Year 2008

Boy Luneta Part 1




Chapter One

I signaled the complacent driver to halt the jeepney but I could not get his attention. I screamed: "Para Mama" while banging the ceiling with my fist. It startled him. The jeepney screeched to a halt. The driver was a man of small frame wearing a baseball cap, he turned his head to glare at me, quite irritated. "I need my change," I said. I handed him a fifty peso bill first thing I got into his jeepney. He held out a sweaty arm to hand me my change. I saw a little tattoo carved on his hairless forearm and for a split second I could not figure what image it represented. I think it was a dragon. I took the change and whispered the usual "Salamat po." He did not say a word.

I was dying to get out of the suffocating ride on Taft Avenue that crawled like a snake on a desert land. The heat was scorching my skin. As I stepped out of the jeepney, I wondered how we Filipinos have been taking this all. By this I mean THIS: unabated lack in almost all the basic necessities in life. This heat. This slow grinding traffic. This loudness of people inside vehicles. This minimalistic life. "Barely" is the most apt adverb to describe it here. Barely making it; barely surviving; barely hanging by a thread.

The Park was right in front of me now, an emaciated boy was offering a stick of cigarette for 2 pesos with the warmest and widest smile on earth. I got carried away instantly not by the cigarette but by the greeting of the boy. He wore a shirt too large for him, his skin was browned by the day sun, his legs stood like sticks. His petite and light structure allowed him to jump from jeepney to jeepney with the grace of Tarzan as he carried with him his little wooden box that could easily snap open or close depending on the stage of his enterprise. It was closed when he was hanging from the jeepneys; opened the moment someone bought from him.

This cigarette vendor was made more precious by his contrast against the images around him: Hotels stood in the vicinity like beauty queens suspended in their winning moments: grand, restrained in smiles, bejeweled, festive. But aloof. They appeared undisturbed by the emaciated boy swinging from jeepney to jeepney beside them. All they cared for was their shallow greetings. Cars and tourists flocked their entrances and lobbies. These tourists were equally blind to what surrounded them. They did not see the ordinary, ignorable elements of Manila like the emaciated boy, or, over there, a young family in a picnic huddled and laughing in their privacy. They did not notice the promdis who were here first-time direct from remote provinces; neither the poor joggers who could not afford good running shoes; neither the students who studied here because they lived in overcrowded and noisy dormitories.

This had been the ignominious lullaby of our lives here, mimicking the old refrain of social inequalities, the microcosm of an old and rusty reality, often repeated until everyone was sick of hearing and seeing it. Manila was no longer a place. It was becoming more and more like a cliche, it was fast becoming the movie and story that followed a common thread; just like music that took the same melody. Like the literature formula and style everyone was sick and tired of reading.

I can't believe I'm back.

I knew I was in the Luneta Park when the Philippine smell entered my nostrils. Charcoal fire from grills was bellowing, smoke was rising from food stands. There was a mixture of popcorn and chicken entrails, blood, head, feet smell all around. The road was thick with smog and the dust swirled like mini tornadoes in the air.

Twilight was approaching.

I walked toward the Bay - my legs were itching to get there. Manila Bay was my real home. On my way there, I found the park well groomed and the acacia leaves were beginning to fold as it is in their nature to fold at this time of the day. This time was pleasant in Manila. The wind was giving up its heat, lessening its bluntness on the skin. The number of people was increasing. I sat on one of the benches, stayed there for a few minutes to do 'people-watching'.

When I was in college, I sat on this particular bench, as I recall now, beside a man I lusted for. I sat with him on this bench the whole night and harassed him to have sex with me even after he explained to me a million times he could never bring himself to sleep with another man. But I was young and in heat and salivating like a mad dog. I stuck with him like glue from nine in the evening to five in the morning. He talked with me a bit and pretended to sleep to turn me away. And then he finally fell asleep. He even snored. Then he woke up and slept again. Every time he woke up, he found me sitting beside him wide-awake, watching him. Silently. I don't know... I felt at that time he would give in to my desires by mere persistence. And patience. I did not give up. Amazingly he was gentle the whole time, careful to hide his irritation. I guess he respected my desperation. He probably thought I was a lunatic. He probably knew it was no longer me in control of myself but my horny hormones. Finally he confessed that my libido messed up his set-up in the Park. He was an agent of NBI, on the watch.

Smiling at this recollection, I resumed my walk toward the bay until I reached the Boardwalk.

The night comes down on the bay of Manila like the way people move in adjacent Luneta Park: slow, very slow. The bay is water, the park is soil. Their meeting point is always tender. If Manila Bay were a bride, Luneta would be the groom. Between the two of them are a people known for their suave, smooth moves - the country is in itself a slow country: in here the waves flow gently as if entitled to the caprices of time. Speed is discouraged. Love-making is offended by the hurried one. The man kisses the woman beginning on her black fragrant hair and then, he plants his mark on her forehead coupled with the hush of assurances - "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. You're mine. You're a virgin? Hmm, so much the better", he whispers as he glides his hand toward her breasts while caressing her lips, her cheeks, her neck, her ears until she flies away.

Her fear dissipates.

With grace she arches her body upwards offering it to the warm glide of the man's wet tongue. Like the Aztec virgin exposing her heart - with joyous offertory - she releases a suppressed scream, (the man cupping her mouth with his strong palm), a scream for the embrace of gods, embarrassed to hear her own self. She is cut. She bleeds. And then, she merely holds on tightly, her fingers scratching the man's shirt, the man's skin, the wooden stands of the bed. And if it happens on the shore, she drops her palm against the smooth sand, grabs a lump of sand until it hardens like a rock inside her fist. Her body trembles and twists, now slippery with sweat. Her lips is pouted like the lid of a warm jar, soft and brown, brimming with sweetness. Her eyes roll up. The man keeps on pounding, not so fast, just smooth, the way his forefathers pounded rice, to separate the grain from the shaft. He feels the warmth completely and he will feel for as long as he can, holding back his tears of joy, holding back his laughter, his victory. The secret of happiness here is holding back. Smooth, suave holding back.

Imagining this, I became melancholy beside the Bay. And very sentimental.

How many times have I dreamed of this night when I could embrace once again my beloved city, when I could simplify her complications and ignore the ugliness imposed to her by the people? She is the city where I lived with God and the Devil.

At twilight, sunset and dust create a dream-like cinematography of people walking, of jeepneys scampering like frightened dogs. And sounds - ah the sounds of Manila - tooting jeepney horns, sounds of Balut! Penoy!, songs of Imelda Papin. And heat - endless heat. And people - people like ants fighting each others in buses, as if in calamities. And celebrations - celebrations that seem to have no end.

Manila is like a woman who sees the rainbow even when the sun has died, who puts on make-up, opens her door and laughs boisterously so others would think she's happy. But she is not. She is an old fashioned woman forced by history to go out and pretend to be modern because that's the only way she could survive. Yet, she barely manages. She's a lady who re-invents herself continuously, who mocks her face reflected on the mirror yet would call for a battle if someone mocks her. Even when everyone calls her a bitch, or a whore, she remains a virgin. She plays a game of seduction no other city in the world is capable of playing. Brought up Catholic and educated by Americans, she creates a language of body and soul that would convince you of her helplessness, yet when the going gets tough, she unleashes a strength that could overwhelm even the strongest of men. She always appears on the verge of break-down, ah, but don't be fooled by that, she hasn't revealed all her cards yet. They are hidden in her bosom and would keep them till she falls for you. She'll take risks, yes, only when she knows the way to the exit. Scheming, planning, bargaining and hoping - yes, hoping - for you to discover her real worth. She lives for the day you'd finally respect her, admire her, love her - for she's vain. And then maybe, you'd finally treat her a little better, a little lovelier, a little worthier than all the other cities you know.

But you can never see her as I see her in this night, if there is a time of day to know her better, it would be right now, this night, as I stand between Luneta and Manila Bay.



Chapter Two



So, yeah, I was sentimentalizing this way as I sat cross-legged atop one of the rocks of the bay. This one was a big and rough and sharp-edged rock. Besides hurting my butt, it also hosted nocturnal bay creepers which made me jump when they landed on my skin, in the dark I imagined centipedes and millipedes and spiders and roaches feasting on me. These ones were intelligent enough to crawl away fast with my slightest movement. They burrowed deep into the holes of the rocks and sand after they sensed my irritation. Alone by the bay, I resumed my introspection.

We Filipinos tend to employ flowery words and meanings to everything. We rather travel the long scenic route when our destination is just a yard away from where we stand. We take time and travel long, to us, life, in this country is not always a straight line between two points. Why focus too much on destination? This country does not demand too much work. The soil is volcanic and fertile and its climate is blessed with both the rain and sun. You eat a fruit, throw the seed outta window and in no time it turns into another fruit-bearing tree. So, even if the act of spitting out the seed is a problem, it will grow inside our stomachs. Like tapeworms and ulcers. Why hurry and work very hard and accumulate great wealth when we die anyway?

That's why we're always misconstrued as lazy. Oh, that's baloney. No body's lazy unless he's lost his reason to work. We don't need to be lazy.

How can you say we're lazy?

The cigarette vendor was still hawking his merchandise. People of all sorts were converging by the bay. The hooker was in her night shift, distracting everybody - she had hair tied up high like a mountain topped by some ribbon. Her earrings were scandalously long and dangling, making me think of a Christmas tree. Oh yeah, there she went, with no care in the world. She was slow and purposeless, smiling at anyone who cared to look. Sexy. Like a queen. She was proud to display her Adam's apple too.

Who's lazy here?

Hey, anybody wants me? Dammit, I've been walking here since ten in the morning. I haven't eaten breakfast, lunch and now, dinner. Darn, can you spare me some change so I can go home? I'd give you a special hand job. Or a blow job. Or, well, if you want THAT, honey, you've got to buy me dinner.

The vendors were mushrooming all over the Bayside, under makeshift umbrellas, grills with charcoals spewed sparks, like New Year's all the time, and music, music is heard everywhere. If one's radio was loud, another would crank up his radio's volume louder. In no time, you'd be hearing a symphony orchestra of senseless sounds, no longer for hearing pleasure but an assault to ears. But you did not need to suffer - all you needed to do was to move closest to the radio or stereo or boom box that carried your favorite tunes.

The only problem was the pleasure being spoilt by hawkers joining in the music. Yeah, these were the hawking refrain of every music heard in Manila Bay. The boy was hawking his merchandise and not far from behind him were the hawkers of balut/penoy, then the cotton candies wrapped in plastic' hawkers, then popcorn in paper bags' hawkers , then the drinks' hawkers, water bottle hawkers, yeah, everybody seemed to be hawking something. Then there is a line of taxis with drivers competing for your attention. The tourist guides, fake or not, crowd around tourists. It is sad but festive. And everybody wore plastic slippers. All of us, including myself, carried the smell of Manila: dust, sweat, sun, and the salty, fishy water.

My eyes drifted to whatever that caught my interest.

Luneta never runs out of objects to look at. People here clamor for attention like it's a disease: Beauty Pageants, Awards for Whatever, festivities, competitive hookers and whores, people dressed to high heavens or low hells, kids copying the weirdest on MTV, waifs begging, why, even the beggars know the real estate of mendicancy: location, location, location. In terms of outfits, people here wear the loudest colors that never fail to blast your eyes. The brighter the better. So do the ear-busting laughter and conversations surrounding. The intellect possesses the most logic-defying philosophies and worse - the insulting cliches of elitists. And when you're tired of these, you can always turn to the biggest clowns of all, the wanna-be politicians debating beside garbage dins. This park provides lots of tasteless entertainment. There seems to be no seriousness here.

And I just love it.

A serious nation is a sad nation. And I'd rather have Manila's pathetic state of mind than any other city. No matter how irritated I become with what I see, I look forward to seeing it again. Over and over again. Yeah, this country is hopeless in a lovely, shallow, addicting way. Just like everybody.

I turned my head facing the bay and the water splashed my face. I couldn't even remember if this bay is attached to China Sea or Pacific Ocean. Far out on the vast body of water a solitary ship with lights as bright as diamond passed by. It left a whirlpool of images in my mind as it passed - of old pirates and mermaids and the mythical Lady of the Bay, pearls shining, the Battle of Manila led by the American Dewey, the old haven for swimming, the lines of coconut trees, the typhoons that ravaged and renewed it. Then its demise brought by pollutants poured on it from the city.

