“I remember the yellow mosquito we’d hang over the bed each night we go to sleep when we were kids,” I told my brother while he was hunched over an old wicker chair he’s been fixing for the past half hour.

“Yeah, and you’d always be the one hanging it,” he said dryly with his back still turned to me. “Would you hand me those scissors behind you?” he asked without even turning.

“That’s because you suck at it. You never knew how to stretch it well enough so that it won’t droop over our faces when we sleep,” and I poked his shoulder with the scissors. He took and it and snipped some loose wicker strands sticking out from the bottom of the chair.

“Do you remember that bright red woolen blanket we used to sleep on which had those four naked mermaids designed on it with the huge breasts?” I asked as I saw little Zach coming out of the door wearing a huge smile on his face as he squeaked in his baby voice “’ito ‘an” (Tito Dan). Somehow this child of three still can’t pronounce his D’s and T’s yet to complete my name.

“Uh-huh. You used to rub your feet on that blanket every night in bed and you’d put that big hotdog-shaped pillow between us,” he replied as I took little Zach in my arms and I could smell pee all over him, but baby pee isn’t as bad smelling as adult pee.

“That hotdog-shaped pillow was nice to snuggle with. And besides, it helped to prevent you from putting your foot up my nose when you’re asleep,” I said in my defense while he took a couple of wicker strands to wove into the hole left by the ones he just pulled out. And Zach started to poke into my nose.

“Do you remember being breastfed by Mamu?” I asked him while I had to hold down Zach’s hand before he gets the bright idea of poking my eyes next. He giggled and he wiggled his hands out and started to play with the buttons on my shirt.

“Nope.”

“I do. And somehow, in my memories, I remember the smell of her milk, how it tasted. I also remember the mosquito net when I was still a baby* was also yellow and that red blanket with the mermaids, it was already there when I was a few months old. I remember these things,” I told him as I could hear Zach breathing beside my ear as I held him in my right arm and he kept on playing with the buttons of my shirt.

“Hmm,” my brother remarked as he straightened up, looked at me and said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“You have too much on your mind and too much time in your hands. Grab that other chair and help me fix these things,” he said with a dismissive wave of hand. At that instance, Zach flashed a big smile and grunted. He farted.

“See? Even Zach farted at your thoughts.”

We laughed.

____

* My brother was born four years after me.

Basketball... the country's number one sport. Every kid, every baranggay, every street corner has at least half a court to bounce an orange rubber ball around. Even with the popularity of boxing, it still is any Filipino male's past time. Whatever size, height or age and whichever island he comes from here, every one has to bounce that ball.

...and I hate it.

So, I just drew it. Here.

____


“ Pare, when you were a kid, didn't your school have a basketball court?” asked Jojo as we were walking towards the fishball vendor's stand.

“Yeah, my school did – two full courts and a couple volleyball courts. Why'd you ask?” I said when some street urchins ran past us chasing a big rat and throwing stones at the poor creature. I fumbled for some coins in the pocket of my shorts to pay for the cold apple-flavored tea I got from the fishball vendor. I also took a mental note that I need to buy a new pair of underwear. The strap has turned into bacon strips from being old and worn it keeps on falling down inside my shorts that I need to adjust it every now and then.

“You play awful. I pass you the ball and you keep on losing it to the other team,” he said, then he took one big gulp of the coke zero he had in his right hand. He lifted his drenched jersey and wiped the sweat from his face and neck with it.

“Hey, I told you I haven’t played it for years. You got to give me some slack there,” I protested.

“ Pare naman, we lost to a bunch of high school kids! What the heck was your sport or P.E. when you were a kid? Chess??” he said as he finished the last drop of his coke.

“Volleyball,” I mumbled as I skewered with a small sharpened bamboo stick a fish ball being deep fried in the stall.

Jojo looked at me and with a slight raise of his eyebrow said, “No wonder.”

I swore I wanted to poke his eye with the stick.

“ Papa ha! I see that you’ve been looking at my breasts. You like them?” asked a bubbly Jenny, a pretty young transvestite who took the seat across the table. “She” sat beside Brian while the two of us were finishing off the rice and remaining chunks of oily pork floating in coconut milk we just had in Aling Mameng’s 24-hour eatery. It was an hour past midnight here at Leveriza, the night is already bewitched and the colorful “night birds” from Mhayet’s Beauty Parlor from across the street start to “fly” out of their roost.

These “birds” are the transvestite/transgender friends of Mhayet – an ageing gay man with big, sad eyes, a tumor growing out of the left side of his neck and teeth that badly need fixing. He has a deep throaty voice that is a bit difficult to understand when he speaks. I call him the “two-talking Tita (aunt)”. He has to repeat everything he says twice or thrice to be understood. I figure it’s the lump on his neck that makes it difficult for him to enunciate his words. He’s also known as a “charitable foundation” for many of the young teenage boys in the area looking for some extra cash in exchange for a few minutes spent with him at the back office of his parlor.

