Moonface

I made several detours from the numerous flooded side streets and alleys that I was used to cutting through. The danger of being plunged into the deep of the ubiquitous open man holes had given me a sense of longing for the old days when this part of the city was once the crown jewel of the place. Mansion like houses abound in its every corner with most of their structural style derived from the Spanish colonial era with some sprinkling of Chinese-inspired houses. The latter could be easily distinguished by their pagoda like flair on their roofs. Streets and the surroundings of the neighborhood were maintained immaculately clean then. There was a very big reason for that: the area was populated by native elites and wealthy Chinese mestizos. Its populace being big donors to the coffers of politicians, the place was given much priority in terms of municipal services. Gradually, through the years, these rich and influential residents uprooted themselves from the place and relocated to the affluent gated neighborhoods that had sprouted in the suburbs. The inevitable outcome happened; the place now had transformed into an unwanted eyesore and condemned in abject misery in perpetuity and left to fend for itself.

I slowed my pace when reaching the top of a bridge, one of three spanning the main city river, unmindful of being gradually soaked by the thin but steady downpour that began to penetrate the shield over my head. With the help of lights from the nearby structures and reflected by the water below, I looked down at the cascading brown water with its slowly developing small whirlpools whipped up by the strong wind and fed by the force of the strong current. City trash showed up in force floating on the surface eventually flowing down the river exposing how filthy the city had become.

The water-repellant jacket that I wore (I hated wearing jackets even during typhoon months or during the cold weather of the year, but this time I had to start using them for they would soon be gnawed by bugs if I had to keep them in disuse.) made itself useful as the volume of rainwater poured on the city had increased. I had to slip myself out from the open steel canopy of the bridge into the commuter shed along the sidewalk of a street on the other side of the river bank. I made significant big strides to reach it with my leather bag swinging wildly with my every step, while still foolishly clung on the piece of cardboard to cover my head. By the time I was under the protection of the shed, that piece of cardboard was now completely crumpled and metamorphosed into soft mush, watery, paper fivers.

There were now few vehicles on the streets. It was an opportune time for some drivers to further increase the pressure on their gas pedals, as the flow of traffic had eased considerably. The sound of pavement waters loudly swishing as tires sped by and ran roughshod over it made me positioned myself further out at the back end of the shed lest some filthy street water splashed on me. I decided to rest for a while and bode my time expecting for the weather to improve. It was a fool’s errand to wait for something that I knew would never materialize as the storm had heightened its activity a higher notch further. Proceeding to brave the intensifying bad weather would be a better choice, and hoped that a lull would come about soon as I pressed towards home.

I noticed that the multitudes on the streets had thinned out as I began to make my movement. I was envious to think those who were not out on the streets were surely being comforted under the blissful roofs of their abodes. But for me home was not a comforting place, but a place of anxieties and fears; a place that jeers me for my state of weaknesses, and frailties, and deficiencies, and an abyss that had been luring me to plunge into it to get my peace. A place so silent not because of a lack of human presence but because of the presence of a powerful solitude that had crept to every wall of that wasted and forlorn house. If I could only pester a soul to hear me, I would probably whisper to his ear that the place was an abomination. With grudging gratitude—for once I had to admit it— I thanked my house for giving me unselfish material and financial benefits, for the absence of it I would have otherwise spent a big part of my income on rent.

There was a lull. The eye of the storm seemed to have included in its coverage the area of my neighborhood, and as such it was spared for a moment from the path of the destructive force. Extreme dark clouds overhead could be seen from the slight glow of the heavens every time a streak of lightning struck from some far distance moving like comic pantomimes, swirling and gesticulating in the theater of the absurd. An eerie stillness engulfed the edge of my neighborhood as I inched surreptitiously to its main expanse, afraid that I might awaken the sleeping dormant creature that had tormented my mind into forcing me to believe that it was living inside the crevices of my flesh.