Someone tapped my shoulder. I turned to look, and there he was again, the emaciated boy selling cigarettes. His face came too close against mine I could smell his sun and dust-soaked breath. He hawked: "Sigarilyoooooooo!" Argh! I pushed away his pitiful light body and told him never to get his face too close to mine. I hate people getting too close to my face. He paused a little bit. Then he roared again: "Sigarilyoooooo!". His sound this time was a little resentful. I'm sorry but no stranger should ever get his face that close to anybody. He quickly turned away from me to chase the other strollers. Feeling guilty for my rudeness, I called him back. I handed him money amounting much more than the price for a pack of cigarettes (I'm non-smoker) and told him to go home, it's already dark and he should be home. He quickly smiled as his eyes stared at something over my shoulder.

A voice boomed behind me. "I didn't know you turned pedophile in America." It was a very familiar voice. I knew exactly where it was coming from. "And a smoking pedophile pervert at that!"

Without looking at the source, I said, "And you are the most dirty-minded, foul-mouthed, uncouth human being in this world - asshole." My heart was full of joy. I'd recognize Boy Luneta's voice anywhere, everywhere, anytime, the way I'd recognize Manila.

My best friend, the one I was waiting for was here.



Chapter Three



So we drank another round of San Migs. By this time, Boy Luneta's face was turning red and I was getting hot and horny. He beamed savagely,

- Why you looking at me that way?

-Well I...

-I know, I know, I can read it all over your face. You looking at me like I'm pancit and adobo which you prob'ly never tasted for the past ten years.

-I hate you.

-Lem'me tell you somethin' Alex Maskara. I may be eatin' shit like a goddamn native chicken but that has just made me more delicious and tasty.

-Stop!

Drunk, Boy Luneta and I walked out of the bar, this bar was cheap, it was the hang-out of Manila low life. I nearly tripped on a curb in Roxas Boulevard, I had to hold on to him to keep my balance. I was excited by the prospect of having sex again with Boy Luneta. I was ashamed of my feelings - two days ago, I was living a pretentious clean life in the city of Miami, and today, I was wandering along with a hustler in Manila. I felt the presence of both God and Lucifer within me.

It's a shame! It's exciting shame!

But then, come to think of it, I deserve this. In America, I worked my butt off to have a walk-in closet, a brand new car, a little respect for my services to sick people. Yet between the dollars and the work, I was empty. I did not find a single true love in America. Oh I had faked a lot of love with some, had too much sex with others, fooled myself into believing I had found love worth dying for with one or two. The truth is, I felt like pancit and adobo, they would always love to taste me, but to consider me as a staple food, forget it. It is so easy to find someone in my bed, someone who in the heat of passion would whisper he loves me dearly, but after that, my bed would be empty again, waiting for another curious lover. Perhaps I could blame my immigrant's woes to my culture. Americans hate me for saying this all the time: I grew up in the company of my family all my life. A complete family. Divorce is against the law. So I lived with this expectation that even in my gay world, I will find someone who would stick out with me for better or worse. I will one day find someone I will take care of and who'd take care of me. Isn't that the Philippine way? I hoped for someone who would wake up with me in the mornings, retire with me at nights. That's oh so romantic but unreal in my gay world, especially in my American gay world.

So I developed this compensation in relationships. I became the prissy senorita who would stand in a party or a bar in a backoff-ish manner. Snub. Moralistic. Yet shallow because beneath all these, I was extremely sexual. Always leaving me in eternal conflict. This extreme sexuality became clearer when I found my old fling Boy Luneta. I simply stripped myself of all my inhibitions.

"Where are we now, Boy Luneta?" I asked.

"Oh please... stop it Alex Maskara. If there is anybody who knows every nook and crook in Luneta, it is you my friend. It's not like as if Luneta has changed since you last came here.You fucking invented Luneta as we know it today. Where are we now my ass...you fucking know."

I gave out a hearty laugh as we continued walking on the Luneta strip. He was right. It was the same familiar strip all the way from T. Kalaw to CCP. Except for extra coconut trees and smashed seawall for repair or replacement, nothing had really changed. And despite my being drunk, I was leading him to my old hidden secret nook close to Film Center to make love. Standing. We did that before. --------By the time we reached my secret lair, I became a one hundred percent slut. I grabbed him by the collar and started kissing his beer tasting mouth. He was caught by surprise and had to push me away.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Sky's the limit," I reminded him.

"If this is what you learned in America, I pity you." he replied.

I pulled him back again towards me and began unbuttoning his shirt. Being drunk, he started to give in. Until...

"Did you hear that?" he asked.

In the heat of passion, all my senses were oblivious to everything. "Hear what?" I replied. I started unbuckling his belt. By the time I was about to unzip his pants, he pushed my hands away.

"There it goes again, can you hear it?" he persisted.

I raised my sex-starved voice. "No!" I was getting pissed.

He suddenly raised his voice, "Because you're not listening dammit!"

I stopped momentarily with a deep sigh. Okay, I listened. The sound came as a suppressed cry. It was obviously that of a man's. It came in spurts, sometimes prolonged, but it was meant not to be heard. Boy Luneta did not waste time tracing the source of the sound. Under the moonless night, beside the dark Film Center, he combed though the uncut weeds and searched through shrubbery. He tapped the corrugated iron fence separating the Center from the Manila Bay shore.

"Hello, is anyone there?" he called.

The voice stopped. And then...not far from the coconut tree where I intended to make love, I saw a silhouette, a sitting figure whose back was leaning against the iron fence. The figure was tall, muscular, I saw its arms move, large hands.

God, this can't be true, I thought. I've been in America too long to know that this broken crying man was Caucasian. Walking closer, my suspicion was verified. There he sat, a man with a crew cut, light hair, probably blond. It was dark and I could not tell. He was holding his sports cap in his hands, there was a fresh streak of blood running down his face. This was exactly what I hated to see, another incident that will run across the newspapers in the world, claiming how another foreigner was violated in Manila. Another incident that will add to the so-called notoriety of the Filipino which everyone the world over wants to feast about. Another incident that would scare tourists and investors, another to make Filipinos ashamed, or to the likes of me, become guarded and defensive. My friends would often assure me this happens everywhere in the world. Yeah, tell that to the peace loving Swiss. Tell that to Miami which lost a lot of revenues after a few crimes were committed to its tourists. Tourism is simple hospitality. You don't commit crimes to your guests. Incidences like these don't land you in tourism brochures.

But...was the man a tourist? We approached the leaning crying figure.

Boy Luneta had other thoughts. He was the typical Luneta resident who believes every Caucasian is American. To him, this American was not a tourist. American tourists like the Japanese come by bus loads taking pictures and hopping from bar to bar. A solitary Caucasian, who is therefore American, sitting in a dark corner of Film Center after being mauled is either a service man who refused to leave after the closure of the bases or a Peace Corp volunteer who got lost on his way to the American Embassy or a Mormon Missionary.

The Protestants are better prepared and less adventurous, Boy Luneta once announced with sagacity. But the Mormons? They think the Philippines is Paradise. It's a wonder he hasn't heard yet of any violated Mormon in the Philippines. I guess it's something to do with their looks - they suffer enough wearing neckties and long sleeves under the Philippine heat. According to Boy Luneta, Filipinos worry more about the Mormons than themselves because these missionaries are barely out of their teens, they don't have cars much less money and they give out Bibles containing the Gospel according to Joseph Smith. No, you don't violate the Mormons. They are so dedicated to God that God will kill you if you violated them.

"Hey you, what's wrong man?" Boy Luneta asked the poor Caucasian sitting --- drunk --- against the sheet fence. Boy Luneta was now very serious, like he was to venture on a new crusade. Once he gets into this serious mode, I am better off not to get in his way. I knew better. I stood back to watch the events and conversation about to unfold. The Caucasian did not even budge to raise his head. "Enough," he said faintly. "Beat it."

"Say that again?"

This time, the man stared at us with ferocious eyes. "Don't you understand English? What the fuck are you doing here?" I saw it all right there and then, the poor guy was robbed. And beaten too. I could smell liquor from his breath, he wryly waved us to go away.

Boy Luneta was deeply hurt by this gesture. And no one hurts Boy Luneta. He said once, I may be a hustler, but I've got pride.

I had to intervene."I'm sorry..."

I stared at the bruised man and all I saw in his face was anger. An anger that didn't care what happened next. And for a person like me who never encountered any problem in a foreign soil, I just felt this immense obligation to ease the pain of this man. If there was one thing I wanted to do is to give back to foreigners in my soil whatever kindness they offered me in theirs.

Deeply offended, Boy Luneta was fuming mad behind me. "Son of a bitch. Yes, what the fuck are you doing here?" Before he got out of hand, I pushed him away from the Caucasian man.

"Sir," I addressed the man in my best Florida accent, "We just wanna know if you're alright. Do you want us to get you some help?"

The man just stared at me blankly.

"Do you want us to call the police?" Still no response.

"We will leave if you want us to." I was answered by silence.

I immediately grabbed the hand of Boy Luneta, who continued to mumble all the Filipino cusswords there were, there's a lot of them actually. When we were a few yards away, the man called us with a faint voice. "Wait."

Boy Luneta stopped cussing. We turned back to look at the man who began crying again. This time it was a loud cry. I never saw an American cry this loud except those who were about to die in the hospital where I worked.

He wailed, "Tesang, forgive me. Forgive me!"

What did he mean by that? He was obviously calling the name of a woman. But then, he was as drunk as I and Boy Luneta. Drunk people are capable of many unrestrained acts and can cry out anything.

"Who did this to you?" I asked. I became deeply concerned. The Caucasian whose English and accent were clearly American stared at us with a pained face, first at Boy Luneta, then at me. He kept his eyes at me afterwards. He probably thought I was the lesser of two evils. In between his sniffs and sobs, he addressed me, "Your accent is different. You're American?"

I said, "I just arrived from Florida two days ago. I work there." In hearing this, a ray of hope lighted up his face. At first he became quiet, perhaps embarrassed by what he, being an American, was doing in this godforsaken corner of a strange city in a country very remote from his. Then he tried to prop himself a little, raising his cap over his blood-streaked face as if wishing to hide from me, as if wishing his condition should never be seen by any fellow American. The fact of the matter is that he is stupid to end up this way. But later he calmed down, my presence here seemed to have given him a little security from the likes of whoever mauled him. Though we were different from each others, we were still fellow citizens.

Not wanting to be ignored and outdone, with or without accent, Boy Luneta kept his inquiry, which deteriorated more and more as he rattled along.

"Are you a serviceman?"

"No."

"A Peace Corp volunteer?"

"No."

"A...Mormon?"

"No."

"Shit," mumbled Boy Luneta. By now doubt had cast a dark shadow upon all his American-visiting-the-Philippines stereotypes.

"Are you a...you know...a tourist?"

"You can say that again...Fuck, it's all gone...Shit, I'm bleeding too...They kicked me in the face..." the American kept mumbling as he felt his body.

Boy Luneta released a screaming "Why?" As in "Why are you not in your hotel sleeping the night off with fellow tourists? You should know better than be alone in this dangerous side of the city at this time of the night." In other words, "Why are you different from all the other tourists I know?"

I grabbed Boy Luneta by the shoulder. I whispered to him, "Shut up." I looked again at the American. I asked, "Who are you and what happened?"

"My name is Keith Devlon. I used to serve in Clark Air Base. I came back to Manila to look for Tesang, a bar hostess I've met a couple of years back. I was promised by her friend Leila some leads to her whereabouts. And then...we ended up in this hotel...and then...oh fuck...fuck...I remember now... I was duped and beaten and stolen of everything I have. My bag of clothes and my wallet."

A series of slurs came out from the lips of Boy Luneta. "So here you are! Another one of them superior Americans coming here to save the world while enjoying a Filipina! And you thought everyone here would call you a hero? This is your own doing man. You dirty Americans. "

Keith Devlon just stared at him with an open mouth, I knew that Boy Luneta was playing nationalistic, really, but to an American, this American at least, his outbursts made him appear a specimen of wonder. If not of annoyance. I nudged Boy Luneta once more and gave him the shut-the-fuck-up look.

"Who is this Tesang you're lookin' for?" I asked Keith. Keith Devlon shook once more, tears rolled down his face, it took him minutes before he could answer.

"She is the woman I love."



Chapter Four



Keith Devlon sat there soaked in his tears, sweat, blood, saliva and beer. He reminded me of college boys in South Florida, who, during Spring Break, would be a-swaying, a-hollering, a-grinding, a-flirting, and in no time they'd start picking fights, beating up people or being beaten. Their fresh grins would become contortions of agony and their looks become tiring to look at. At one time one of these dudes approached me for some directions and as I was about to tell him, he began wailing for no reason, like a 2 year old looking for his Mommy. I just glared at him and snickered, "Grow up."

