ELEVEN
The Walking Furniture Stores
We can’t procrastinate any longer. We’ve spent hours touring Bacolor. It’s time to gather strength and proceed to Mabalacat and see what remains of the house our father built.
On our way, Johnny stops at a shopping center to withdraw some cash from an ATM machine. A man appears, carrying two wrought iron baker shelves about seven-foot high and five-inch wide, one in each arm. I am dumbfounded. He carries the furniture as though they are made of rubber or cardboard. I wonder if he is selling them or just moving them.
I remember a few days ago when my sister and I were walking down the street to the neighborhood store. We came upon two men; one much taller and bigger built than the other. Both of them carried large wooden furniture on their backs and shoulders. I can’t remember the smaller man’s cargo, but I remember distinctly what the larger man hauled on one shoulder that he balanced on both hands without bending his frame: a large, five-shelf wooden bookcase.
They walk casually—these ant-like creatures—oblivious to their surroundings, hoping that one would generously have them unload their merchandise, hoping they could come home with a smile and food for their family. Everywhere I go, I see men, women and children risking their lives in heavy traffic, peddling anything they can sell to make a little money to get by. Most of them probably make about five dollars the whole day, if they’re lucky. As much as I can, I buy newspapers from children—young children who have no business working, but family survival demands it.
A lot of educated Filipinos are either jobless, or doing something not in any way commensurate to their qualifications and education. It would not be surprising if the watermelon man had been a recipient of a college degree. I know of someone, a Master’s Degree holder, whose monthly income is less than what his young son receives from a relative as a birthday gift. In spite all this, I can’t help but admire these enterprising Filipinos who can probably do better begging than working. I wonder what is in store for these people who get no government assistance to survive.
As my brother walks back towards me from the ATM, he stops the furniture man. I roll down my window so I can hear their conversation. The man is indeed in the business of selling the metal shelves. The shelves look well made, but he admits that he is merely selling them on commission. He wears a pair of thin, worn out rubber sandals, a wrinkled floral shirt with a big tear on one sleeve, and a pair of oversize shorts. He wears a Washington Redskins’ cap that might have been retrieved from a garbage can. When he smiles, his eyes remain dim and lifeless.
My brother is impressed with the workmanship. He had just built a three-room extension to his house. He could use these shelves, but he is not in a position to buy because we are on our way to Mabalacat. The mere thought of getting there makes my chest tighten.
"I own 'JPB Enterprises' in Angeles," says Johnny to the vendor. "My wife, Clara, is there now. Tell her I sent you. She might be interested in buying those."
I see the faintest glimmer of excitement in the man's otherwise very dark eyes. He humbly thanks my brother.
What is it about these vendors that seem to generate some humanitarian spirit in my brother? I think it's very nice, but I've never thought of him as a giving man before; at least, not to our family. Johnny is probably the most moneyed of all my siblings, but he never volunteers to help any family member in dire financial need, and there’s been a lot of it. I don’t think he ever once sent any money to our mother; in fact, it was Ma who would give him money every time she came back to visit – money that came from Lety and me. I take that back, he did pay for Jaime’s airfare to Hawaii when he emigrated from the Philippines to the U.S. in the Eighties.
“That’s nice,” I say to Johnny while he fastens himself to his seat.
“What is?”
“What you do. You could easily go to fancy stores and buy what you want, but you seem to want to support those who need your business more.”
“Ahh . . . I’m not that charitable. Those shelves are very nice. And a lot cheaper than what you’d find in fancy stores for the same quality.”
“Oh, for sure. Still, it’s nice of you to buy from that guy.”
“Well, I haven’t bought any yet.”
“I think Clara will like those shelves.”
“I hope so. We need them.”
We have only driven about 500 feet from the ATM machine and we’re already caught in a heavy traffic. Volcanic debris and other wastes still embedded on roadsides have narrowed the streets even more. So much time is wasted sitting in traffic.
“I’m surprised you didn’t know him.” I say to Johnny.
“Who?”
“The shelving guy.”
“Why would I?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Just thought you might.”
“Just because I knew the watermelon guy doesn’t mean that I know every one who peddles on the streets.”
Our conversation is interrupted by the blaring sirens coming from behind us. The traffic is so congested that we can’t even move out of the way. An ambulance tries desperately to seek passage through the comatose traffic. It crawls its way to our left. I see two apprehensive EMT’s inside, one looking down at his patient, the other looking out, perhaps wondering if they’d be able to reach the hospital in time. I peruse the sea of vehicles around me. I shake my head from left to right. If the patient is in critical condition, I hope the Grim Ripper is on vacation.
The ambulance finally finds its way out of the procession of cars, trucks, busses, horse-drawn carriages, and vendors. In my fertile and morose imagination, the ambulance turns into a hearse.
--o0o--
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