Dogeaters (7 page)

He started me doing odd jobs on the street. I sold cigarettes, boiled peanuts, Chiclets,
sampaguita
garlands,
The Metro Manila Daily
, and movie magazines. Legitimate little things that never got me anywhere; I had to compete with all the other kids on the street, running up to cars and buses, pestering tourists, hawking our wares. I hated every minute of it. Then there were times when Uncle pretended he was crippled and blind. I would lead him up to the air-conditioned Toyotas and Mercedes-Benzes where rich people and foreigners sat with their doors locked, trying hard to ignore my outstretched hand at their windows. But Uncle had no patience and little time for begging. “That’s for lazy people,” he would say.

When I was seven, Uncle taught me to steal. I was wiry, fast, and fearless. A natural talent, according to him. More daring than Boy-Boy, who was two years older than me and cried all the time. I was one of the best pickpockets in Manila; just ask anyone around here. Ask Uncle. I enjoyed stealing, the heady rush that hit me as I disappeared into a crowd, stolen goods burning in my hand. A ring, a watch, a chain around someone’s neck. The money sometimes still warm from someone’s back pocket. A heady rush of triumph like dope, a pleasure so private, delicious, and powerful. I never once got caught—that’s how good I was.

I would do anything for Uncle in those days. We all would—grateful orphans who earned our keep, eager to please and turn our loot over to Uncle. I was the youngest and the smartest, Uncle’s favorite.

What they say about me and Uncle isn’t true. Just ask Boy and Carding, or Chito at that dress shop in Mabini where he works. The only thing about Uncle is he made things possible. He taught me everything I know.

One of Uncle’s whores fucked me when I was ten. I don’t remember her name—only her sour smell. A smell that clung to me for days. She looked weary, her movements slow and lumbering, like an ox’s. Her broad, ox-face and dark, bloody lipstick repulsed me. I turned my face away, wouldn’t let her kiss me.

Sitting at the only table in the middle of the one-room shack, Uncle watched us fuck on the mat a few feet away from him. He was smoking opium, leaning down to scratch behind Taruk’s ear while the dog slept. I remember feeling ugly because all my hair had been shaved off by Uncle after he discovered lice. But the ox-woman didn’t seem to care, or notice.

Uncle watched us hump and writhe as if it was the most ordinary thing in the world, his expression benign and serene. The woman never spoke, grunting occasionally and shifting my body on top of her with rough hands. With my bald head, I felt ludicrous and smaller than ever, poised on top of the ox-woman’s hefty body. I rode her as I would a horse or
carabao.
In the dusty light, her flesh quivered, covered by a film of sweat. I shut my eyes, imagining her giving in to my earnest, awkward thrusts. She may or may not have actually moaned, but I heard what I wanted to hear. Then I forgot about my bald head, my small, skinny body. The pleasure I suddenly felt was extreme and overwhelming. I came quickly. To my surprise, I was eager to fuck the ox-woman again.

Maybe she did it as a favor to Uncle; maybe he had to pay her. I don’t know. After the second time fucking her, I fell into a deep sleep. When I woke up, she was long gone. Uncle and his dog were nowhere to be found. All that was left was her smell.

I’ve had my share of women since, but they don’t really interest me. Don’t ask me why. To tell you the truth, not much interests me at all. I learned early that men go for me; I like that about them. I don’t have to work at being sexy. Ha-ha. Maybe it’s my Negro blood.

Uncle says I prefer men because I know them best. I take advantage of the situation, run men around, make them give me money. For me, men are easy. I’m open to anything, though. If I met a rich woman, for example…If I met a rich woman, a rich woman who was willing to support me…TO LOVE ME NO MATTER WHAT…You’d better believe I’d get it up for her too…Be her pretty baby. I know how to do that. Make them love me even when I break their hearts, steal, or spend all their money. Sometimes, you’d be amazed.

Maybe I’m lying. Uncle says I was born a liar, that I can’t help myself. Lies pour out of my mouth even when I’m sleeping. The truth is, maybe I really like men but just won’t admit it. Shit. What’s the difference? At least Uncle’s proud of me. I know it, though he’d never say so.

Hell. Sometimes I feel the days go by too fast. I get worried. I won’t be young forever, and then what? I don’t want to end up a shower dancer like Boy-Boy, working nights in some shithole rubbing soap all over my body just so a bunch of fat old men can drool, turning twenty tricks after that, giving away my hard-earned profits to the goddam cops or clubowner!
I’m nobody’s slave.
Look at Carding—already finished at nineteen. He’ll do anything for money. They’ve got him by the balls.