But, I always understood them, I was a college kid too once upon a time. It was just so bad I lived close to these Spring Breakers, and many times I opted to get out and walk by the Fort Lauderdale beach at nights because I could not stand their noise. That was good enough reason for me to leave my beachside apartment – when I was in my twenties I could bear this type of crowds but not in my thirties. I had witnessed many victims of these unlimited unbridled celebrations. Eventually someone was bound to get hurt - someone's car would crash, someone's skull would get smashed, someone's unlicensed gun would snap, someone would cry rape. And I had to see these victims in the hospital where I worked, talk with the parents who were at a loss...they'd ask me questions while I stood there feeling guilty. Many times I blamed myself for not putting a stop to the stupidities of Spring Breakers.

Boy Luneta was staring at Keith Devlon with suspicions. I could tell him sniffing, wondering, and I’m sure he was at a loss of right English words to approach Keith. He was afterall, Boy Luneta, eternally curious. I could not help but observe him, albeit indirectly, as I too was busy surmising what really happened to Keith and how to go about helping him.

Boy Luneta knelt beside him and without saying anything started feeling Keith's arms and legs, which spooked Keith, I think.

"What are you doing Boy Luneta?" I asked.

"I wanna see if he got hurt." He was bent like a Doctor checking out a patient. But I knew more than what he led me to believe. I bet he was feeling for something else, a wallet maybe?

I said, "You better not do anything with this man Boy Luneta. Don't even feel for some money in his pockets." I was suddenly imbued with an overprotective feeling toward Keith.

Boy Luneta's back straightened up from kneeling position and gave me the 'look'. His face was serious and his eyes squinted at me. His voice adopted a firm and offended tone: "Am I that low scum of the earth to be thought of as a thief? What do you think I'm doing here? Man, really, Alex Maskara, of all the people I know, you being a good friend of mine ought be the last to suspect me of robbing a helpless victim like this one."

"But you don't need to touch him!" I responded.

"What if I wanna find out if he got hurt? Or where he's hurt?"

"Oh bull, he can talk. You can ask him. He certainly can tell you."

"Oh, so you suddenly turned into a clean, compassionate, protector of Caucasians now eh? You were just feeling me all over a while back, remember? Why all of a sudden you don't want me do touchy-touchy feely-feely with this man like what you were just doing with me a while back?" He was fuming. His breathing was heavier now and it seemed his drunken state vanished. He had a clear mind though his speech was slightly slurred. I took a look at him, now that he was a few yards away from me under the moon. Though he aged a little bit, he still maintained the bearing of a youthful man I knew long long time ago. Boy Luneta was like wine, aged to perfection, of special vintage. His hair remained full and thick under the cover of a cap, his face was free of wrinkles. His body was trim but firm in tone, his legs were thick and full inside his denim jeans. His outbursts just made him all the more desirable, like a rooster in a cockpit arena, like a star in a Derby, experienced, confident, delicious. And lets face it, dangerous.

"Oh don't even reverse our roles Boy Luneta. I know every nook and crook of your anatomy and I deserve the right to touch you now - I've touched you a lot before. But this is a stranger, and a drunk, helpless, vulnerable stranger. In America, we just don't grope and feel strangers without their permissions." I wanted to inculcate in Boy Luneta's brain that there is such thing as cultural differences between people of different countries. And it is not proper to assume every foreigner in this country would welcome what is 'normal' in this country. You don't just burst into scene and climb every private staircase, touch every stranger, talk at every one passing, it is not appropriate.

But Boy Luneta would not be convinced by what I was saying. He was offended by the manner I suspected and treated him. He detested my tone, my language. But did he really know?

There were many things I didn't know when I started working in America. How many times have I done things in America that shocked people - like - frying and eating dried fish? How many people were offended by my non-stop bowing of the head and thank you's and please's, and addressing everyone with Sir or Ma'am? That may be polite in the Philippines but tiresome in the Us. "Stop calling me Mrs Smith!" one lady patient snapped at me one time. "My name is Mary. Everybody calls me Mary and I want to be called Mary until the day I die!" Many times I was cursed for my loudness, for my cheap jokes, for my magic realism anecdotes.

Boy Luneta became utterly silent while I was talking, for a second I thought he fell asleep. He sat slumped, his back resting on one coconut tree, his head bowed low. I thought he surrendered to his drunken stupor, but, he spoke again, this time his voice was more mellow, "But what about me as Filipino, Alex Maskara? You may have known America and Americans in the last few years and have high respect for them for what they are, but how much do you respect the Filipinos like me? Why do you think I was stealing his money when I touched him? Did it ever occur to you I was checking him to protect you and myself? What if he carried weapons or anything that would endanger our lives?"

"American tourists don't do that," I retorted.

"Says who," he said, his voice now flatter than before. "What makes you so sure? You have not seen tourists here who came to damage our children, who bought our kidneys and raped our women. You did not see tourists who planned terror activities. What makes this tourist here no different from the others?"

Keith Devlon shifted his drowsy eyes between me and Boy Luneta as the two of us conducted this thin argument, his face overtly puzzled. He probably wondered if he was dreaming a bad dream or was abducted by aliens from outer space. Or it could be worse. What? Two men fighting over him?

"Alright," I said finally addressing Boy Luneta. "I apologize. Do as you please but don't touch him. Wake him up, shake him, ask him questions but don't touch him. You don't want your fingers marked all over him." I didn't know what got into me for being so emphatic about 'touch' thing. Boy Luneta did not even return my stare. He did not even stir from where he was sitting against the coconut tree. Quiet. I left him alone momentarily because I know him - when the night vanishes and the sun rises, Boy Luneta will change back to his old, bubbly self.

I raised my eyes heavenward and stared at the moon over Luneta. I began contemplating at my current fate.

What bad luck have the rulers of space imposed upon me that even my intimacy with Boy Luneta on CCP grounds is curtailed by a Caucasian crying over the woman he loves? No one can imagine how I prepared for this night, how I longed for this night! I played this night over and over in my mind for nearly ten years. In America, for ten years! I dream-walked for this. I worked and saved for this. I planned to return and walk with money and good health for sex encounter on Luneta grounds with Boy Luneta - at midnight until dawn, get drunk, vomit gallons of San Miguel beer, pee on trees, spit out, take off my shoes and step atop the rocks of the Bay, peep on lovers making love, giggle, joke. I played this wanton freedom over and over again in my brains all the way from Tennessee to North Carolina to New York to Miami. I longed for this chance of re-exploring the dark side of Luneta when Manila night is calm, no speed and work to worry about, no car to drive, no dust to cover my nose from and no one cared whether I was a saint or a whore, a king or a peasant.

In college, Luneta was where my life began after my parents released me from the restrictions of my barrio. They wanted me to learn and study in Manila. Sure I did! I did not learn in the university however but in the large Manila park called Luneta.

Manilans would always tell me, "What! You've been to that crime-infested park? Are you out of your mind?" I'd smile at their feigned surprise, they'd been missing something which I hadn't. What was criminal in Manila anyway? Accumulated wealth from corruption, that's criminal - I'm telling you now - in Luneta, people are poor - and expect you to be poorer than them. I was a promdi when I started here, a Luneta nomad; lunch for me meant sitting in Aling Mameng's Karenderya located at the intersection of Kalaw-Taft. I walked always on my way there to spare me of the one peso fare for a jeepney ride. My snack was fried chicken entrails, or one-day-old chicks, or buko in plastic bag, each costing twenty five centavos. There was nobody more qualified to be called Luneta resident than me. I was a Luneta kid, just like my friend Boy Luneta.

Why wouldn't you wander in this park if you were a penniless promdi? Luneta was the zero mile of life for many provincials, the landmark for anyone who carried nothing but a small bundle or bag containing all his possessions dreaming and hoping to make it in Manila or Europe or America or the rich side of Asia or Middle East. Provincials in Luneta are magnetized towards each others for only one reason - they had no place to sleep and company to sleep with.

Can anyone blame me if I'd choose to wander in this place again after modestly making-it in life? I wanted to sit on the bench where I once sat in Luneta during my hungry years. I'd always remember that moment I tightly gripped my hand around the railing of the Philippine Map, worthless, a student on the verge of getting expelled from the University - praying for something good to happen.

Can anyone blame me if my greatest dream in life was to sit on the same bench I sat on and whisper to myself I made it? I didn't care if I were ugly or old or weak. I just wanted to prove to myself I had survived.

I turned my eyes in different directions. Roxas Boulevard was now pregnant with elegant hotels. To my left, white and blue boats were docked on the Bay. The seawall was smashed to rubble to give way for a new bay wall. I used to run along this Bay until I developed the manliest legs for which I was praised and adored. Alas! Those legs were made lily-white in America and became more of accelerator-pushers than runners now.

And why do I long to relive my hungry years in the midst of my abundance? Because I am human, that's why! Anyone who'd been wounded in a battle would like to return to the place where he'd been wounded to complete his healing. Yes, I'd like to be un-wounded. I spent many hungry years in Luneta when I was young and beautiful. And brave. I've lost everything in Luneta. So I chose to return. But this time I am confident with the security of a job and money and health.

But my original plans were not meant to be. I am fatalistic and no doubt there was a reason why Keith Devlon appeared in my otherwise wonderful love-making with Boy Luneta. Even angels stop sex when necessary. I was now curious about this Caucasian man lost in a Park of dubious reputation. Suddenly, he is being included in my personal triumph and self-congratulation. In Luneta, nothing is permanent, nothing is planned, people appear out of nowhere to either help or destroy your life.

Luneta is a place where you do things on impulse. You become spontaneous here. You do things because, hell, because they have to be done. Luneta is neither a park of truth nor of reality. In here, you look at yourself in relation to others, they become the opposite scale you weigh yourself against. And I wanted to measure myself against Keith Devlon and Boy Luneta. And I could only do that by listening to their stories.

From the Luneta people of my youth, I gathered so many stories that would probably last me a lifetime to write.

They came and went - from and to Luneta with nothing but their bodies and bags of stories. In here, they converged like ants in a colony and spewed out words with utter disregard for privacy. All of them knew the game of Luneta - say whatever you wanna say, do whatever you wanna do - as long as - you don't reveal who you really are. Baptize yourself with a new name, paint yourself, wear a mask, change your voice, as long as your identity is hidden. It is a mortal sin to pull out your ID card.

I stayed put on my feet with Keith Devlon and Boy Luneta, with anticipation, with excitement amidst the long silence surrounding us. No one, not each of us knew what would happen to us. Nor what we were about to do. Nor what tales we were about to tell.

I had similar feelings once, as I stood under the Grandstand one rainy night in Luneta. The greatest stories I've heard in my life were told on that one rainy night. Under the rain, the people of Luneta started running for shades and Granddstand being the largest of them all became immediately packed with people. I found myself sitting on a bleacher beside families, lovers, lunatics, transvestites, hookers and hustlers, ciminals, saints, Christians and Muslims, all from different Philippine islands, all carrying bags. I observed what their bags contained - a mother pulled out a bottle for her infant, a girlfriend pulled out a pill box, a transvestite pulled a compact, a Christian pulled his Bible, hustlers and hookers their weeds, Muslims their Korans.

In our compressed and temporary existence, inside the Grandstand, under the heavy monsoon rains, we started swapping stories: a job lost, a mind lost, a family member lost, a lover lost, virginity lost, shame lost. In my young mind, Luneta became populated by people who either lost something or everythng. And the more losses one had, the dearer he became to his listeners' hearts.

It was a competitive story-telling among the best losers in the land.

When one mentioned he lost a family member, another said he lost two. When another complained about the weather, another lamented over the state of economy and politics as if these were the causes of bad weather. When one revealed his lost leg, another came out of nowhere without limbs. If one had TB, another had cancer. If one had sold blood, another had sold a kidney. And so on and so forth.

Then a transvestite yelled at the throng, "All of you," he shouted, "Get out of this place and don't come back. I own this place. Rizal whose monument stand across all of us is my cousin. He owns this place." This transvestite looked emaciated and dirty, wore a dress from god knows which clothesline it was hanging on, or which grave it was stolen from, his make-up was too uneven and certainly failed to beautify him, was given the most sympathy and the kindest remarks. He was the biggest loser here, he already lost his mind.

Those were days when life was so hard and colorful in Manila. Living in Luneta gave me endless stories to tell, a mine of characters that would always play in my imaginations even beyond my own grave.

The night was slowly sliding from darkness to dawn and I was still standing on the CCP grounds, staring at Keith Devlon who was slipping into comatous slumber. He was too weak to even lay down, he hardly moved from the position in which we found him first - alcohol had overpowered him - his eyelids were closed.

