I met Raymond last night. It was the first time I’d seen him in more than a dozen years.
As I drove around, looking for the address he had given me, I wondered why he chose to buy a house in a neighborhood like this. It had the typical but indescribable “Pinoy feel” to it — homes obviously occupied by extended families, cars parked in driveways, some with tarp car covers, a sprinkling of smaller, older diesel Mercedes Benzes, and the scent of tuyo wafting up from some backyard barbecue somewhere. When I finally found the house — a white Spanish-type bungalow with red brick roofing and an almost-brown front lawn — it seemed less and less like the type of house he’d buy.
I remembered Raymond as someone cultured, well-bred, and with good (and expensive) tastes. Back home, he rented a house in Corinthian Plaza, later purchasing it. A house in this neighborhood — no matter how nice it actually was — seemed to be beneath his standards, as I remembered him.
It was a Pinoy-looking teenaged boy I met in the driveway. ”Is Raymond here?” I asked in English, not knowing if this teenager knew Tagalog at all. ”He lives in the backhouse,” he said, pointing to a narrow path along the side of the house. ”Salamat,” I said, subconsciously testing the youth’s knowledge of his family’s native tongue. ”Walang anuman po,” he said. I smiled as I walked to the backhouse.
The backhouse?
The backhouse was small and nondescript.
It was small, white, and didn’t match the architecure of the main house. I crossed the brown lawn, walked up to the door, and knocked. “Who is it?” a voice called from inside. “Ako,” I said.
Raymund opened the door, and smiled sheepishly. Or was it more of a sad smile?
I didn’t wait for him to invite me in — I walked right in, past him, and into a dimly lit single room. There was a sofa — obviously a sofabed — facing a TV set on the opposite side of the house/room. To the right was a small kitchen counter. To the right of the sofabed was a door that obviously opened to a bathroom. To the left of the sofabed was a sliding door. ”The clothes cabinet,” I concluded. There was shag carpeting that had seen better days, its gold turned yellow-gray from wear and tear.
“Ano na balita, pare.” That sounded familiar — Raymond always started conversations with “What’s the latest?”
“Eto,” I said, “tumatanda.” I chuckled uncomfortably as I said that. ”How are you naman…long time no see.”
“I’m okay naman,” he said. I looked at him quizically and doubtfully. ”Let’s walk over to Island Pacific,” he said. ”I have to buy something for our dinner.”
It looked like it would be a ten-minute walk, so I said “Let’s use the car.”
We walked up and down the aisles of Island Pacific, searching for I-don’t-know-what. Occasionally, Raymond would stop, pick up a packet of food, check the price tag, then ask me, “Do you want this for dinner?” Sometimes he would put it back without saying anything.
He looked at the price tag on a package of longganisa, put it down, then looked at the tag on a package of chicken tocino. This time he asked, “You want tocino for dinner? I can buy some eggs and we’ll have breakfast for dinner.” He laughed a bit at that quip. ”Sure,” I said. Anything’s fine.”
I, in my thoughtlessness, didn’t realize he was scrimping, saving cents and buying the less expensive items. When I realized that, I began picking up stuff and putting them in the grocery cart — not too much, but more than he would have bought. A pound of longganisa, two pieces of huge daing na bangus, a few tomatoes, and a couple of itlog na pula. ”My treat for dinner,” I said. ”I’ve been in the States longer,” I winked.
As we walked out of Island Pacific, I spied a food counter called Tony’s Barbecue. Aside from the little bibingkas they served (they looked good), they had pork and chicken barbecue, grilled tuna belly, inihaw na liempo, and inihaw na pusit, all with the appropriate sauce — suka’t bawang na may toyo for the grilled squid, lemon butter sauce for the grilled tuna belly, and a dark, sweet, and thick sauce a la Aristocrat for the barbecued meats. Plus, of course, Java rice and achara. Again, with more calculation than impulse, I said “I want to eat dinner here.” Raymond reluctantly agreed.
After placing our orders (Raymond had grilled tuna belly and I had pork barbecue), I pulled out my wallet to pay. He murmured something that sounded like “Ako na pare.” I paid.
By now, Raymond had raised not only curiosity in me — small alarm bells began ringing in the back of my mind. What was going on with Raymond?
