a sketch

She was at the balcony, breathing in the night air. It was an expansive, traveling vessel of which was suffused smells. Potent vapors: barbecued pork and chicken; gaseous trash from the anuses of vehicles; the sweat of the working man and woman; the waste of our commercialism snug on the sides of our buildings, like visible plaque on teeth. Also, if she tried hard enough, she could smell the sulfur.

All this olfactory data was borne by the wind.

She rubbed her ears. Laughter and chatter too, of kids, adults, and old folk—gave body to the young night. Five-to-ten year olds were still at it with block 1-2-3, tumbang preso and the classic patintero. Some of them were being hollered at to return home, supper was approaching, they needed to be clean to eat. Adults gobbled up the latest local scandal with a rather pious eye and dirty mouth, a natural and diurnal practice of consumption and regurgitation. All news punctuated by joke followed through by infectious laughter.

Laughter was full and voluptuous, healthy and a whore.

She opened her eyes, slowly. She saw tricycles. Their cargo of scowls, bad skin, and lost eyes. Silent as coffins in hearses, their souls drowning in a pretzel-shaped loop of mnemonic re-runs, and fluffy what-ifs. Pell-mell, linear constellations of people flanking sari-sari stores, carinderias and pedi-cabs—impatient faces, chatting, laughing or in la-la land. Would poverty be poverty if everyone was poor? Marie thought.

The church bell tolled. She exhaled…

II

…And left the terrace. She woke up early. Suddenly, the familiar blast of corpse-reviving din bombarded the small world of her room. She closed in on the necessary trouble-maker, and hit the red button on its top—hard. The alarm died.

She thought: Which blouse to wear with what jeans, or do I wear jeans? Or skirt or cargo pants? Or jazz pants? With tee or tube or spaghetti or tank top? Or halter back with jacket corduroy or sweater, or pashmina? What color do I feel like today, hmm? What fit do I prefer, hm? Would I like to show some skin, mm, or wrap myself up silly?

She catches her eyes in the full-length mirror. A dark sparkle of resentment had resided in the deep corners of her 25-year old eyes. Her thoughts moved away from this deep and heavy development; she noted instead the superficial: bags under eyes; light-gray bags—badges for her trade.

Another button is depressed, and blue lights burst into animation. Tori Amos is chosen, Sleeps With Butterflies. REPEAT is pushed down. Hair is tossed, limbs stretched, her nighty removed. She continued to determine her mood, and the gear that will go with it, in the shower.

The house was older than most men. Well-to-do Spaniards had put it up, when the neighborhood was still “good”. Marie and her family paid rent each month for the top floor. Right below her room, their living room and part of their dining room, was the garage of the owner. Below their kitchen was another, smaller unit, where another, bigger family rented. There are two rooms upstairs, the master bedroom and regular bedroom. The regular bedroom was sublet by Marie to a couple. The man worked in a grocery near the wet market, and the waitress worked at a bar under the LRT. They paid almost a third of the total rent for Marie and her family’s unit. The remaining was all up to Marie.

The shower room had no shower. It was filled with drums. Five in all. Five, big, black drums which were stuffed with water. A naked toilet was rooted near a corner, its dignity resplendent from its whiteness and cleanliness, despite it being deprived of seat and cover. All was left was a little patch of floor to “shower” in.

The water dipper is utilized, and provides the convenience and illusion of a spraying nozzle. Her mind runs back into the closet in her mind. Near the edge of her awareness stainless steel clicked, China stirred, cabinets opened, closed. Her mother was going through preparations.