"Keith," I said, he fought hard to raise his head to acknowledge me, the guy must have had too much to suffer for the woman he loved. How many would go out on a limb, cross an ocean, risk trust to strangers, be beaten up and left in a dark corner, thousands of miles away from his family, his country, his friends? All for a woman?

I won't do such a thing. Hell, I was too much security-conscious to do that! I'm already in my thirties. Keith looked like he was twenty-five.

I watched him, as his blood clotted and dried on his forehead, rendering some strands of his light hair dry and stiff red, I suddenly thought, quite naturally, what a horny gay man like me would think in a situation like this. Wouldn't it be nice to take advantage of the situation, make love with him, in his drunkeness? But I quickly swept away my three second fantasy. If I were to do that, I may as well cut out the last thread of dignity and respectability in myself and my country.

This was a situation that called for kindness and friendship; not for selfishness and lust. As a gay person, I too had suffered for love. I used to love a man for years and years, imbued by a dream that we'd live together forever. Eventually. Only to end up standing beside him in front of the altar as his best man on his wedding day to a beautiful woman.I promised myself since then that I'd never fall in love again. The hardest thing is always to act like nothing is wrong. As the best man, I provided the steel structure upon which my man leaned on. I moved around as the joker, I gave the best speech about him, I offered the most sincere toast for their success as a couple.

It would have been easy for me then to cry and scream and break bones and commit suicide and murder and pillage and call for war. But what's the point of doing all that? That was cynical and I wouldn't still be loved back. A gay man should never expect romantic love with a straight guy. It's like asking a fish to fly.

After my failure with that love, I have learned to adopt a personal philosophy - that life is dance - it assumes different positions and postures and steps - even facial expressions. In believing this fact, I no longer became the gay person who longed for love everlasting. I realized the best way to become a human being is by giving my best self to anyone I meet, whether it's Keith or Boy Luneta or anyone, because it's their recollection of me that will remain constant forever. My kindness will be immortalized through their memories.

So between taking advantage of Keith and giving him kindness, I preferred the latter. Frankly speaking, even if I stole sex from him, it would be worth nothing but a fifteen to twenty minute pleasure. If I offered him my sincerest friendship on the other hand, it would probably last even after the day I die.

Spare me then of lust and desire for the body of the man, I'd rather be someone watching over him in his darkest moment. While he was sleeping.

And when tomorrow comes...tomorrow...

Reality took charge over me and I remembered Boy Luneta. He was sitting not far from Keith. He was wide awake now. The two of us looked like dwarves in Gulliver's Travels, wondering what to do with the sleeping giant. With impending sunrise, Boy Luneta bore the face that I loved to stare and stare at forever since our younger years. His face was afraid but curious - ready to flight or fight - an expression he usually showed especially in odd situations similar to what we were situated now - he never changed, really, unlike me - that's probably the reason why he remained handsome. I somehow associated his boyishness to his limited geography, I don't know why. I write this as a well travelled man. Alas, whether I liked it or not, Boy Luneta will grow old too. Alas, there'd come a day when we'd never meet this way again.

"Alex Maskara," he called when he caught my eyes staring at him, "Let's leave now." His voice was now nervous, like the voice of a thief caught with the stolen goods in his hand.

"Why?" I asked. "We can't leave him alone like this. He needs our help." I spoke with firmness, intent in showing this abused and violated Caucasian tourist that there was still kindness left in Manila.

"Are you crazy?" his voice thundered to almost hysterical. "Can't you see he's robbed and beaten? What's wrong with you? Lets not fight over this now. Lets go fast. When tomorrow comes and we're both found with this..." he struggled to recall Keith's name, but failed, "...this...this...stupid tourist, we'd be accused, man."

"Of what?" I asked curiously.

"He's robbed, can't you see that with your two f---ing eyes?"

"We didn't rob him."

"Ha! Try that line with the police. Read my lips: S-U-S-P-E-C-T. That's what we'd become if we'd linger here."

Dismissing his fears, I said, "I'm going to help this man."

He started fidgeting, pacing back and forth along the iron fence, sometimes, he'd stare at the ground, sometimes he'd stare at me, sometimes at the sleeping Keith. "Please I beg of you," he pleaded.

I shook my head. "When the sun rises tomorrow, Keith Devlon would have cleaned himself, changed his shirt and I'd accompany him to the US Embassy to seek help. So if you'd like to help, go fetch him a clean shirt and wet towels. Here," I took my wallet and pulled out one thousand peso bill and forced it into his hand, "Go fetch us those things."

Boy Luneta's eyes switched from the bill in his hand to my face to the sleeping body of Keith, "No," he said. "I can't be part of this."

"Well, this is goodbye then," I said with a tone of dismissal.

He remained standing there, fidgety and restless, like a man faced with the most critical decision in his life. After a few seconds, he blurted out, "Alright! Alright!Alright! I'd get the shirt and towels. Alright! But don't count on me one hundred percent! If you'd get into trouble for this Alex Maskara, don't expect me to run and embrace you like goddamn Sisa! You are so f---ing hard-headed!"

"If I were not f---ing hard-headed Boy Luneta, I'd still be here in Luneta sharing my tales of woes with the likes of you."

It was too late to take back the words I said, I regretted saying them as Boy Luneta became suddenly quiet and squinted his eyes at me. I didn't mean to offend him. Again.

He tucked the bill in his front pocket and walked away. His black pants, black leather jacket, black moussed hair quickly merged with the dark. Then he boarded a jeepney toward the direction of Quiapo.

I casually sat beside Keith Devlon, ruminating my melancholy thoughts. I half-believed the return of Boy Luneta. He'd got the money. There was no need for him to help me with my good-samaritan shit toward Keith. Why would I fool myself into thinking otherwise? Besides, if I were found with Keith Devlon, I can prove I didn't need to rob him. I have money and an American job.

If Boy Lunta, a penniless hustler who had been in and out of jails would be found in the morning with robbed and beaten Keith, it would be another story.

This is a fact of life - people, places, events, situations, even accidents are always percieved differently depending on the players. But I did no want to waste more time thinking about these things.

Just like Boy Luneta, the almost-lucky night I could have had would vanish at the crack of dawn, as the sun would roll away the dark clouds and change the tapestry of Manila landscape. The sea would swell with boats and ships, Manila night creepers would be replaced by day humanity doing different jobs and wearing different faces. They would grind and toil and get old too, like me, before they realize they're the only ones left in their generation.

So I'd like to cherish the few remaining minutes of this, my Luneta night, here, in the city of Manila that I love. For ten years, I longed for this, the chance for my eyes to re-locate the sights that used to be here, my ears to hear the sounds that used to be played, my skin to feel the cold sensation of the morning breeze - before I too, would vanish.

But before I vanish, before life gives way to death, I still have dreams to fulfill. My only goal in life now, was to circle the globe - I wanted to see it all before I go. Because for me, that's the only thing this world is capable of giving me: a thin glimpse of what it is. But isn't that the most important thing in life?

There is nothing constant in life, nothing perhaps except...

I raised my eyes toward the sky to see the moon squeezing itself between the thick clouds of the night sky, as if for a brief moment, before the sun was to explode in total splendor, it wanted to beam its dim light for the world to see and to remind me of its permanence and constancy - the moon was over Luneta.



Chapter Five



paano kita malilimot?

Walang lunas upang malimot
Pagsuyong kay tamis
Pangakong kay taos
Paano nga kaya kita malilimot?
Boy Luneta left me in the company of Keith Devlon who was drunk and asleep. Since I had nothing to do, I sat on the grass myself. I felt an instant relief in my legs. I've been on my feet for more than a day now. My eyes drifted to the bay. The dawn of Manila Bay has a lullaby effect on me.

My body gently rocked to the rhythmic formations of waves that pounded the rocks, waves breaking into splashes in the air that fell upon me like gentle drizzles, cold but reassuring, wetting me yet promising a breeze to dry me too. The darkness was dissipating and becoming light gray, softening the morning. And I began to recall the many mornings now happening around this tropical country. In my barrio the cocks by now would start their symphony of crowing and from far-away I'd hear the isolated cranking of an engine.

---I lay awake listening to these early morning sounds, using them to orient myself in my barrio world - is the crowing cock somewhere north of me, or south, or west, or east? Is the running engine belonging to a tricycle or a jeepney? And who may be awake now this very early morning? The images of people emerge like phantoms of my past. I hear my parents waking, my mother stir-frying left-over rice from last night, mixing it with garlic and eggs and MSG. I hear her arrange kerosene soaked firewood in the clay stove and blow air through a bamboo pipe to start fire. Then the clatter of pans and casseroles follow sharpening my senses, vanishing the ghost of sleep. I hear my father gingerly descend the stairs, with a slight withholding of breath, releasing a suppressed moan due to his arthritic pains. He picks up the rake and stick broom to clear our backyard of the dirt from yesterday. And to weed it. Then he builds a morning bonfire, like a primitive ritual, to heat his joints. And then he smokes his tobacco. I recall I am tasked to water the plants daily. I start my day pumping water from the artesian well into pails. Then I carry the water to pour on the vegetable plots. I am surrounded by tropical trees and vegetation that creep all around the house, to the backyard climbing the fences, bearing their produce along the way. My father plant bitter melon and squash, sweet potatoes, eggplants and tomatoes. My mother has her own flowering plants. In May, her flowers bloom like a painting. I smell ylang ylang and gardenias. I see orchids I've never seen before.---

I heard the chirping of crickets. I saw the silhouette of coconut leaves swaying with the rhythm of waves. I vaguely sensed the periodic passing of jeepneys - I listened to them while watching the mesmerizing slow glide of the moon, forgetting Keith Devlon whom I vowed to protect and watch over. My eyelids drooped lazily as they surrendered my body to the CCP darkness and sweet embrace of dawn and slumber. My mind started playing a familiar tune:

Alaala,
Nang tayo'y mag-sweetheart pa
Namamasyal pa sa Luneta
Nang walang pera
In my drowsiness, my world was in silver. I was walking beside a silver shore by a silver sea. The sky was so shiny and gray that it could be considered a silver sky. It was a shiny silver. Bright. And far ahead was a silver mountain. I must be so alone in this world I thought. Is this heaven? C'mon, heaven must be made of gold. Not silver! I began to protest - No this is not real! Nothing is silver anymore. Everything has color. But the silver has this pacifying effect on me. It's like being dead in a silver coffin.

I felt hands shaking my shoulders.

"Wake up! Wake up!"

I opened my eyes and lazily closed them again, thinking what I saw was an extension of what I was dreaming. What I saw was not silver but a morning figure staring down at me, a face familiar yet not so familiar. "What an odd thing," I thought, "From a silver world to a morning face staring down on me."

"Dammit! Wake up!" the voice was now louder. Cold current passed through my body.

I opened my eyes, "What the hell..." Above me was Boy Luneta's face. "What time is it?" I asked. I rubbed my eyes. Boy Luneta seemed to have added an entire generation to his years. His baseball cap was mal-aligned, his hair was in disarray and he smelled liquor with cigarette and sweat. Worse, his skin was oily and mixed with dust. All my romantic feelings towards him last night disappeared. I hate to see a night companion waking up with me in the early morning. Most especially when he was drunk. And I didn't want to be seen the way I was in that morning either when the gel in my hair was mixed up with sweat and smell of Manila Bay water. I felt my perfume was turned fishy. I suddenly wished I was still in the world of sleep.

"You told me to pick these things up," Boy Luneta lifted a white t-shirt marked GUESS in bold letters. His other hand carried neatly folded towels in four layers.

I sat up and looked around me. I saw the sleeping Keith Devlon, snoring, and his sight made me remember everything. I recalled what the shirt and towels were for. Last night I decided I'm gonna help him get to the US Embassy which was only a walking distance from where we were.

Having fallen asleep in Luneta, the first thing I checked was my wallet, it was still there. I also checked my watch. It read five o clock. The dawn was now about to recede and the yellow rays of the morning glory were breaking out. I saw figures of joggers slowing down at the three of us, curiously observing what we were doing on the grassy lot. Their gaze was a mixture of suspicion and concern when it landed on Keith's poor state. I gave them a mind-your-own-business look.

"Now what?" asked Boy Luneta.

Daylight always provides a reality check to me. Boy Luneta's beauty was gone, his bug eyes were now more visible and his wrinkles more prominent. His teeth were misshapen and nicotine colored their bases. I closed my eyes for a second to organize my thoughts. I recalled that Keith Devlon was robbed and beaten and needed to clean up before seeking help in the nearby US Embassy. My goals now clear, I sprang up to my feet only to feel the dampness of my behind. The morning dew seeped through my pants. Still, I was in a hurry. Dampness could dry up easily but I couldn't lose time in helping Keith. He just couldn't go to US embassy all bloody and dirty. I wanted him to look presentable.