Much as I respect him, I don’t want to end up like Uncle. With all his brains and experience, he’s still small-time. Just an old junkie who rules Tondo, with nothing to show for it. It’s not enough for me. Not anymore.

I know I deserve something better. Right now I’m biding my time. I take good care of myself, I’m in control, my life is simple. I do okay spinning my records and turning a few tricks. I’m dressed, fed, and high. I can take it or leave it, break hearts wherever I go. Life can be so sweet, sometimes.

M
AKUPIT, PANGASINAN—THREE BODIES
, one headless, were found in Makupit River earlier this week, police said yesterday.

Major Anacleto Rivera, Makupit’s police station commander, was visited by General Nicasio Ledesma recently as part of the continuing investigation by the Chief of Staff of turmoil and insurgency in the troubled area. Only last month the body of a woman was found washed up on the banks of the same river. The woman had been beheaded, and her hands and feet were also missing. She has never been identified.

In this week’s gruesome discovery, the bloated bodies belonged to two women and a teenage boy. Major Rivera said that the body of the beheaded teenager had been identified as Boy Maytubig, who has been missing since Holy Week. The other two bodies have still not been reclaimed. Rivera also said the victims could have been dumped somewhere else and carried down the Makupit River.

There were unverified reports of two more bodies in advanced states of decomposition found on the riverbank of the neighboring town of Lazaro.

According to a government survey, the frequency of headless and dismembered cadavers washing up on shore has reduced demand for fish in Makupit, which was one of the centers of a thriving fishing industry until these recent alarming discoveries. “It is unfortunate,” Major Rivera said to reporters at a press conference hastily called on the steps of Makupit’s Church of the Sacred Heart. “Housewives refuse to buy fish caught in Makupit River. We trust that this will prove a temporary situation.”

—The Metro Manila Daily

R
OMEO ROSALES WAS SULKING
. Lately, Trinidad Gamboa couldn’t seem to pull him out of his dark moods or make him laugh. She had known Romeo for almost a year, and was the only woman besides his widowed mother Gregoria who knew his real name:
Orlando.
Trinidad Gamboa had fallen madly in love the moment she laid eyes on Romeo from the window of her cashier’s booth at the Odeon Theater.

They were sitting in a shabby Chinese restaurant on Ongpin Street, at 2:35 on a stifling Saturday afternoon. Before Romeo had met the determined cashier at the Odeon Theater, he had gone to the movies as often as his modest salary allowed, spending all the tips he made as a waiter at the exclusive Monte Vista Country Club. He would see anything: comedies, Tagalog melodramas, westerns, musicals, and religious extravaganzas like
The Ten Commandments
, which played to packed houses in Manila for what seemed an eternity. Audiences never failed to clap and cheer each time the Red Sea parted on the giant screen.

Whenever something miraculous occurred in one of his Hollywood epics, Romeo would turn to Trinidad in awe and say, “Did you see
that
?”

A solemn look on her face, Trinidad would nod as if she were privy to some secret information. “
Camera tricks
,” she would inform him, smugly. Romeo was often dumbfounded by how much Trinidad would take for granted; she had answers for everything. It was part of her power over the husky young man.

Today, nothing seemed to be working. Romeo sat in a slump, staring at his plate of dim sum, occasionally taking wistful sips of his bottle of TruCola. “Let’s go see the new Lolita Luna movie,
A Candle Is Burning
,” Trinidad said, eagerly. “I’ll treat—I just got paid.” She had been taught by strict parents to insist that the man pay the bills; to do otherwise meant a woman was easy and desperate. “Having a man pay your way is the only advantage of being born a woman,” Trinidad’s mother had preached like a broken record, one of the main reasons Trinidad, on the pretext of enrolling at the university, had moved to Manila.

“Didn’t you hear me?” Trinidad’s tone was indignant. It was noisy and hot in the fast-food restaurant, and flies were buzzing around their table. She fanned herself with a stained and battered cardboard menu, swatting at the energetic flies at every opportunity.

“Yes—I heard you!” Romeo groaned, reaching for Trinidad’s hand. “Will you STOP THAT…You’re driving me crazy!” He took the menu away from her.