Mhayet’s beauty parlor is a nest for some of his gay cohorts and their faghags in Leveriza. There’s Shaina – the scaly-skinned, bones-jutting-out-of-his-joints pimp of Nene. He’s also known in the area as “The Treasure Chest” by the local druggies for the crystal meth he pushes.

There’s Sharon, an ageing transsexual who spent years in Japan as a performer. “She” prides herself as being the complete “woman” for having made the leap of chopping of her jewels courtesy of a Japanese boyfriend. She can also be a good case study for plastic surgeons with a face that has been stretched, lifted, botoxed and bleached so many times she actually looks mummified. They say she pops estrogen pills like candy to maintain her curves and her silicon-implanted breasts.

And then there’s Jenny. She’s the youngest of these birds. Of their group she’s the “ professional ”, the only one who works in an office as a call center agent. She once mentioned that she uses the name Joan whenever she takes calls. Were it not for the slight hint of an Adam’s apple, she can be a poster image of the young Career Girl.

“You know Papa, these are new. I spent my whole year-end bonuses on these beauties,” she told me as she proudly cupped her breasts beneath her bra-less, gauzy blouse. “You want to touch them?” she suddenly offered.

“No, it’s okay. They’re, uhm, pretty,” I said with a grin.

“Let me,” Brian offered as he lightly poked his finger on her proud silicone flesh. “It feels real,” he said as he turned to me with a wide grin and a wink.

“Hoy!” came a loud yelp. It was Sharon in a skimpy white night gown followed by Shaina. “You flirty bitch! You just can’t wait to show off your new breasts no??” she said in a shrill voice while shaking a queenly finger at Jenny.

“Hay naku Ateng! You’re just envious. My breasts are perkier than yours and I’m younger,” Jenny told Sharon with defiance. "Besides, these guys said they're pretty."

“Uh-huh”, muttered Brian to himself. I looked at him and gave him a slight nod that we’d better go. I could sense a fag fight looming in the air.

“Isn’t it… Papa?” then Jenny turned to me, to my surprise, as I was about to stand up after I made sure to leave a tip for Robert the busboy. Brian had already made a quick beeline for the doorway.

“Uh yeah. They’re, uhm, nice,” I stumbled in my response. It was only then I realized that I was stuck between the table, the wall, Jenny and Sharon who’s already blocked my only way out of that sticky situation by standing in front of me.

“See, he says it’s nice. What can you say to that?” Jenny followed up my response.

“Is that so huh??” Sharon said, “Well, there’s only one way to prove whose breasts are better.” In a flash, she pulled down her strap and revealed her huge left bumper. As quick as she pulled down her strap to expose her mound, she took my left hand and placed it on her silicone treasure. “There Papa. Feel it. Now tell me if it’s nicer than hers or not,” she exclaimed in triumph as she held my wrist while I cup her breast.

“AY!! No,” screeched Jenny and in a huff she too suddenly pulled down her gauzy blouse to expose her not so big but very perky protuberance. She took my other hand and before I could even give a whimper, I was already cupping her rather fleshy pride. In a defiant tone she said, “Nothing beats youth and freshness.”

Locked in a position where both my hands were cupping “things” I shouldn’t cup (I felt I was nailed to a cross), I could only mutter, “Uhm, they’re both… nice.”

And I could see Brian laughing his tonsils out by the doorway.

I wrote this for my father sometime 2004
________________


My father has Alzheimer's.

He's 76 turning 77 this November. He grew up an orphan in the household of an older brother under the scheming eyes of a sister-in-law who suspects everyone and looks at every young man as a possible thief. He was in his teenage years when war broke out in Manila.

He never had much in life - worked as a janitor, then as a short order cook in a golf club, and worked his way up until he retired as executive chef.

I remember my father as a very kind man who loves little children and animals. Growing up, we've always had pets. In fact, am not pretty sure if he actually wanted to have just children or, children AND a zoo. It was fun.

Every night, our mother would take us to bed like a drill sergeant at exactly 8 p.m. (you know the drill, early to bed and early to rise makes Jack a bright boy) but my father has different ideas. He'd be coming home at around 9 and he'd wake us up by dangling a pack of hopias in front of our noses. We'd eat it with water or a cup of milk (whichever is available) and then we'd doze off dreaming of hopias with wings and burping fat children. Up to this day, whenever I'd see hopia, I'd think of nights I'd go to sleep with crumbs on my lips.

I was five when I was diagnosed by the doctor that I had rheumatoid arthritis - imagine, a child with the aches of old people! On cold nights, I would cry in pain with my joints creaking and aching with every move. My father would crawl under our mustard yellow mosquito net, kneel beside me and would massage me until I fall asleep. I even remember his warm and deep voice as he'd hum "Edelweiss" from The Sound of Music. Years later when I finally saw the movie, that song was so etched in my head that at the first note of Captain von Trapp, I knew it was my father's song - his song that lulled me to sleep on those cold painful nights.