I walked toward him. Shook his shoulders.

"Keith, wake up!"

Unlike me, he jumped from his sleep and looked around with blood-shot eyes. "Huh!" he cried. And unlike me, he seemed to have awakened to a surreal dream. I originally thought Keith Devlon was twenty five years old. With the morning light, I added five more years to his twenty-five.

"You need to change," I addressed him, handing him the GUESS shirt. I wondered if it fitted him. "Take this towel too, go to the bathroom to clean up."

He looked at me perplexed. Unable to figure what I was talking about, he asked, "And who the hell are you?"

I nearly cussed him. "I've been here talking to you the whole night and you don't even remember me? Keith, you've been robbed and beaten and you need to change clothes to get to the US Embassy. I will accompany you there."

Typical of any American I knew, he cut me quick by raising his arms, "Hold it, hold it...what happened to me you say?"

I really didn't have time to repeat myself. I wanted to get over my plans for him as fast as possible. "Keith, you were drunk last night and you've been robbed."

"I heard that!" he raised his voice."And so?"

What an impertinent foreigner! "Well, I'm here to help!" I yelled back.

I knew all about foreigners' distrust of Manila and its residents, and there could be some basis to that. I'd even go further and accept his guarded response to me. I would be that pissed too if I went through what he went through. But I could not tolerate his total superiority complex. No drunk person could get amnesia out of a few beers even if he took all the beer supply of Germany. It was not like as if I never got drunk before. And his rude behavior! What, like I never lived in Florida?

I said, "Okay, I will just ask you one question Keith - do you want me to help you or not?"

"Help me with what?" he asked, still reeling from his confusion.

"I'm gonna help you seek the aid of the US Embassy," I emphasized.

He looked at me as if I came from Mars. "What made you think I'd like to go to the US Embassy?"

I turned my eyes away from him. I was suppressing the temptation of giving 'it' back to him. In the past, I could be rude to rude people but my life had been radically changed since I lived and worked in the United States. I've learned to look away, to shut my mouth, to keep the angry thoughts to myself because it was more safe to take flight than fight. This is one thing you learn in a foreign land - the locals assume you are alone and helpless and not entitled to as much rights as they inherently possess. And they are right one way or another. So they become more careless and carefree in their dealings with you. To them fighting is not a weapon in your arsenal. They even make jokes reporting you to Immigration, threatening you with deportation, and though it is verbalized as a joke more often than not, you always fear the very notion of that, afraid that tomorrow, everything you got will all disappear, you dread to return home to an impoverished family and kids relying on you for their future. I know how it feels to be an OFW in another country. Surviving as OFW is a combination of luck and carefulness, everyday you walk on tiptoes, balancing yourself in a high wire, always on the side of caution, following the rules to the minutest dot, always thinking this might be the last chance you have because there is nothing left for you in your own country, and so, you've got to make the best out of it. Otherwise you'd fall off the wire and die.

Somehow I have to admit: Americans are not a hospitable people. They stand for their rights and make sure they get their fair share, sweetness and smiles and bowing and quick sympathies are not exactly among their best qualities.

Why did I even assume Keith Devlon wanted to go the US Embassy? Perhaps it's because that's the first thing I'd want to do if I, being an American citizen now, would find myself in a similar predicament. I think we humans wanna be home at the first sign of trouble - this is similar to terminally ill people whose only wish in life is to die comfortably in their own homes, that's why Nursing Home patients are always plotting routes of escape to their homes. Dying away from home is such a miserable prospect.

Why did I even put my feet in Keith Devlon's shoes and assumed he wanted to go home? And where is home for anybody? Is home for me home for him?

"You asshole," my first American boss cursed me in my first year of working in the US. This was after he learned I walked a patient who was not supposed to walk. I told him there was a medical order to ambulate the patient. The only thing was, I missed the date the order was supposed to be implemented: It had to be done the following day after the patient's surgery. Her surgery was the following day.

"Why did you walk her full weight-bearing?"

"I assumed full weight bearing because there were no precautions written," I answered with a gentle voice, but nervous, and confused.

"Let me tell you something Alex Maskara," this nasty boss screamed at me, "You don't assume anything in this country. If you do, you'll make an ASS out of U and ME ( this cliche was new to me in 1990). In this country, you keep asking and asking until everything is crystal clear in your brains. If you doubt a situation, an order, a handwriting, a statement, a claim, you need to verify it even if the one you disturb screams back at you. You want to make sure everything is right or you'd end up in the garbage bin."

This was in 1990, I just arrived in the USA. There was no damage done to the patient with that mistake but of course I know now how wrong I was then. But the attitude of my boss triggered an extreme anger that enveloped me like a placenta, it was an anger directed towards America and my country for letting me go through hell despite my good intentions in working - for livelihood, for food, for money, for serving sick Americans and sending money back home to keep my native country's economic survival, for everything else except pride and dignity.

I was about to tell Keith Devlon I assumed he wanted to go immediately to the US Embassy because that's what I'd do if I were in the same situation. But I bit my tongue from saying that knowing that in America, you don't quickly jump to conclusions, you don't assume, you don't guess what the other thinks, you don't estimate...many people died because of wrong assumptions - the weapons of mass destruction by Saddam Hussein for example was a big assumption.

I know Americans better now. Sure there are ugly Americans but even the ugliness we see is a matter of perception.

Is a rude American an ugly American? For example, there is no way to undo a mistake in the medical field. If you damaged a patient because of wrong medical assumption - whether you assumed it was this and that dosage of medication to give or this or that part of the body to operate on - if a life is cut because of a single mistake of assumption, you can never, ever undo that. And the man rudely screaming at you to correct you in that situation is a better friend than someone who nods his head pleasantly and assures you that you are correct even when you are wrong.

Yeah, ugliness, it's a matter of perception.

I refused to look back at Keith Devlon as I kept my eyes glued to the bay. Patience, that's my strongest trait as a Filipino. It's probably the only trait Americans admire me for. "You Filipinos are so patient," an American told me once. And he inquired how we acquire and develop it. The only thing that I could attribute my patience to is the life of the barrio where people must get used to waiting, waiting for the crops to grow and produce, waiting for the rain, waiting for the sun, waiting in lines, waiting for kids to grow, waiting for birth and death, waiting...we Filipinos have been trained to wait dutifully. So when Americans find me lingering forever in a duty or task or thought, it is something impossible for them to tolerate.

It's the same patience I summon now as I deal with irritated and rude Keith Devlon. I carry this mentality that eventually things will get cleared up and if only I'd hold my tongue and reject the emotional outbursts one is tempted to commit in the heat of the moment, things will get resolved.

The three of us became quiet.

In a few minutes, Keith Devlon cleared up his throat, this time his tone was more calm, perhaps he remembered everything now, and perhaps he realized the two guys that stayed with him the whole night had nothing in mind but good intentions. Yeah, with patience, things would get resolved.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I came here to find the woman I love and I'm intending to return back home with her. I am going to no embassy even if they take my lifeless body away."

Keith wasn't the type who would retreat in the face of failure. He returned to the Philippines for his woman, and vowed to return home with her. With or without friends and money. Be it alone or with the help of Boy Luneta and me.

The three of us proceeded to one Luneta bathroom guarded by a kid who charged one peso coin to every user. I grunted at this - how in the world could a public utility be converted into business by this kid? This was illegal. It reminded me of my college, when street boys converted logs into makeshift bridges (for a quarter), for pedestrians over flooded streets. Some may call that enterprise, but for me, it's pathetic. Is this how limited our Manila opportunities are? The bathroom was spics and span but nobody uses it, Filipinos would rather relieve themselves against empty walls than pay a couple of bucks in toilets .

But I'm now swerving from the line of my story.

Let me return to my original tale.



Chapter Six



I discovered to my relief that Keith had only a small cut in his scalp, now dried up, and was no longer bleeding. He was quick to wash himself clean and change his shirt.

Boy Luneta took more time to clean himself up. He became shy, careful, apprehensive, and giggly in going through his personal necessities. The boisterous and confident hustler of the night reverted back into being an innocent young man, which in some ways added more attractiveness to his personality. Boy Luneta was how I was when I was still a Manila resident. And I realized how much I changed.

Nowadays, I feel more assured of myself and I attribute this to the toughness of living alone in a foreign soil. Boy Luneta on the contrary, had always been where he was, never had an opportunity to see other people and places - designating him forever to his present lot - and what is his life now, where will his life lead eventually? Will he stay? Will he leave to go somewhere?

It will remain a struggle for Filipinos who deal with this two-sided coin existence. Who has a better life, the one who opts to stay behind or the one who leaves to find his opportunity abroad? And who gains more? The one who battles for nationalism, constructing walls to keep outsiders at bay or one who opens the doors for anyone? Who will save this country, the few elites or the mass of ordinary class? Who is better, he who is hospitable and kind to a foreigner or he who distrusts every foreigner? Who is better, this president or that president? This political party or that political party? This religion or that religion? And so on and so forth....

But to each his own...I'd never announce to anyone I'm better than Boy Luneta - what proof do I have for this ? Look at me, I am a man in a floating world. If there is a true islander, it must be me. I've lived in an island perched on the mountains of America for the past ten years without a relative, without a guardian and without any particular history to tie me up to this new land. I was the boy who left his country to help his impoverished family by serving the sick in America. I chose losing my identity in exchange for security.

And when I go home, I always describe my visits in my home country as too long to wait and too short to stay. And every time I talk with my family, we're always bound to compress our conversations - no pauses, no sighs - because the phone calls cost too much.

I entertained these thoughts while watching my companions finish their tasks. Keith Devlon was now much cleaner. He was actually returning to his normal self which was far from being rude. Keith Devlon was getting to be happy. He wore the shirt Boy Luneta bought from God knows where and as American as they come, asked to wear Boy Luneta's baseball cap. We discarded his dirty shirt and extra towels into the garbage can to the chagrin of Boy Luneta who thought they could still be washed and cleaned and kept, salvaged, really, besides, they are Made in America.

We walked out and met the morning of Manila and just like the other mornings of the many days of my life spent here, I became jubilant at the sight of abundant bougainvilleas in full blooms of pink petals, gumamelas that were occasionally visited by bees and dragonflies, well-trimmed lawns, the gardens transported me to my youth.

I remember the mornings when I would run and pause along Manila Bay to check out the morning flowers in bloom under coconut trees, like beautiful women guarded by protective and confident men. These flowers reminded me of beauty amidst the dust and chaos in the city. I remember passing by the waifs that just woke up on their plastic mats, rubbing their eyes, and amidst a depressed surrounding they still manage to smile. Amazing how innocent kids never fret about the miseries of their lives. How they survive, I'd never know. Homelessness in Manila is so historic and prevalent that people hardly notice the victims. We think they disappear once we ignore them. Especially now that I had lived a couple of years in the US, where a child as vulnerable as these ones can cause panic among people, politicians, media practitioners, we Filipinos had become so numb and heartless in the face of the same child. They're not even given a name or a number to monitor them. They are born as non-entities and disappear as non-entities. But look how full of life they enjoy compared to the barren people around them. As if the flowers along the Bay gave them refreshment and hope, they would walk lazily and feel the morning breeze, watch the sky turn gray to gold to blue, this they do before they face the harsh reality of their lives when the blazing sun would burn their skins. They'd pick up garbage, shine shoes, wash cars, beg, sell anything.

But this is not all there is to see in Manila Bay and Luneta in the morning. Filipinos are not all this sad and poor and miserable. There are playgrounds here as well. I remember the mornings in front of the Grandstand, when the Filipino-Chinese formed lines and slow danced the tai-chi, as if worshiping God. There were the usual joggers and runner. There used to be soccer teams playing, mostly belonging to well-to-do Manila families. I remember the days of People Power when Sundays marked the loud screams of morning rallyists asking for Philippine justice. And they painted Roxas Boulevard yellow. At times you'd see red, with all the left-leaning radicals descending in search of whatever ideal society they are aspiring for.

These were only memories now.

In our stroll, I understood the reason behind the transformation of Boy Luneta. He was trying his best to appear like an ordinary Filipino man, his black jacket tucked under his arms, the mousse in his hair washed off, his eyes were downcast. Boy Luneta is a perfect example of a failed nation and society. He is a male prostitute at nights and he's aware it's illegal, it's corrupt, it destroys the foundation of self, it's demeaning, it makes the soul flee from the body, yet, it's the only way to survive. And how many prostitutes are there among us? When I wake up in the morning and drag myself to work which I hate a lot of times, I too am prostituting myself. The politician who'd say anything to garner a vote is no different from a whore who promises tricks so a client can be lured to her bed. It's no different from a whore who would offer more and more drinks to a client so inhibitions turn loose including the wallet and the sense of decency. How many professions are there whoring everyday. How many lawyers and doctors and scientists and businessmen and even priests lie in the name of covetousness and greed and morality and profit?