I thrust those thoughts aside while we were eating our dinner on a small table using the standard black plastic spoons and forks, facing a TV with a sign below it that said “Pacquiao fight on Saturday…eat here and watch.”
As we ate, we talked…mostly reminiscing. ”Have you heard from Greg Refuerzo?” he asked. Greg was my boss when I was working for the government. ”Nope. Have you heard from Tony?” Tony Arinto was his boss. ”Hindi din, e.”
While we ate, I made up my mind to buy a few beers to take home. Maybe Raymond would loosen up and start talking more freely if he had a couple of beers under his belt.
We got back in the car, longganisa and daing na bangus and tomatoes and itlog na pula in one bag, and a San Miguel Beer six-pack in another. In less than five minutes were were in the backhouse.
I sat on the sofabed; Raymond sat on the one chair before the small single-sitting table that served as his dining room. ”You stayed here since you got to the States?” I asked tentatively. ”No naman,” he said. Before I could pursue the discussion, he butted in.
“What do you think of Obama’s health care plans?” he asked, as if he wanted to change the topic.
“I don’t know what to think,” I said. ”I wish he’d succeed,” he said. “I need it.”
I looked at him, and he must have seen the question mark on my face. “I don’t have health insurance now. Kailangan ko e.”
“Bakit? Why? Doesn’t your company give you insurance?” He looked me straight in the eye for a second, then dropped his eyes as he said, “I’m not working…‘di ko na kaya.”
I didn’t know what to say. After an awkward pause, he said “Na-stroke ako three years ago, pagkatapos nun I couldn’t work anymore. Tapos na-diagnose ako with diabetes and high blood pressure, so medyo mahal ang gamot ko ngayon.”
“Sobra kasi tayo kumain at uminom sa Manila nun,” I half-joked. For the first time that night he smiled — actually chuckled.
“Yes, I remember,” he mused. “Pero nun malakas tayo sa toma, hindi sa pagkain. You always wanted to eat at some place like Barrio Fiesta or Kamayan.”
“And you always chose the Kobe beef grill at the Hyatt. ”You could never have enough of the Kobe beef there…teriyaki steak or T-bone, always rare.”
He began to warm up. “I remember the day Marcos declared martial law. I had to call you at 3AM to prove to the Metrocom I was working with the government,” he began to laugh. “They arrested me at the casino.”
“I remember,” I laughed with him now. “You were at 777 when they came in and arrested everyone there.”
“Including the boss of the Metrocom, and the soldiers had to verify his identity.” We were now laughing out loud. “And Senator Romero was there, too.”
“Remember your boss?” Secretary Tanyag was head of the Department of National Information. “Lagi tayo nasa bahay niya each Saturday, playing blackjack.”
“And he never won, all those years,” he chimed in. “Kung 50,000 pesos lang mahina sa tinalo niya sa atin.”
We spent the next half hour or so laughing at the memories we had of the years we spent in government.
The lull in the conversation came suddenly, and it was quiet again.
“Bakit ka pumapayat?” I finally asked. He had lost weight since I last saw him. Thirty, maybe 40 pounds. He had also aged dramatically — the young, laughing, vibrant man of 12 years ago was now thin and gaunt. The dark, wavy hair was replaced by grey, stringy hair, and wrinkles marred the smooth face he had cared for with weekly massages and facials at the barber shop in Greenhills.
“Kasi hindi ako magana kumain ngayon,” he replied. “Parang walang lasa lahat ng kinakain ko. Besides, di ako puedeng magpataba. Bawal sa diabetic.”
“Dyabetik,” I corrected him jokingly. “Meron kang dyabetis.”
He sighed, then finished off the SanMig in the can. When he yawned, he apologized and said “Siguro napagod ako sa kakalipat.”
Perfect opening, wrong time, I decided. So I said “Sige, medyo pagod din ako. Uwi na ako. When will I see you again?”
“Anytime,” he said. “Just call. I’m not too busy these days.”
“Sige, ‘Pare. Ikamusta mo nalang ako kay ‘Mare.”
As I pulled away from the curb, I noticed the scent of tuyo was no longer in the air. And the house across the street had Christmas lights on — and a sure sign it was a Filipino’s house…a parol. “Early bird,” I thought.
