cat-smell of sweat and damp steaming from their bodies. She feared she must smell as bad, but hopefully not worse than the worst of them.

“Kapeng barako, limang piso lang,” called-out the plump Manang tending the array of kettles. She fished in her jeans pocket for the five. Coffee obviously came with a bit of a seat at the end of the bench. She caught Manang’s eyes by knocking the coin on the linoleum-covered table. Manang whooshed thin-brown coffee from a rusty, not-too-clean thermos.

The glass, not a cup, was none-too-clean either.

She closed her eyes with her first warm sip. She thinks thanks to her Mom for the long-ago Hepa shots and boosters.

When she opened her eyes, her sight landed on a young boy wearing tattered shorts and even more tattered shirt. He sat opposite her across the table and the kettles and the thermos and the none-so-clean glasses. He was sipping broth directly from a bowl with, here and there, some snippets of noodles.

While she stared, a big plop of rain found its way through a hole up the awning. And that was not the last of it. The plop was followed by other plops. The broth was more for it and maybe that was how the boy liked it for he smiled at each plop. It seemed he was getting extra for the cost of one bowl of broth. Or was it noodles from the start and broth through the plops? The boy sipped, the rain plopped, and his stomach was popping at the seams.

For nothing better to do, while waiting for the rain to let go, she sent text messages to her friends describing the boy. Each text ended with the question, bakit ganito ang buhay ng batang ito?

One of her best fiends replied: ganyan lang ang buhay, hindi lahat maayos.

Another best friend texted: careful, careful. Racket yan! Please, do not bring home the boy, you hear?

The other best friend said: the boy is a stage actor from St. John, still in character after rehearsal. Props lang ang bowl. Timely setting ang rain, though, o di ba?

Mom shrieked through the loudspeaker of her cellfone: wala ka na namang payong?! Sabi nang magdadala palagi! Makakatikim ka sa akin ng sermon, maghanda ka! Gutom lang yan! When the rain stops, fly home. Or else! O sige, sabay tayo off ng cell. One, two, three, off! I love you.

She did not get to hear the you of I love. She clicked off too soon. She sighed. She closed her eyes. She did not see. The boy was listening to her Mom’s angry voice. With a faraway smile in his eyes and on his lips.

(Readers may reach columnist at jingmil@yahoo.com. For past columns, click http://sundaypunch.prepys.com/archives/category/opinion/feelings/
For reactions to this column, click “Send MESSAGES, OPINIONS, COMMENTS” on default page.)

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