We heard a whistle. Followed by a greeting.

"Hmmm, Boy Luneta...how much are you today Boy Luneta?"

In hearing this, I felt my heart being ripped into thin strips and my throat forming a lump. It was the most despicable insult I've ever heard. Despite my desire to resolve Keith Devlon's situation as fast as I could, despite the attraction of the morning colors of Luneta, despite the smell of coffee and siopao rising out of coffee blenders and steaming casseroles, despite the sweepers' bending to pick the scattered debris of the night that just passed, despite my impending failure to call this day a day and fear that what I thought was an opportunity to give kindness was anything but opportunity, I stopped and dropped all my thoughts and schemes. I wanted to turn around, and beat the shit out of the son-of a bitch source of this insult.

Boy Luneta and I were both young once, oh yes, and when we were young, we talked and talked as every young boy or girl would talk when they wanted to be profound. We talked of our surviving young and getting old, how to be rich and how to be bold, how to be respected and how to gather millions, how to be popular and how to be secured. We talked like engineers designing grand edifices, monuments to our future glories. We dreamed of people bowing to us, giving us honor and respect because...we were survivors of a Philippine decade, when, for the likes of poor people like us, being alive was in itself a true accomplishment. Our people were dying of hunger, of political vendettas, of imprisonments, of diseases and crimes and drugs. We lived through that, didn't we? We made it, didn't we?

"Ay," Boy Luneta told me in those days, "I'm just hustling so I could make ends meet. One day, I'd quit this and go to college like you, and find a real job, and then, I'll never hit the streets again."

He said this after we watched the film Macho Dancer by Lino Brocka. We stood side by side in front of Odeon Theater. I was waiting for a jeepney ride back to my apartment, he, back to Luneta.

He was holding a pocket full of peanuts, shooting nuts into his mouth, playfully, challenging me to form my mouth into a ring, “Like this,” he said, he was funny with that mouth like a fish mouth, and I did copy it, catching nuts with it, bursting into giggles every time I missed.

We were barely in our twenties then, and I never felt happier in my life. Boy Luneta became my friend after our first encounter in the Park. I was a penniless college kid in a top university, full of scholarship and free tuition but virtually nil allowance. I wandered on the Luneta grounds to be free from the noise in my boarding house and forget hunger. I met him. He soon let me enter into his street life, he wore the trend of the eighties, living a hustler lifestyle where "you wanna look old when you're young and look young when you're old." Boy Luneta then had a boyish face - soft lips, tight muscles in stretch pants, eyes that sparkled with dreams. And hope and confidence.

"Tell me your real name, Boy Luneta," I asked him, the way I asked him many many times before. He answered me in his usual fashion - with another fictional name - to my utter frustration.

Why couldn't he share with me the real person behind the Boy Luneta facade?

"I can't," he confided with me later. "I don't want you to associate my real name for what I do at present. Someday I'll tell you everything about myself...when I'm worthy of your respect."

"I respect you," I answered, though sounding a bit patronizing.

"Ha!" he quipped with mockery. "What is worth respecting in hustling?"

"No , I mean I respect your privacy and anonymity if you wish it that way. But, you don't have to degrade yourself with me," I said.

There were fragments...like pieces of a broken vase that I mustered to gather through our friendship, and glued together, to see albeit partially, who Boy Luneta really was.

I knew he was born somewhere in Pangasinan, by a mother who died of TB while he was still an infant, his father was later killed by the guerrillas; he was tossed from relative to relative during his childhood, who, lucky for him, supported him until he finished high school. He went to Manila to try his luck at college, he failed miserably, so he ended up in the streets.

One day, he invited me into his boarding house where he stayed with eight other promdis who, just like him, were barely managing in the city. In the 80's, jobs were the hardest to find in Manila, finding a decent job for a high school graduate was almost equivalent to winning the lottery.

Oh he tried applying for jobs in MacDonald's and Wendy's but he could not compete with similar applicants from exclusive colleges. Construction jobs were flat. Manufacturing was zero. Philippine economy was spinning spirally to the brink of bankruptcy.

So he lived by selling his body.

I sat on his bunk bed while he changed his clothes. When he opened his closet, there I saw something about him that I'd never forget.

In that tiny compartment were his jeans neatly pressed and were hung according to colors. His shirts were carefully folded and wrapped in plastic bags, everything from his socks to underwear to shoes to cologne had appropriate boxes and properly labeled. I then wondered what he thought while arranging his stuff in his closet - indeed, what was he up to in keeping his closet so organized only to lock it afterward?

"Someday," he said, "I'd have a carpeted condo overlooking Manila Bay. I'd wake up to wear the whitest shirt you'd eve see, the most elegant tie you'd ever dream of. I'd give my key to the valet who'd run to get my BMW. I'd drive my way along the Manila Bay coast to my office in Makati."

He thought that someday the Philippines, like its Asian neighbors will just boom and boom and boom economically. Investments from abroad will come and he would be hired by multinational companies, for he is cock sure of his talent. He was a top student in high school despite the odds against him. And if he’d only be given the money and opportunity, he could be a top college student too. Graduate, pass boards in Accountancy and become a Lawyer. He wanted to become a corporate lawyer someday.

I wonder where those dreams went as we strolled on the grounds of Luneta, right this instant, after all these years as we found ourselves too drifted apart.

I differed from him. In our younger years, he could bid his time in fulfilling his dreams because he lived alone and had no responsibilities except for himself. Unlike him, I had a big family that depended on me. I was the last resort. I had parents who were sick, brothers and sisters who had new families, nieces and nephews who needed food, medicine, education, future. I was the only hope, the only possible success after strings of our family's failures and errors. There was an immediate necessity for me to find employment whatever it took. I had to work and earn and earn a lot. I ventured to work abroad. After ten years, this is where we stand.

To each his own. I've used that line so many times. It's such a lame excuse for indifference and apathy. Boy Luneta was a part of my spent past, whatever happened to him happened, I thought inconsolably, because I left him. Did he remain walking the streets through the nights dreaming his dreams while I slept in the comforts of Miami? When did his hope vanish and how did it come about? I could picture him now, there he was, confident about tomorrow, vowing he'd abandon the streets when the right time comes, but his shoes burned the pavement with no end in sight. It is easy to be cocky and confident in one's youth but, but youth is so fleeting, and so fast you'd hardly notice it vanishing. You'd see it in the eyes of the people around you, you'd feel it in the familiarity of whatever you're used to. One day you're no longer the new kid on the block. Then you'd notice fat building around your belly the way your old man built his. One day a client would hand you a hundred peso bill for your service, then at another, he'd hand you fifty. You'd realize it's really over when you start begging him to take you. Yeah, that would always be the lowest point of whoring, and I'm curious when exactly did Boy Luneta reach that lowest point, when did he realize college and corporate Law and the BMW and the condo overlooking Manila Bay were no longer feasible in his life? How would that feel? Is it the same as the feeling of losing a battle with cancer or realizing the project you spent your life working on is impossible, or is it the saem feeling of a parent who, after trying and trying so many years, pregnancy is no longer in the cards? Did he deny his failure? Did he accept it and changed his course. Did he convert his painful reality to a fantasy?

What Boy Luneta have gone through would not hurt me had I not known him. But I did.

He said he would never reveal his true self as long as he's not respected. When would his respectability come about? How could he reclaim his identity with insults like “how much are you today Boy Luneta?”

While I was away, I too entertained the dream and hope that I'd meet him someday wearing the whitest shirt and most elegant tie, driving a BMW, calling me, inviting me - to a bar perhaps or to his wife, kids - hell I didn't care, as long as I'd see the true person hiding behind Boy Luneta living it to the fullest.

But wasn't I a part of his failure? Wasn't it just last night when I considered him my hustler? Didn't I immediately hand him money in anticipation of something intimate in return? Last night, while drunk, I never thought of our past. I never gave him the respect I promised him when we were younger. Last night, the way I treated him, I was just as despicable as the man who insulted him.

What is it in Luneta that makes one presume its night dwellers are for sale? Is it the way they look at you? Do they appear more alluring and inviting? Is it the manner they dress? The loneliness they exude? The appearance of poverty and vulnerability?

Luneta, how did it end up the park of sex and crime and poverty? This was the Manila Park where old Spanish women sat on benches to pray the rosary. The picnic spots of many noble families, the symbol of Jose Rizal's greatest triumph, the trenches of world powers' battles, the recreation shore of American soldiers, the crying place of many a Philippine revolution.

Nowadays, it seems too old and tired, deprived of honor it deserves. Was it because it took all the hungry, the penniless, the tired, the destitute and provided them a breather, a respite, a shelter?

I took a harder look at the man who uttered the insults at Boy Luneta. The man was the age of Boy Luneta, dressed like him, but more emaciated, his eyes have sunk deeper in their sockets, he was lighting his Marlboro and when our eyes met, he winked at me. I returned him a stern look he started walking away. Ah, the sadness of it all! The horror of it all!!



Chapter Seven



Manila was at its peak and I was sweating like crazy. What used to be my favorite activities under this heat, during my younger years, were something I had second thoughts of doing now. As a young man, under this heat I used to wander in Baclaran - huddle, bargain, haggle prices with vendors - eat dinuguan and tokwa. This time, I was more careful, negativistic, full of 'if's'. Pessimism grows with age.

So I did not go inside Baclaran, instead I sat beside Keith Devlon and Boy Luneta inside a DM Transit bus, it was a cozy bus, this one, as it crawled its way out of the thick traffic of people, who were releasing varying voices and hollers, and their footsteps - in shoes, slippers, clogs, or plain barefootedness - merging together - all these made me smile as I closed my eyes...and allowed the cacophony enter my soul ...

Balut! Penoy! Sigarilyo! Juicy Fruit kayo boss! And I remembered Nora Aunor's song about selling stuff:

ang hanapbuhay ko ay ang pagtitinda
naglalako ng pagkain at meriyenda
ang pangalan ko ay kilala
kahit saan ako magpunta...
Hoy bili na,
Aling Iska,
nang maubos na ang aking
tinda!
The bus was air-conditioned, right behind the driver's seat, a video was being played for the passengers' entertainment. The video movie was violent, I've seen it before in America, it had John Travolta in it. Pulp Fiction wasn't it?

None of us three paid it any attention nevertheless. Keith was now relaxed on his seat. I was becoming nostalgic. Boy Luneta was becoming more and more silent.

We were on our way to Cavite. I have only been in Cavite once, when I was in colege. What I saw then was a land mantled with grasslands coveted by cows and water buffalos. On the horizon were rice fields and endless streams perfect for postcards. Now, ten years after, as I was passing by its streets again, I noticed its roads have become narrower and its population more numerous. Along the streets, people moved like they were late for something, they were pressed for time. This was important to me. It mattered to me to see people moving because it suggested action of some sort.

Ten years ago, every afternoon, people in Cavite appeared stuck beside their windows or on thatched house stairs as they stared at empty spaces. If you're not familiar with them, you would have misconstrued indolence in their silences. But these were farmers used to waking very early in the morning to tend their fields to beat the heat of the sun. By the afternoon they either take naps or stare at emptiness over their fields and crops. Generations after generations, people have lived and survived in this manner. They were the faces I took with me in leaving my country - many faces that became one face -

When I think and dream about my people, the face I see is the face of the common folk. It is not one featured in newspapers or glossy covers of magazines. It does not reflect the upper class or politics or religion. It is not the famous ethnic Hollywood star or multi-awarded Broadway actor we all so admire and emulate. The face I see is a silenced face, hardly noticed due to commonness of his features. He is brown, has black eyes, his eyebrows perpetually knotted in deep thought, curious and willing to change if change is needed for survival. He is one you'd most likely meet all over the world -- the carpenter in Saudi Arabia, the mason in Africa, the entertainer in Japan or Southeast Asia, the health worker in the USA. In the barrio, he is the one who could neither read nor write, yet he is one happy and contented in the rice fields and fishponds. Unfortunately, his ignorance often gets him caught unawares of the dwindling resources he and his family could rely on. In urban cities, this face is most likely belonging to the student who is falling behind and struggling to keep up with the more tech-savvy, upwardly mobile urbanized versions of him. He is also the one who ends up working the lowly jobs, laughed at for his non-traditional accent, always trying his best to be equal with everyone else. That's probably the reason why all the characters of my stories feature his face. He is the one I am seeking because he is one I am most familiar and comfortable with. He is my face. The one of too many covered under sheets of anonymity. Many people, especially in the city, can easily ignore him. Not I. I always see him. He is the Filipino face who has the eyes of the children who run after buses selling newspapers and cigarettes by the stick, the mother peddlers who sit in corners of Baclaran selling cheap wares, the peddlers of fortune in Quiapo, the sellers of soul saving devices, the hooker who sleeps during the day,wakes up at nights, the farmer who thinks of the pile of debts he has incurred, the laborer who looks at far distances thinking where to get his next job - all of them bear witness to the truths of this country, yet, they couldn't be heard, they couldn't speak, they couldn't dream high dreams. In other words, my Filipino face is the poor Filipino amidst us.

