Escolta

Escolta

  J. X. NULUD

  Copyright 2016 J.X. NULUD

  Thank you for the support

  DISCLAIMER

  Although I have drawn my emotions from my experiences, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

 

  It was ten in the morning when Charles woke up to a hot and humid Saturday. He did what he’d always do every morning – Check his wall clock to see if he had over slept – luckily, he did not. He checked Messages that he missed while he snored the night away. Finally, he reviewed his daily calendar to see what commitments he had to do. There was only one thing scheduled for him to do for that hot summer Saturday, and that was a trip to Manila. Charles had loved the city ever since he first gazed upon the city hall’s clock tower. His favorite part was entering the city through the Quezon Bridge while riding in front of a Jeepney. He would wait longer than most commuters; looking out for that Jeepney that had no one riding beside the driver’s seat. He could have used the transit, it was just a ride to MRT Taft station and then on board the LRT going to Central station, right in the heart of the city. It was faster by transit, but he enjoyed the torrid heat of the Jeepney engine, rumbling and shaking his body, the hustle and bustle of the street, rather than the sound of an air-conditioned coach of the train in which one hears the rolling of the wheels against the line, and the occasional commuters who played loud music instead of using headphones because they felt their music could make someone’s day a little bit better, but Charles hated this, it was a nuisance to him.

  He got out his messy room – a small, cramped, space he called his world. Everything in it was in his liking – four acoustic guitars, of which three were already broken and had been collecting dust. On the left side beside his door was the computer table, he saw it as his “work table” as he had spent countless, sleepless nights recording his written compositions, all about the comedy and tragedy of his love life. Across it was his bed, which had four old pillows that offered no comfort to his sleeping, and its sheets that were seldom changed. Above it was his books, stacked with a complete collection of all the novels of F. Sionil Jose, which he accidentally discovered while he was at a bookstore looking to buy a novel but couldn’t afford the one he wanted so he picked a random one because he loved the book’s sky blue cover. He also had countless books he had randomly picked, because he felt that he would read it, but in reality he only read his favorites. His shelf was full and a few more would mean that it would fall directly on his head, killing him instantly. He thought it was quite a way to die, death by a thousand words.

  He made iced tea when he got to the kitchen, a drink he had a love-hate relationship with because it gave him acid reflux, but he couldn’t resist it because he loved its taste, and so he would suffer heartburns shortly after downing a glass or two. He usually took quick baths, but this time he took a long one, he wanted to be thoroughly clean because it was a day in Manila, and also because he knew he would be at the mercy of the summer heat, it was only the second Saturday of April. He called his bath time “the shower of regrets” because he’d often remember all his frustrations in life – his career which he felt like a whore, giving in to every request of his clients. The stupid things he did in high school, and his college sweetheart who left him a few years ago.

  Charles was a lone wolf, he was comfortable in doing things alone, but at the same time he wanted to belong to someone, but it always didn’t work out, he was too good at being alone – he’d often watch three straight movies at the cinema every Sunday, buying a bucket of popcorn while hopping from one cinema to the other.

  Back in his room he got ready, he wore his favorite blue shirt, his favorite travel shorts which had six pockets, and his hiking sandals that he never used for hiking. He bought it for the comfort that it gave his feet. In his locally-made, cream-colored sling bag was a face towel, tissue paper in case of an emergency that he had to go number two. He also had his camera with him, bulky as it may seem, but he preferred it than shooting sights using the phone’s camera. One thing he can’t leave home without were extra shirts, at least two, because he had sweat glands that were too active for a human being.

  Packed and ready to go, he hailed a tricycle to bring him to Espańa where he would ride a Jeepney across the Quezon Bridge and into Manila. It was past lunch when he rode the Jeepney, he felt not only the rumble of the engine but also the rumble of the critters inside his stomach, telling him that he had skipped lunch. But he deliberately delayed lunch, he wanted to eat at his favorite Mami and Siopao place in Quiapo. It was always his first pit stop when taking a trip to his beloved city.

  He hopped off Quiapo Church and against the crowded alleys of the market he braved the swell of people to get to the restaurant. It was inside a run-down, old building that was glorious in the 1960s, it was one of the first shopping centres of the country, but bigger malls soon took its patrons and now the building dusted away, waiting for condemnation. The restaurant’s furniture was also decades old, like a blast to fifty years back every time Charles dined in there. But he had always wanted old stuff, he loved antiques, he loved the history behind all of it, the technology available at that time and how people lived before internet and mobile phones were even invented. The menu also hasn’t change in almost a century; it was the same recipe that Charles’ forefathers tasted.

  The Mami tasted funny but its broth had character that made it distinct to other restaurants, making it a best-seller. The experience wouldn’t be perfect without their handmade siopao – its rough and imperfect bun made it not the best looking siopao around, but inside it was grand and splendid, a recipe made for royalty. Charles would always put crushed pepper to the Mami until the light brown soup darkened. And in an unusual fashion, which he saw with most of the old folks who ate there, he would put siopao sauce in the soup, which made the taste funnier and sweeter at the same time, it was common practice there, a sort of a niche culture that only patrons knew. With every bite of the siopao and slurp of the noodles, he washed it down with the restaurant’s classic drink called “suicide” which was a mix of orange, cola, root beer, and lemon. He salivated – bit, chewed, and swallowed until he was stuffed, until his soul was rejuvenated, and his stomach critters fell silent.

  Charles was now ready to go, he again rode in front of the Jeepney and as it sped across the Quezon Bridge, he shut his eyes and smiled.

  “Welcome back, Charles! And hello Manila.” he said to himself.

  The Jeepney driver asked if he was an overseas worker who had just gone back to the country, to which he declined.

  Charles alighted near the old and abandoned Metropolitan Theatre reached for his wallet and bought Lucky Strike cigarettes. He lighted one and inhaled nicotine into his lungs as if breathing in new life, and then he exhaled heavily, making sure the smoke only occupied his lungs for a few seconds. He walked toward Binondo where Chinatown was. He walked across the Jones Bridge and always thought how beautiful it was before it was destroyed by the past great war. It was indeed the most beautiful bridge in Manila – It was heavily ornamented; two statuaries of boys riding dolphins, balustrades, finials, and even the lampposts were ornamented. It had four tableaus of allegory themed after motherhood and nationhood. Its intricate design made one feel like walking into a bridge in Paris. But today Charles can only appreciate it on a historical reference, because what was once a beautiful bridge is nothing but a yellow-painted, sub-standard concrete bridge that had plastic lampposts that won’t even turn on during the night because its wiring had been stolen by thieves, selling it to junk shops
for a coin or two.

  He was now near where he was scheduled to be, he took a right after crossing Jones Bridge – It was the historic street of Escolta. Some 50 years ago it was where the rich men and glamorous belles went for a good night out. Commercial establishments, fashion, food, and all sorts that money could buy were once in this street. Today, all Charles could see was rusting building bars, demolished lots that have been made as parking lots. Street children playing out in the sun, small shanties that clung beside the old buildings, made by poor residents whose stories Charles could only speculate how they ended up there. A creek full of trash clogging the waterway gave a foul stench to passers-by. But it didn’t