“I was only trying to get rid of them,” Trinidad said, frowning. “It’s not sanitary.
Ano ba
—what’s wrong with you? I thought you were a big Lolita Luna fan. It’s her latest
bomba
movie, at the Avenue Theater. This time she stars opposite that new guy, Tito Alvarez.
Di ba
, he’s your old friend?”

“I don’t like the Avenue Theater—it’s crawling with rats.”

“So what, it’s air conditioned, and it’s so hot today I think I’m going to faint.” A thought occurred to Trinidad. “What’s the matter? Are you afraid to see Tito in this movie?”

Romeo finished his soda pop, sucking up the sweet liquid through a straw as noisily as he could. He knew it got on Trinidad’s nerves. “Why?” he asked innocently. “Why should I be afraid to see my old
kumpadre
star in his first movie?”

“Because you’re jealous. He hasn’t answered your letters,” Trinidad said.

Romeo slowly got up from the table, making a great show of putting on his SPORTEX jean jacket, the prefaded one with metal studs Trinidad had given him for Christmas. “Don’t be an idiot,” he said, managing a smile for her. “Tito’s a busy man—and I understand he may not have time for his buddy right now. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Trini—that’s all. If you
must
see this movie, then let’s go—” Romeo tried to sound casual.

They jumped into the first beat-up taxi that passed in front of the restaurant. Cheered up by getting her way, Trinidad gazed at her pouting lover’s face with unconcealed affection. “Wow, Romeo—you’re even handsome when you frown!” she teased. “You’re my one and only star,” she added, cuddling closer to him. Romeo ignored her comment. They rode along the bumpy streets in the clattering, hot, tin box on wheels, beads of perspiration dripping down their faces.

The first time Trinidad Gamboa had set eyes on Romeo Rosales, she was flabbergasted. He was much younger and better looking than her idol, Nestor Noralez, and certainly more available. Romeo definitely belonged in the movies, something she would tell him over and over again during the course of their tempestuous relationship.

Romeo Rosales had pulled out his worn peso bills and shoved them into the cashier’s window, oblivious to the smiling cashier with the heavily powdered face and bright lipstick. Her one gold tooth gleamed as she eyed him discreetly, carefully counting out the change before handing it over to him with his ticket.

He wished she’d hurry up. Lolita Luna was starring in
The Agony of Love
, one of her first
bomba
pictures from Mabuhay Studios. He’d seen it twice before, at another theater in Quiapo: Lolita was practically naked in the movie’s climactic scene, where she was rescued from drowning by the handsome young fisherman played by the suave, middle-aged Nestor Noralez. If you looked closely enough, you could catch a glimpse of Lolita Luna’s erect nipples pressing against the clinging, wet, white nightgown she happened to be wearing when she plunged into the Agno River to kill herself.

Romeo was anxious to see the movie again. He was not only Lolita Luna’s biggest fan, but an admirer of the director Max Rodriguez as well; Nestor Noralez he simply put up with as his glorious Lolita’s leading man. He would sit back in the comfortable darkness of the air-conditioned Odeon Theater, paying extra for the privilege of sitting in the first-class loge section. He would imagine himself in the Nestor Noralez role: resisting the sex goddess Lolita Luna’s formidable charms while attempting to stay faithful to his loyal, self-effacing wife, portrayed sympathetically by the always dependable Barbara Villanueva.

The smiling cashier was waiting for him when the movie was over. “You must be a real Nestor Noralez fan—just like me!” she said. Romeo grimaced. He stood there awkwardly without saying anything, then turned abruptly and started walking toward his jeepney stop. “Wait!” Trinidad called after him, running to keep up. Romeo stopped to look at her. “My name is Trinidad,” she said, suddenly shy but determined to go on. “Trinidad Gamboa. I’m new in Manila…What’s your name?” When he told her, she asked him in the same friendly tone if he was hungry. Romeo nodded. Romeo Rosales was always hungry and always broke.

“Would you like to join me for
merienda
over there?” she invited him, pointing to the Hong Kong Café with her eyebrows.

“I don’t eat Chinese food,” Romeo said, making a face.

“Have you ever tried it?”

Romeo shook his head. Unperturbed, Trinidad took his arm and led him to the café. He was so
adorable
and
cute,
she thought, like a puppy. “It’s okay, Romeo—” she said gaily, “if you don’t like what I order, they have other things you can eat.”