There is no denying it, my country was poor ten years ago, and it's still poor today.

Except, perhaps, this one difference: Ten years ago, no matter how much talents we possessed, we remained stagnant, forcibly, because there was no money to pay us, no business to hire us, no customers to buy what we sold. And because of this, we all dreamt of making it in other lands.Otherwise we remained lethargic in our helplessness.

But as our bus passed by the streets of Cavite, a glimmer of hope flickered in the horizon. People were moving. And this was so because they had a purpose, a boy pushing a cart of drums of water toward a stall that displayed metallic ladles, pails, casseroles had a purpose. This stall in turn depended on its neighboring stall that collected discarded metals in a junkyard where a blacksmith pounded endlessly on a metal fresh from furnace, metal thinned and curved. This junkyard and blacksmith had a purpose. And the metals became bigger and bigger as we moved along...this time, men were welding metals to form bodies of jeepneys. Somewhere, a young man was bent over an old discarded engine, recreating it, make it useful again.

If you wanna see real genius, watch the Filipino create a jeep from milk cans, watch him re-run an old engine. He doesn't throw away things, he recycles them.

The sight of all these made me happy. The stagnant people I left long ago are moving again. Rocks rolling. Stream flowing. Economic mobility re-establishing.

And these were the new sights and images I'd keep to myself which would replace the old common folk who sat on stairs and by windows doing nothing ten years ago. It is hard to explain to anyone what I feel about what I see. Before, I saw stagnancy, today I see mobility. Before, I saw a hopeless people, today I see them trying to keep the hope burning. Before, I was convinced we Filipinos could never match the skills and talents of other people of other lands, today I see skills that magically appeared out of nowhere. There are things about the Filipino that I always want to hide from the rest of the world. God-given gifts meant to be hidden inside, hard to comprehend for those who are foreign to Philippine culture.

We Filipinos have been through so much hardships and lack of opportunities that once we see opportunity along our way, we grab it so hard and won't let it go because our loves, our families, our communities depend on it. Even when we're applauded for our spectacular works, we still turn our heads away...because we've been through so much failures, sufferings, hopelessness and pains in our history that no spectacular applause or praise or award could alleviate it. To survive is sometimes good enough. It's the beauty I see in the eyes of the young child pushing his cart, who, when his eyes meet mine, smiles as if embarassed and pushes his cart harder. It's the beauty of the blacksmith whose body is shining under the oriental sun, all sweat, undaunted, oblivious of the world around him, all his attention is occupied by the metal he wants to shape, direct from the foundry, to his will. His skin, the shape of his muscles, the blackness of his hair, his height are enough to land him in magazines around the world - but that - he wouldn't care to know. All he wants right this moment is to finish his job. It's the beauty of the engine-repairman whose back is bent for hours, making do with what other people of other countries would probably consider junk. He wouldn't stop till the engine runs again. These, for me, are Pinoy characters and attributes only Pinoys can understand. Things meant to be kept only in Pinoy heart. This personal feeling, this private understanding among Pinoys was also made much clearer to me, for example, while walking along the Luneta. I met a throng of young men who were holding envelopes, I was certain, I didn't presume, those envelopes contained their resumes and passports and they were applying for jobs overseas. They looked at me the same way I looked at them. Despite our silences, we seemed to converse: My eyes revealing to them my life as an overseas worker, which probably dampened their spirits somehow, for I'm not exactly a happy overseas camper, but gained me enough respect that they let me pass, like a senior citizen, they seemed to have figured my life as an old timer OFW, without speaking a word to me.

The bus finally reached the town Cavite. Keith, Boy Luneta and I took a tricycle that, like a chariot, charged into the heat of noon sun, dust was swept by its wheels and it rose in spiral, enveloping us, that by the time we've reached our destination, we were already smelling like the Cavite soil, very similar to dry mud, and were greeted by pot bellied men who were making fun of my lilly-white skin. I knew I was home.

When I finally stood in front of my townhouse, it dawned on me finally how much I changed. Or how much the world I used to know has changed. Expatriates used to tell me that when I return home, after a long absence, things will shrink before my eyes - the roads will become narrower, the houses smaller, and yes, everything dirtier. But you see, there is one major difference in my life now - unlike ten years ago when I had no permanent place to lay my head on, now there stands in front of me, my townhouse.

This is my cheap townhouse! It sure carried an ambiance only my mother's interior design uniqueness can create.

My mother, she was the one who encouraged me to buy this townhouse. Because, to her, I would eventually settle back home after a few years of work in the US. That's what I and most Filipino overseas workers always claim. There's no home like the Philippines, and if ever I'd go to America, I'd go there only to earn the dollars which my family desperately needs, temporarily at least. I'd go to the land of plenty on a business - I'd be hired to serve the sick and be paid for it. But in all honesty, these sentiments are expressed with a little degree of guilt, of longing, of loss. I never thought of settling in America until I went to college. I grew up thinking I'd be born, live, work and die in my country. And when I remember my activism days and all those anti-imperialism-anti-MNC-anti-American rhetorics I uttered in the 80's and find myself in a world which runs counter to the nationalism I used to embrace, I get a little bit more defensive, a little bit more repentant and yes afraid, as if I'd be punished one day for not being true to my ideals at all. Which in effect has left me quite far-off, quite distant from the American culture where I now belong. It is the guilt of leaving my country that makes me refuse to assimilate wholly to American culture. But how can I settle home for good? America has a way of keeping me - bills keep mounting, amenities, abundance can't just be given up and, the next thing I know I've been in America for nine years, still saying, "One day, I'm going home for good." I often reason to myself that it took me twenty eight years to become a Filipino and I couldn't, for the life of me, just forsake those twenty eight years and become an American. But my number of years of being Filipino are now almost being equalled by the number of years I've lived as an American. And both these countries are increasingly becoming foreign to me. I am living in an isolated island where my loyalty is divided. And I am not even talking about retirement yet.

Which is appropriate then? Should I follow what my mother told me, to eventually drop my American citizenship and become Filipino again? And what prospect is there for an old Filipino like me in the Philippines? Would I be able to keep the lifestyle I got used to in America with a high paying job? And how much of my skill is needed in this country? How do I pay my bills? How can I own a car? If there is anything good in the Philippines it is this -- everything is cheap if you have dollars and getting old will be so much better with the many help available. Yet, what happens if I fell and broke my hip? What if I stood on a ladder to fix a bulb and get electrocuted? What if I got cancer or needed dialysis? Is there something like Medicare or should I pay out of my own pocket? And what number do you call if there is no 911?

Oh I am sure it is much better to retire in America. There are jobs, incomes, insurance and social security benefits. There is always 911 to call for emergencies. But, for a single person like me, the mere prospect of getting old and being dumped in a Nursing Home amidst a couple of strangers, without a family, dying with no one bringing flowers to my tomb in America fill me with dread.

Getting old whether in the Philippines or the US is dreadful anyway. Except for my immediate family, no one else knows me in my country anymore. It's a fact of life that growing old means the people you once knew get scarcer. Returning home to me means, you'd call someone you thought was always there, only to realize he has changed address, or he has moved to another country like you did. And that's it. Whoever answers the phone won't help you find your friend - Manila cannot provide the time and luxury - it seems everybody in this city is struggling to exist. Before Boy Luneta, I was walking in Manila as the loneliest man in the world. This loneliness became more real to me as I stood in the middle of the city, at the intersection of Avenida and Recto where there used to be always someone who'd recognize me and call my name. I stood alone with no one to talk to or to lead me or to greet me. I suddenly became a stranger in my own birthplace. How may I start a new life here? At my age, where do I re-establish social contacts and where do I go to for things I've gotten used to? Where do I live? What gym to go to? Where do I work? Where and with whom do I hang out? When I revisit my old hang-out places, these questions occupy my mind. It is very lonely for me now in Manila.

I gave my townhouse a quick inspection, I gave my own self a tour. The townhouse was small and hot. Compared to my townhouse in the US, this one was poor copy. It was painted yellow inside with some pastoral paintings on the walls, a stair leads to two bedrooms upstairs. Wooden floors, creaking stairs. Carpenter-assembled beds. No air-conditioning. My mother, in her attempt to make me feel most comfortable filled every room with an electric fan. What's their use really if the air they circulate is the same hot air I 'd like to escape from in first place? She also had an LPG gas stove and a small refrigerator installed for my meals, she couldn't make it to Cavite because of her hypertension.

It was so hot I took off my clothes and run to the cold shower. When I emerged from it, I found Keith Devlon lying on the sofa, snoring.

Boy Luneta on the other hand, stood like a statue staring at the cheap landscape painting hanging on the wall, the type of painting my Mother would love to buy in Divisoria. Boy Luneta saw me coming out of the shower. And turning his head back to the painting, he asked, "So... this is your own house?"

The tone of his voice carried a lot of meaning, and I, being sensistive to such a thing, chose not to answer him. The firmness of his voice, the stance he bore, his refusal to face me, the stiffness of his neck muscles were more than enough to warn me not to be showy, and not bask in my glory, if buying a house can be considered glory. Modesty, no matter how pretentious it could be is still a valued virtue in the Philippines.

I said, "Oh this? This townhouse is for my family in Pampanga, this is where they can run to when Pinatubo strikes again."

He became silent. I added,"Actually, this is not yet fully paid. I need to work my butt off for another five years to finish paying it." It was not true.

"Still," he muttered in a voice almost whispering,"You are owning your own house."

I sat quietly on one wicker chair which was located at the foot of the sofa where Keith was sleeping. Just watching Keith sleep made me drowsy. I turned one electric fan on, positioned my head against it to dry my hair. I felt cool air for the first time, as it blended with my wetness.

Boy Luneta sat on the other wicker chair at the head of the sofa where Keith was sleeping. All three of us submitted to silence.

"Is there a TV?" Boy Luneta asked after a while. There was none.

We resumed our silence, now broken by the occasional creaks of the fan and snores of Keith. I did not verbalize what was in my heart.

Way deep inside me, way deep inside my heart, I was screaming. "Yes! I bought this townhouse Boy Luneta...paid it in cash because I will never be poor again. I bought this house so no landlady will lock me out of her house because I am late with my rent. I bought this house so I can walk the streets of Manila once more with my head held high. So I can scream back at those who consider me good for nothing son of a bitch provincial boy who invades their city. I bought this house so I can raise a dirty finger at anyone whose car splashes mud at me, who, instead of apologizing to me, would blame me for standing on his way!"

But I did not say a word, as my eyes began to droop and I fell asleep.



Chapter Eight



I woke up the way I slept, still sitting on the wicker chair. Waking up again in my country after nine years gave me a surreal feeling. I had many mornings when I woke up assuming I was in my country only to realize that my room was in Florida, and the announcer's voice in my alarm clock was American. Reality setting in, I 'd linger on my bed, wishing I were back home in Pampanga. But that's a sharp contrast to today as the voice of Keith Devlon woke me up. I thought I woke up in Florida but the yellow walls, pastoral paintings, whirling of electric fan and extreme heat instantly reminded me of Manila. And I couldn't explain why somehow I wished I were in Florida instead of being here. Having lived in different contrasting places makes me feel this way all the time - confused and the images in my mind become discombobulated. I have to contend with English, Spanish, French Creole, Tagalog and Kapampangan.

"Yes Mom, yeah, send them through Western Union." I heard Keith as saying. I tried to fathom his words, what they meant and at what event or place or character they pointed to. It took me a while to figure out because I was in a state of between sleep and wakefulness. My mind wandered away initially and I did not know why I suddenly thought of my Alzheimer's patients, those living in a state of permanent memory loss ( a condition I thought I could be having now- waking up baffled by reality versus dream, and travesty of mental alteration) but since I didn't have Alzheimer's, I quickly reoriented myself and recalled what the voice, the phone, the word Mom and the American accent were all meant. In an instant, I knew the voice belonged to Keith, and he had finally reached his Mom through the phone. He was asking her to send him money via Western Union, probably to my address here. And our whole story rushed back to me quickly.

