Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
Diary of A Masquerade
~
In Lerma
Sonny’s first sight of Lerma was not the romantic, intellectual enclave he had once imagined. Instead, he found himself in a cramped neighborhood that was merely an extension of Maliwalan University life—but stripped bare of any pretense.
He sighed at the scene before him. Lodging houses were built like fragile toy blocks, their thin lawànit walls shaking whenever someone shut a door too hard. Tin roofs absorbed the afternoon heat, turning each room into a metal oven. Inside, makeshift carton boards served as dividers, granting the illusion—but not the reality—of privacy.
In the narrow alleyways, students squatted beside public faucets, slapping laundry against cement, struggling with the meager water trickling out. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of soap suds, cigarette smoke, and frying oil from a nearby carinderia. A group of young men hunched over a table in the shade, poker cards in one hand and cigarettes dangling from their lips. The sharp click of billiard balls echoed from the half-dozen pool halls scattered around the block. Occasionally, the sound of a bouncing basketball rose from a cramped court wedged between two crumbling buildings—its backboard made of warped plywood.
Here, Sonny realized, education was not only learned in the classroom; it was soaked in poverty, pressed between thin walls, and seasoned by street noise.
---
The Philosophy of Lola Sabel
Sonny’s parents—staunchly Americanized—had always insisted he study Medicine. To them, a son in the medical field was both a point of prestige and a practical investment. If Sonny could practice in America, they believed, future medical bills could be drastically reduced.
The 1980s had been the golden decade for Maliwalu families with relatives abroad. The peso-dollar exchange rate had soared, and anyone with a direct connection to “Uncle Sam” was envied. Dollar bills—bearing the solemn face of George Washington—were as good as gold. A single remittance from Illinois could make a family’s monthly budget feel like a feast.
One did not need millions to be regarded as wealthy in those days. A pair of Nike sneakers, a Levi’s jacket, a Japanese cassette player—these were enough to mark a person as 'sosyal'. Local items were dismissed as 'baduy' or 'bakya', unworthy of anyone with aspirations. Ironically, the same activists railing against foreign imperialism strutted around in imported jeans and branded shoes.
But Lola Sabel refused to let Sonny inherit such values. One humid night, she called him into the *sari-sari* store for one of her long, sermon-like conversations.
---
“Sonny,” she began, leaning over the wooden counter, “our time today is more painful than the last world war—thanks to this post-war generation who bowed to a dictator that rewrote the Constitution for his own ends. During the Japanese Occupation, I could endure inflation because we were helpless under their Mickey Mouse money. But today?” She slapped a pack of powdered milk on the counter. “Every time a mother counts her coins here, searching her pockets for a lost centavo, only to look up at me and whisper for utang… I can’t bear it.”
She spoke of a woman who often tapped quietly at the store’s door near midnight. Elena—neatly dressed, hair tied back, eyes sunken—came to borrow a kilo of rice. She carried her two-year-old daughter on her hip and once told Lola Sabel, “I can see it in her eyes, Lola. Someday she’ll pull us out of poverty.”
“How will that be,” Lola Sabel replied, handing over the rice, “if you can’t feed her properly now?”
Elena smiled faintly. “She might be like Indang Monang’s daughter, Sonia. Started as a maid at twelve, went to Japan at sixteen, now sends dollars home.”
Lola watched her disappear into the night, the child asleep in her arms, pride flickering in her step despite the hunger.
---
Elena’s husband, Ramon, had been abducted months earlier by armed men—rumored to be former comrades from the underground movement. Once a child scout for the guerillas, he had later betrayed them to the authorities. His disappearance left Elena penniless and jobless. Lola secretly helped her, careful to avoid being publicly linked to an outlaw’s family.
One evening, finding Sonny under the acacia tree beside their house, Lola settled beside him. “I’m eighty years old, Sonny, and still strong. I want to live long enough to see our country rise from this mess. Look at Elena—reduced to skin and bone. And Ramon… used, condemned, brutalized by fellow Maliwalans.”
She spoke of her youth in Banqueruan, of nights when the barrio was alive with laughter, fiestas under the moonlight, and open doors unbarred by fear. “During the Japanese Occupation, we had a common enemy. We were united. Today? Each family locks itself away.”