When I was a teenager, he had to work abroad for a couple of years on a ship. My brother and I would write little postcards we'd ask our mother to send to him so it'd keep him company in his bunker. My father's not much of a writer, nor does he speak much. But he'd call us every time he's docked on land - and that would be once a month. Only our mother was able to talk to him on the phone. We didn't have a phone and she'd have to use my aunt’s upstairs. One time, he sent a card on my birthday. It was a 3D picture of a green parrot. I was so amazed at the picture of a parrot almost popping out of the paper, and I wondered if my father is in a wonderful land where they can make parrots pop out of paper. He wrote how much he missed us and soon he'll be coming home. And he signed it in the name we'd call him then - Papsi.

I was in college when he'd have to go again. This time to Canada. During that time, my life was in turmoil. I was growing up into a young man, so many things were happening and my father was gone again in a far-off land. I was angry. My older brother was never much of a role model for he was always into drugs and the wrong crowd. My younger brother, he was way too involved with bands and singing and girls; and our mother who tried to keep things afloat, was always attending to her small business. I kept to myself, tried to make do with my own life - growing up, dealing with young adulthood, blaming an absentee father.

Years later, he came back. Broken. Failed. Thinking he'd make it big in Canada, he only flew back to Manila with not much than when he flew out, and I blamed him. Years passed, I grew into a man and he became old. I promised myself, I’ll be exactly THE OPPOSITE of what my father is. I will strive to find my own success and I will use his life as an example, a guide rule to the things I will not do. In my eyes, his was a life led that never triumphed, and now I strive NOT to follow in his steps... but I was wrong. A couple of years ago, it dawned on me, that I was so very wrong.

My father started to lose his memory a few years ago after he had his varicose veins removed from his legs. He was lying there in bed, recovering from the minor operation. My mother and I were there watching him as he lay sleeping. He awoke with a start, and started mumbling incomprehensibly. Then like a sudden torrent he yelled. I was scared. That was the first time I ever heard this gentle man yell. He was yelling not in pain or anger... but in frustration. I remember him calling his own mother. His mother who I know he never really knew. We calmed him as he cried like a baby, scared at the thought of being led into a dark tunnel. I sat there dumbfounded while my mother calmed him. I had to walk out of the room for I cannot bear to see a man - my father - falling into desperation, fear and loss. I kept silent and slowly through the years, I witnessed my father slip into the abyss of loss.

Now, the doctor says he has the mental capacity of a fifteen year-old and it would eventually slip further. In front of my eyes, I watched this man, who had nothing in his youth, only us - his family. He worked for us, to the bone. Trying to bring each night a piece of joy to light his children's eyes. He tried to make something out of what little he had, went to other climes, to greener pastures and come back a failed attempt in the eyes of a son who promised never to be like him.

But the irony is, I am like him. I am my father's son. Seeing him as he slowly goes and fades into memory, I, my father's son is trying hard to do what he never could have done. He would tell us to value our education. I did. I went to university and gathered what I needed to learn. I remember him when he hummed his "Edelweiss" and how much affection he has of beauty - that same beauty that I now, am trying very hard to discover. I remember my father's dedication to that which he loves most - his family, his children; whilst I, though not with a family but still trying to pour my heart into what I love most - my art. I remember my father, and how he tried to make something out of himself in Canada. Though he failed, I too have failed... for I fail to see that in his failure, his legacy shouldn't stop but has to continue. His legacy for me, his son, is to find something better beyond myself.

I was angry then because all I thought was, he was gone and I missed those little moments he gave us, like nothing else mattered except us his sons. But I guess, now that I have the eyes of an adult to see and the mind to understand, that my anger was not because he left us. No, the anger was because we missed him.

As my father goes into the twilight of years, the biggest lesson he taught me, was not to do the same things he failed in, but rather, it is now upon me his son to pick up from where he had left. I now bear in me the promise of a son to continue what he has done. He loved us so much that he placed all his dreams behind him. I love my father and for him I bear a promise to live my dreams, to let it come alive. Not for me, but for him.

...that's my promise.

"I feel sorry for the driver every time I ride one of those tricyles (3 wheeled vehicles consisting of a motorbike and a sidecar attached to it) going inside the subdivision where I live in Cavite," Mikey told me while his back was turned towards me as I was doing my third sketch for our session.

"Why?" I asked and told him to twist his right arm a little to the left.

"It's because of the street humps. Each time the tricycle passes one, the bottom of the passenger's side car would always be caught on the asphalt because of my weight," he replied while keeping himself frozen in his pose.

"I've always hated riding those tricycles ever since I grew up into adulthood myself. I feel like I'm in a can of sardines when I'm in one," I agreed with him.

"And those jeepneys! My butt occupies a space for two people, and then I'll get these remarks from some wise ass saying that I'm "too big". Like... it's MY fault that I am a big person," he said.

"You're what they call a "bear"," I said.

"You think I am?"

"Mikey. You are. And stop moving. I'm almost done drawing your butt," I said.

__________________

I've finally convinced Mikey - a powerlifter - to pose for me in a series of sketching/drawing sessions. He weighs in at 270 lbs., stands 5'10" and is built like a mountain boulder. I've already made him agree to be the basis for a couple or so paintings I will be working on in the next few weeks.

He's my new Adam.

...and I am still looking for my Eve.