I opened my eyes. Darkness outside had already sat in by this time. Boy Luneta was busily cooking in the kitchen. Keith was using the phone.

I smiled.

In America, I seldom had the opportunity of joining men in groups, unlike when I was still living in Manila. I believe that Filipinos' sense of security hinges on the family, which makes it easy for them to form automatic groupings that imitate it. Gangster-ism or tribalism can describe these automatic groupings but these words are politically incorrect. A Filipino who, out of nowhere, embraces and treats me with familiarity is more welcome than any other nationality. It is very easy for me to build my own 'family' in Manila than any other country. I guess it's because of my culture of trust and ease with my own kind. Which is completely different when I deal with Americans.

America is a big society. It has a big population. Though I am not a trained Sociologist, I can tell you that a society of varied groups, cultures, races and beliefs is full of angst and distrust, it can't form spontaneous groupings like other societies. If I were to, say, go to a meeting or conference, it would be hard for me to just approach a number of people and deal with them like I knew them all my life. Especially if the group looks and acts and talks differently from me. I'm sure it will be hard also for a Cuban or Haitian or a native American or a local American to approach me the same. It takes a lot of courage to be a part of a group in the US. It also requires a willingness to be rejected. It is so much easier to be on your own here because of the structure of the society and the variations of cultures. It is a country founded on individualism and personal freedoms. That is the reason why I thrive so well in America. I am free to do anything I want, within the boundaries of law and reason of course, be anywhere, say anything, write anything, and then go to sleep. But it can be very lonely at times.

I admit that in the US, I can be suspicious of strangers, or those who are too friendly and welcoming to me. Ordinary Americans, at least to me, are always strangers to each others. In America, we teach our kids not to talk to strangers. We watch behind our backs in dark alleyways. We lock our doors and windows for fear of burglars in our midst. We are defensive in our positions and principles in life. Our suspicions render us insincere at times. That's why it is way too cool to be here with Boy Luneta and Keith Devlon. For the last couple of hours I felt like I discovered a long lost family. The last time I've been this close to a group of men was when I climbed mountains with friends in college.

But despite all these, I had lingering doubts. Soon my young brother Lucio appeared to check up on me. He was surprised to see the two men that were with me in the house. It's been a while since I saw my younger brother. I left the country when he was just getting out of elementary school, hardly aware of my big departure which to him meant flying in the big airplane. He did not have a concept of America or OFW or why people like me need to leave the country at that age. He would understand that in his growing years. He'd appreciate the money I sent, the balikbayan boxes he'd open to see denim jeans or shoes or candies or MP3s. But he would not ever know me intimately as a brother. Now I appear to him much more smaller than his six footer physique and two hundred pound weight. He now sports a beard. He appeared too masculine to even open a discussion about homosexuality. None of my straight brothers would ever understand how in the world I managed to fall through the crack, why out of five boys, one deviated so significantly in his sexual preference.

I stood up from my chair. I just realized that no matter how normal our togetherness appeared, the fact was, it was triggered by my desire to make love with Boy Luneta. What if Boy Luneta and Keith told Lucio the real score? Fear kicked me to alertness instantly. Despite my public openness about my sexuality, I still preferred to demonstrate it away from my family.

I kept quiet for a while as I observed the three men gathered in my house, I watched more carefully my brother Lucio, I did not want him to suspect anything dubious. But really, there was nothing for me to fear, what was wrong in our situation that I should be worried? My concerns were furthers appeased by the way Lucio moved and stared back at me, he seemed to have no inkling whatsoever of the reasons behind our accidental togetherness.

Boy Luneta, sensing my fears, helped me avoid explaining myself. The hustler proved to be a Master in creating stories enough equal the plots created by Charles Dickens. He managed to juxtapose many coincidences, tied them together into one solid story that my brother soon believed that Keith Devlon was my aquaintance from America who was passing by the Philippines on his way to Thailand, while he himself, Boy Luneta, was my old college buddy. My frat-mate. Yeah sure. My poor gullible brother was soon inviting us all to Pampanga to meet the rest of the family.

We declined the invitation, we must, knowing only too well that playing this masquerade further will only reveal the big lie.

It turned out also that Boy Luneta was a good cook, though I, being Pampango by birth and upbringing, had to meddle in his manner of mixing ingredients, much to his consternation. I insisted on adding chili to the sinigang, Keith begged us to drop MSG, he was allergic to it. Lucio drove back and forth to the town market to buy things forgotten to satisfy my ever-discriminating demands in food preparation, prompting him to liken me to a spinster. I demanded that while shrimps could be used for sinigang, they're better eaten in natural flavor - they must be steamed or don't cook them at all! I fried tocino and cut them to pieces, mixed them in fried rice, mimicking Julia Child's concept of applying butter and margarine, richly - defensively asking, "Why derail good cooking by denying it of sufficient amount of butter or margarine?" I added cabbage and pepper and onion and black pepper to nilagang baboy. I included pocherong dalag to our dinner. Boy Luneta surrendered when I poured plantains and ginger and pechay to cat fish. When I started preparing tinola, Lucio asked if we were having a fiesta instead of a simple dinner for four. Paying no mind, I ordered him to get me a 'sale' root in the market, his eyes became knitted. He asked me what it looked like.

It took me three hours to prepare all these and when dinner was served, it took us merely thirty minutes to consume the whole damn thing. Even Keith Devlon couldn't believe his hunger. All our plates were wiped out clean.

I continued my lies with my brother that night.

I told him I couldn't come home yet, I've got business to attend in Makati. After nine years, there I was, delaying meeting my family, favoring my friends which in Filipino custom, was quite unheard of for a balikbayan Filipino whose only dream in life was to see his family. But.... I must dispose of my friends properly first, I didn't want to drag my lies with me when I meet with my family. My brother, not exactly happy with this, took all my balikbayan boxes and threw them to his jeep and asked for the last time as to what time I'd come home. "I'd call," I said.

When my brother had left, and the three of us quickly got organized and devised a plan - to find Tesang.

Because I was so used to automatic shifts, and because Keith didn't know the driving rules in Manila, and because Boy Luneta felt it much cheaper, we decided to utilize public transportation around Manila to search for Tesang. Boy Luneta and I weren't exactly foreign to the Manila transportation as we both knew how to get to the major points of the city. Though Manila traffic is horrible during days, it turns fast and pleasant at nights.

By combining tricycles and jeepneys and taxis, buses and LRT, we were confident we'd find the Filipina we're searching for.

It was not exactly easy to find a lone provincial woman out of the more than ten million people of Manila. But because Boy Luneta and I shared this natural hospitality, we were determined to help Keith find Tesang.

Do not think I'm selling out our women to foreigners. I would not give in to our chauvinistic demand that our women should marry only our men - throughout our history, we have produced a culture that is nothing but pure - we intermarried and bred a people that can claim world heritage - and in these modern times and much smaller world - there are situations when lovers, regardless of gender, race, culture, belief - fall in love - and should be allowed to get married. Isn't that the spirit of democracy and free people? It still perplexes me when I see how some democratic countries, including my country, can succumb to a subtle form of xenophobia when union of lovers is concerned. And I don't spare the biggest democracy of all - America. I still hear democratic people saying, Do as you please , marry if you must, as long as you two are of the same skin color , or religion, or culture, or citizenship, or tradition, or whatever, and are not homosexuals. It seems most current democracies have a lot of exclusions.

There is one thing I'd like to note, something true. This came to my mind as the three of us gathered to chart the course of our night quest - I kept thinking - what is making me so bent in helping Keith? Am I just hospitable, or is there other reason why I so wanted to help him find Tesang? Is my homosexuality the driving force, or am I expecting something in return? Am I the one who finds happiness in the happiness of others, the one who makes love by watching the other making love with me?

I believe there is something in a man's heart, whether gay or straight, that propels him to join another man in the quest for love. It is quite romantic. Despite my homosexuality, I find joy in seeing another man find joy. Despite my homosexuality, when I see another man fall in love and triumphs with it, I feel as though, I too triumph. As humans we all want to see human triumphs even we're the losers in the end.

I stared at the face of Keith Devlon – his particular quest - made me close my eyes and joined him, in falling into that abyss of letting go, giving all up, giving all in - to the embrace of pure love.

Yes, love - that many splendored thing - is not something that can be taken for granted. When true love strikes you in the face, you know better not to play with it. I couldn't, for the life of me, ever think of Keith as part of my homosexual world but his love, his pure love with Tesang made me believe in love itself.

It's not true that gays are different from straights when it comes to love. These two genders in truth are always one in its quest - it is this quest that made me supportive of Keith.

I haven't experienced true love yet, in all my life, but I recognize it when I see it. And when I see a woman or a man suffer because of it, I suffer too.

So I gave in, I gave in to this quest Keith wanted me to share with him. I adopted his longings as mine. I suddenly felt Tesang was a Filipino man I too wanted to search.



Chapter Nine



Tesang was derived from the name Teresa. The way Keith described her to me was vague, she appeared like a painting, a work of art - blotches of ink composed the features of her face, her body forever young though it was only a silhouette, her voice quite alluring and soft but only an echo of my fantasy. Keith failed to describe her physical attributes (and I did not expect him to). I was not that stupid to expect detailed descriptions. I would be the one to fill in those. Being gay does not preclude me from admiring a woman but I would be a fool to assume my concept of Filipina beauty is shared by other men. I have to state the facts straight here now: I can see beauty in a woman but I do not possess the sexual desire males have for females. I would, for example, walk in the mall with a straight buddy and would hear him say, "That chick is hot." I turn to look towards the woman and I'd agree that she is indeed very pretty - but I won't have the libido rising and the need to undress her and fuck her. Human beings are still belonging to the Animal Kingdom, mammals specifically. We do have hormones and sensations that are necessary for the propagation of the race. A male would be attracted to a mate based on a wider pelvis and full breasts. These qualities advertise her to the world that she can produce a healthy offspring. A female looks for a different set of qualities in a man: strong, virile, confident, big. To a female these assure her of not only having a strong offspring but a secured and protected environment for the offspring. Of course I don't belong to neither. At my age, I am not wanting neither a wider pelvis nor a virile physique. I simply take anything, I am the dump of all rejects. I used to joke that in my heyday, if you put a dick on a tree, I'd fall in love with that tree.

Tesang was also described based on Keith's feelings - for instance he'd say "her beauty made my heart jump" which, to me, connoted that she possessed a smooth skin, brown face, almond shaped eyes, bright brown eyes, prominent nose, perfect set of pearly teeth, sweet smile and a fresh breath. Then for the sake of romance, I saw her in a distance, a woman with dark flowing hair, standing alone in the middle of a ricefield, her cotton dress smoothly flowing with the wind, and, adding more flair, she was holding a rose. But that's not all Keith led me to see in her, after all, beauty in a woman isn't confined to the physical. There's is another woman beauty too that can only be seen by the soul. When I was younger, I was walking by a cemetery and I saw a woman in mourning who was sitting beside a tomb in a quiet, very contemplative repose, her head bowed as if praying. I could not take my eyes off her and in my curiosity, I asked who she was grieving for. "My husband," she whispered, her eyes welling in tears. There was no hysteria there, no dramatic lines, just simple statement of truth. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen. I am inclined to think that Tesang has that grieving woman's beautiful soul. A Filipina may wear the most expensive Chanel clothes and grace the covers of glamour magazines all over the world, but without projecting a beauty inside, she would still be the ugliest woman in my eyes. On the other hand, a woman may be in rags and her face may be ravaged by hunger and inattention but with a beauty inside, she is still the most beautiful to me.

For a man to fly across oceans from one continent to another was a sign that the woman he loves must be beautiful and perfect for him. For doing so, he too, is very beautiful. What can beat his romance? What can beat the quest of a man who forsakes everything and searches the world to find the woman he loves? So many stories come to mind: Cinderella and Madame Butterfly and Edward of England who abdicated his throne for the woman he loved cross my mind. The reason why Cinderella is so famous is because of the Prince who searched for her far and wide. Take away the Prince and Cinderella becomes a heroine for the long suffering servants. Take away the soldier in Madame Butterfly and there was a lady committing suicide for nothing. Take away Richard Gere in Pretty Woman and you'd see a plain whore in Julia Roberts.

When Keith began telling me about him meeting the young Tesang in an Angeles City brothel, I saw in the horizon a resurrected Madame Butterfly, an innocent Miss Saigon pushed to struggle against the animosities of girlie bars and saunas, managed by brutal pimps, as she clawed her way out with nothing but human spirit. That was what I hoped to be the whole po