When Sonny pointed out that the population had exploded to fifty-six million, she shot back, “Crimes don’t come from numbers, Sonny. They come from deprivation. Hunger makes the poor envious, the rich arrogant. That’s when morals decay.”
Her eyes shone with conviction as she leaned forward. “There’s still hope. All it takes is one person’s courage to unlock the hidden goodness in the Maliwalan heart. I’ve seen it happen—one act of selflessness inspiring thousands. That is why I cannot die yet. I must see our people transformed.”
---
The Other Lodgers
Banqueruan still heavy in his thoughts, Sonny returned to his boarding house and pushed the door open—only to be confronted by a naked man pulling on his trousers.
“Excuse me,” Sonny muttered, averting his eyes.
The man grinned, offering a handshake. “You must be one of my roommates. Name’s Rene—freshman, Economics.”
Sonny noted that Rene was too old to be a freshman. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes were rimmed red, either from cigarettes or something stronger. His bucked teeth gave his smile a mischievous, almost defiant look.
Rene lit a Marlboro without asking, then asked anyway, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I… I’d rather not smell it.”
Rene barked a laugh. “Do you think I care?”
The flippant reply stung, but Sonny swallowed his irritation. He imagined the explosion if Rene had tried that with Lola Sabel—she would have turned the boarding house into a battlefield.
Her words echoed in his head: They live in a permissive, un-Maliwalan culture. They’ve forgotten their Asian simplicity and European religiosity.
2025-08-15 17:47:21
masquerade
The Art of Hustling
They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.
Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”
I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.
That’s when he stepped away.
"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"
“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.
“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”
He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”
“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”
He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.
“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.
“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”
“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”
I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”
He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”
“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”
When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.
“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”
Antonio was listening now.
“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”
He nodded slightly.
“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”
I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.
“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”
He grinned. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”
I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”
I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.
“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”
Antonio yawned.
I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”
“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”
“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”
I stood up and mimed the stance.
“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”
I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.
“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”
Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”
“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”
He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”
“I lived it,” I replied.
We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.
But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
masquerade
Diary of a Masquerade 6
In Lerma
Sonny’s first sight of Lerma was not the romantic, intellectual enclave he had once imagined. Instead, he found himself in a cramped neighborhood that was merely an extension of Maliwalan University life—but stripped bare of any pretense.
He sighed at the scene before him. Lodging houses were built like fragile toy blocks, their thin lawànit walls shaking whenever someone shut a door too hard. Tin roofs absorbed the afternoon heat, turning each room into a metal oven. Inside, makeshift carton boards served as dividers, granting the illusion—but not the reality—of privacy.
In the narrow alleyways, students squatted beside public faucets, slapping laundry against cement, struggling with the meager water trickling out. The air was heavy with the mingled smell of soap suds, cigarette smoke, and frying oil from a nearby carinderia. A group of young men hunched over a table in the shade, poker cards in one hand and cigarettes dangling from their lips. The sharp click of billiard balls echoed from the half-dozen pool halls scattered around the block. Occasionally, the sound of a bouncing basketball rose from a cramped court wedged between two crumbling buildings—its backboard made of warped plywood.
Here, Sonny realized, education was not only learned in the classroom; it was soaked in poverty, pressed between thin walls, and seasoned by street noise.
---
The Philosophy of Lola Sabel
Sonny’s parents—staunchly Americanized—had always insisted he study Medicine. To them, a son in the medical field was both a point of prestige and a practical investment. If Sonny could practice in America, they believed, future medical bills could be drastically reduced.
The 1980s had been the golden decade for Maliwalu families with relatives abroad. The peso-dollar exchange rate had soared, and anyone with a direct connection to “Uncle Sam” was envied. Dollar bills—bearing the solemn face of George Washington—were as good as gold. A single remittance from Illinois could make a family’s monthly budget feel like a feast.
One did not need millions to be regarded as wealthy in those days. A pair of Nike sneakers, a Levi’s jacket, a Japanese cassette player—these were enough to mark a person as 'sosyal'. Local items were dismissed as 'baduy' or 'bakya', unworthy of anyone with aspirations. Ironically, the same activists railing against foreign imperialism strutted around in imported jeans and branded shoes.
