(www.chaifonacier.blogspot.com)
After work one day
this week, I went to buy some cigarettes from the takatak man of whose
wares I am a suki
and found him hanging out, while peddling his cigarettes to jeepney vendors and
passersby looking for a nicotine fix, with two drunkards enjoying a bottle of Tanduay
Rum with Sprite under 4 o'clock sun. Manong Roj was in charge of
the tagay, but more interesting was their other companion who took care of that
afternoon's entertainment: Fidel Inserto.
Mang 'Del, according to 'Nong Roj, is in his forties and has lost some of his marbles. That afternoon, 'Nong Del was crouched against the wall and holding two sticks; in front him, a big carton box and to his right on the ground was an empty Tanduay bottle in lieu of clappers. The pedal and the bass drum were left for him to imagine.
From what little I was told, I conjectured that his time with the military had left him scarred. "Na-Warshock na siya, 'day." But, 'Nong Roj said, his drum skills had earned him his previous position in the military band; he had always loved music. Now, without a means of livelihood and having only a portion of his sanity spared, he is left with nothing but wine and song.
And how he rocked the streetside.
We sang in time with his drums and he banged his way through music from the past few decades. He remembers where the drum rolls fit, while flashing a genuinely happy smile at people who sing to fill the gaps where the lyrics or the hooky guitar riffs should be. I stayed with them for a good ten to fifteen minutes drinking my coffee, smoking cigarettes and singing as loud as they did. Beatles. Deep Purple. Pink Floyd. Journey. Frank Sinatra. Name it, he knows it. That afternoon, we sang Ventura Highway. He screamed: bahala’g wa’y kwarta! Bahala’g wa’y kwarta!
Mang 'Del, according to 'Nong Roj, is in his forties and has lost some of his marbles. That afternoon, 'Nong Del was crouched against the wall and holding two sticks; in front him, a big carton box and to his right on the ground was an empty Tanduay bottle in lieu of clappers. The pedal and the bass drum were left for him to imagine.
From what little I was told, I conjectured that his time with the military had left him scarred. "Na-Warshock na siya, 'day." But, 'Nong Roj said, his drum skills had earned him his previous position in the military band; he had always loved music. Now, without a means of livelihood and having only a portion of his sanity spared, he is left with nothing but wine and song.
And how he rocked the streetside.
We sang in time with his drums and he banged his way through music from the past few decades. He remembers where the drum rolls fit, while flashing a genuinely happy smile at people who sing to fill the gaps where the lyrics or the hooky guitar riffs should be. I stayed with them for a good ten to fifteen minutes drinking my coffee, smoking cigarettes and singing as loud as they did. Beatles. Deep Purple. Pink Floyd. Journey. Frank Sinatra. Name it, he knows it. That afternoon, we sang Ventura Highway. He screamed: bahala’g wa’y kwarta! Bahala’g wa’y kwarta!
Never mind that we
are penniless, he said.
Passersby could only look on with passive interest at the motley crew.
Not everyone would wonder about this decrepit old man. Or wonder about the incongruity of a call center employee and a bunch of hobos.
Passersby could only look on with passive interest at the motley crew.
Not everyone would wonder about this decrepit old man. Or wonder about the incongruity of a call center employee and a bunch of hobos.
I can only surmise about the first thought, but I do have an answer to the second: if it's any consolation to 'Nong Del, I hope he feels that there is at least one person who understands his choice for this escape route at the expense of his marbles. I feel I owe him that, being part of an industrial world that generally holds higher esteem for scientists or mathematicians, the world that has cast him away among the forgotten. And despite this, I console myself with the the delusion that he feels how I understand that wide grateful grin, and that I sing along because I remember the soul that was given him, now left for dead in some distant hopeful decade.
In their behalf, 'Nong, we who understand this pain apologize.