I crossed the street to tread on the other side as I approached the final curve of my journey that would bring me home. An inconspicuous tent, a shelter of a homeless, stood stubbornly at the street corner braving the onslaught of the unforgiving storm, but for now it was savoring the stillness of the moment. The tent was erected with an array of street rubbish, of discarded tins, of pieces of plastics and woods. It was a home to a woman who had been a part of my neighborhood since I could remember. She was a moody creature. I grudgingly started to admire her eccentricities though. I had to admit she had made me feel the sense of being alive.

She was my contemporary for she was born on the same year as I was but ahead of me by two months. Some people of my neighborhood had initially warned me about her when I began to make her my informal acquaintance, for the whole place knew she was eccentric: her head full of loosed nuts and bolts; and at any given moment would just present its ugly head. They had seen it many times—so the people of my neighborhood said—when the crazy woman was so triggered and agitated that she went into an out of control and frenzied mental convulsion that progressed into physical violence holding and paralyzing the whole neighborhood in fear. It was that kind of violent incidents that made her presence unwanted in the area. After her many uncontrolled outbursts, the neighborhood tried to cajole city hall to have her banished from the place. As commonly expected, the authorities did nothing. So, our neighborhood grudgingly accepted her presence, and decided to ignore her altogether to keep the place at peace. She was a nut case and people could not do anything about it, and the less they worried needlessly about her, the better for one’s own tranquility.

I tapped at the rectangular flat wood covering the entrance to her tent. The fussy glow of light coming from the inside assured me she was awake. I dropped by to say hello and to see if she was alright and was not much affected by the storm. It was not a concern for her well-being that I was doing it, but more on giving her some idle talk, like neighbors talking about the weather. With past experiences in mind, I was careful for my every move when I was near her for it would be a very painful encounter if I loosen my guard.

The last instance I tapped on her door with her lights out gave me a full smacking on the face without warning after the door was opened. Agitated and furious, and with mouthful of curses she scolded me, faulting me for the disruption of her smooth sleep-of- a-lifetime with my intrusion.

I waited to hear the usual high-pitch voice of a terse inquiry, but I heard none. Prudence told me to stay away from the door by several steps if there was no answer to my knock. The door cover was forcefully pushed aside from the inside as evinced by the thudding sound it gave away. The fat face of a woman emerged from the opened door. I could imagine her eyes glinting at me scornfully. It was the usual moon face that I was accustomed seeing with its usual lump of fat protruding on both sides of the face. I approached closer when my safety was assured.

“I miss that voice of yours inquiring, ′Who is it?’” I said, making an initial playful chat.

“By the hint on the knock I knew it was you, so there’s no need asking,” she replied, with a sign of irritation on her voice. I could see her eyes looking intently at my empty hands through the bouncing of lights as the small plastic flashlight she held moved erratically after grazing my face.

I already knew the meaning of her gaze on my hands so I gave out a good excuse for not having her valuable fare, “Stores closed early so I didn’t have any,” I said. She was expecting a bottle in my hands, but today I didn’t have it. She put out a face of disappointment as she always did in this kind of a situation.

“It would have been nice pouring some hot booze inside our tummy in this kind of weather,” she said, signaling further that she was really greatly given a letdown.

Her expectation had to be great for I had not gifted her a bottle of gin for the past three weeks. She was used to receiving from me a bottle of cheap gin once a week, so it immensely dampened her spirit when I showed up at her door holding nothing.

“In that case then, let’s calls it a night so we can sleep early without the help of the great spirit,” she said, giving me a signal to be on my way and out of her presence. It was prudent for me to heed her advice, lest it would trigger something that I’d tremendously regret.

“You’ll have it tomorrow,” I said, trying to assuage the buildup of resentment that I knew was boiling inside of her. “On my way then.” Not waiting to finish my last words, she abruptly closed her door more forcefully this time, making the whole tent trembled a good deal that I was afraid the whole structure would collapse to the ground.

I could still feel the gloom of everything around me as I walked the last few steps to my place.