But Lola Sabel refused to let Sonny inherit such values. One humid night, she called him into the *sari-sari* store for one of her long, sermon-like conversations.
---
“Sonny,” she began, leaning over the wooden counter, “our time today is more painful than the last world war—thanks to this post-war generation who bowed to a dictator that rewrote the Constitution for his own ends. During the Japanese Occupation, I could endure inflation because we were helpless under their Mickey Mouse money. But today?” She slapped a pack of powdered milk on the counter. “Every time a mother counts her coins here, searching her pockets for a lost centavo, only to look up at me and whisper for utang… I can’t bear it.”
She spoke of a woman who often tapped quietly at the store’s door near midnight. Elena—neatly dressed, hair tied back, eyes sunken—came to borrow a kilo of rice. She carried her two-year-old daughter on her hip and once told Lola Sabel, “I can see it in her eyes, Lola. Someday she’ll pull us out of poverty.”
“How will that be,” Lola Sabel replied, handing over the rice, “if you can’t feed her properly now?”
Elena smiled faintly. “She might be like Indang Monang’s daughter, Sonia. Started as a maid at twelve, went to Japan at sixteen, now sends dollars home.”
Lola watched her disappear into the night, the child asleep in her arms, pride flickering in her step despite the hunger.
---
Elena’s husband, Ramon, had been abducted months earlier by armed men—rumored to be former comrades from the underground movement. Once a child scout for the guerillas, he had later betrayed them to the authorities. His disappearance left Elena penniless and jobless. Lola secretly helped her, careful to avoid being publicly linked to an outlaw’s family.
One evening, finding Sonny under the acacia tree beside their house, Lola settled beside him. “I’m eighty years old, Sonny, and still strong. I want to live long enough to see our country rise from this mess. Look at Elena—reduced to skin and bone. And Ramon… used, condemned, brutalized by fellow Maliwalans.”
She spoke of her youth in Banqueruan, of nights when the barrio was alive with laughter, fiestas under the moonlight, and open doors unbarred by fear. “During the Japanese Occupation, we had a common enemy. We were united. Today? Each family locks itself away.”
When Sonny pointed out that the population had exploded to fifty-six million, she shot back, “Crimes don’t come from numbers, Sonny. They come from deprivation. Hunger makes the poor envious, the rich arrogant. That’s when morals decay.”
Her eyes shone with conviction as she leaned forward. “There’s still hope. All it takes is one person’s courage to unlock the hidden goodness in the Maliwalan heart. I’ve seen it happen—one act of selflessness inspiring thousands. That is why I cannot die yet. I must see our people transformed.”
---
The Other Lodgers
Banqueruan still heavy in his thoughts, Sonny returned to his boarding house and pushed the door open—only to be confronted by a naked man pulling on his trousers.
“Excuse me,” Sonny muttered, averting his eyes.
The man grinned, offering a handshake. “You must be one of my roommates. Name’s Rene—freshman, Economics.”
Sonny noted that Rene was too old to be a freshman. His sharp, almond-shaped eyes were rimmed red, either from cigarettes or something stronger. His bucked teeth gave his smile a mischievous, almost defiant look.
Rene lit a Marlboro without asking, then asked anyway, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
“I… I’d rather not smell it.”
Rene barked a laugh. “Do you think I care?”
The flippant reply stung, but Sonny swallowed his irritation. He imagined the explosion if Rene had tried that with Lola Sabel—she would have turned the boarding house into a battlefield.
Her words echoed in his head: They live in a permissive, un-Maliwalan culture. They’ve forgotten their Asian simplicity and European religiosity.
2025-08-15 17:47:21
masquerade
Diary of a Masquerade 5
The Art of Hustling
They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.
Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”
I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.
That’s when he stepped away.
"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"
“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.
“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”
He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”
“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”
He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.
“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.
“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”
“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”
I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”
He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”
“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”
When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.
“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”
Antonio was listening now.
“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”
He nodded slightly.
“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”
I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.
“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”
He grinned. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”
I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”
I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.
“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”
Antonio yawned.
I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”
“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”
“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”
I stood up and mimed the stance.
“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”
I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.
“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”
Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”
“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”
He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”
“I lived it,” I replied.
We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.
But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
masquerade