Sulucan

TW: violence

“Pabili po” Carlo tapped his Ten peso coin on the wood counter multiple times, head extending, looking thru the grilled window, trying to find Maricar, the girl who usually assists in the store during this time, instead Ate Cha suddenly appeared from below the counter. She stood up like a jack-in-a-box boinging from the other side of the counter. Her voice came out high pitched.

“What?” the elderly woman’s long face was two feet away from his, she smelled like old molded bread.

“Marlboro menthol please, just one,” Carlo sounded disappointed,

“Here,” Ate Cha gave her the cigarette then shooed him away. “Go, Get! We’re closing now, don’t you know there’s a curfew? Go home! its dangerous outside during curfew," Ate Cha exclaimed, "those thugs..” the woman followed beneath her breath. 

Carlo took the cigarette stick. Maricar was not around, maybe he would text her later, about what in particular he’s not sure, all he wanted was to see her, to have his eyesight be filled with her, or maybe to connect with her even thru digital presence.

He wanted to feel again that sense of drowning whenever he was around Maricar. The cigarette errand was more for seeing her than anything else. He always needed a cigarette break after dinner away from his mother’s prying eyes and nose. He wasn’t allowed to smoke inside the house, he was only sixteen. He couldn’t do that by the store anymore now that they're closing. It meant he wouldn’t be able to see Maricar that evening, make small talk, listen to her musical giggle, pretending to listen, all the while imagining what she looked like naked, skin smooth and brown covering her body like continuous undulating landscape, small waist, high firm breast, pink nipples almost beckoning wanting to be thumbed, that curly triangle downstairs, all the while he puffed his cigarette down to its stub, listening to her giggles, not understanding any word she said.

Carlo was frustrated as he turned to his narrow street, in front of him like a stopper abruptly ending the flow of the road was a three story house, boxed like jenga, one on top of the other, about to topple over. It had a three meter frontage enough to block the road, a grilled gate was planted from the abutment to the under part of the 2nd floor overhang, it covers whole the frontage of the lower ground. 

“Well whatever,” Carlo mumbled again to himself. With the opportunity gone with Maricar, he had noticed once more this violation of a house. It was sitting in the middle of the road and now the occupants had an afterthought to barricade themselves in.

“Neurotic creeps.” Carlo reflected. He turned right once more to an inconspicuous narrow alley.

Sulucan was an apt name. It was an almost forgotten one hectare government property where local officials found useful number of voters for election. Cleaning up the place and relocating the squatters that had occupied the land for almost 30 years was the local city council’s headache, a dark mangled corner, sore to every government program implementation, yet a boon during local elections. Though the main road was named RD10 on the map, Sulucan was what the locals have always called their place, unofficial, like most if its habitants were. It encompasses the maze of shanties you would go thru once you turned the alley on the right coming from Ate Cha’s store. Like the house with red door at the dead end, structures that fronted the main road was built in a way that it inched towards the middle. The front houses were concrete and steel, two or three meters in frontage, the height would depend on three things: one - if you were one of the early settlers and two- if you had enough money to build, then three- if you had influence enough to defy local building officials.

Free space was a contention of who owns it. The structures were like a creeping fog, slowly moving towards the center until only a three-meter clearing was left of the once five-meter-wide road. Second or third story windows would showcase laundry clothes like party streamers hung out to dry. Conveniently covered by a corrugated GI sheet roof overhang, on rainy days the clothes were damp but not wet from rain, during summer, they would immediately dry, but road dust or suspended lead particles in the air would settle on the dried-out clothes.

Carlo’s alley was a 1.5-meter-wide corridor snaking through the shanties behind the more solid front apartment type structures. The shanties were like lined shipping boxes having the alley/corridor as a common right of way. Each structure opened to this walkway with a foot of open canal on each side carrying wastewater towards the main road storm drain. As each shanty faced each other, their roofs would also often meet in the middle, because of this, it was almost always semi dark in the alley. Sunlight would streak to the portions where there was no roof and at night, light was provided by the windows as it streamed its glow outside. Some newcomers would provide a light bulb outside the door for better vision during the night when you navigate the alley, but by the time they woke up, both the bulb and receptacle was already gone. The equally snaking roofs provided shade and protection from the sun when the heat was felt in swirling airs penetrating the GI roofs. When it rained, the falling water puttered small holes in the walkway, but its splashes were far enough from the door, so the water didn’t reach inside, at least this was the way it was until almost 5 yrs ago. Now each time there were heavy rains, the side canals would fill up fast and flash floods would creep inside their floors. Some have managed to block the floods by building a small wall of concrete by the doorway. High enough so flood waters wont come in, low enough to be stepped over when you come inside the house.

Most of the twenty-five square meter one room affair shanties were separated by concrete walls, rickety plywood front doors and glass or wood jalousie windows. One corner would be a counter for sink and cooking then walled off from the main area was the toilet and bath. They were lucky, Carlo and his mother were one of the few who came in the early years, they were able to occupy a larger space with its own toilet and bath.

Beginning from the 90’s the shanties were now only provisioned by a kitchen sink. The common laundry area, bath and toilets were found at the far end of the shanties structures. It was here that Sulucan folks would do laundry, clean up their children, scrub heavy pots and pans, wash used plates from the meal, that is if they had plates or if they had pots and pans, but mostly they only had disposable plastic wares both used as food storage and plate, the container held what food they would have had for the day. 

This common clean up space was located near end of the maze. It was open from above and the floor was marked with half a foot high bricks, waterproofed and designed in a way that the markings formed like rectangular basins for each of the five common faucets. Since it wasn’t roofed over, here sunlight bathed the regular activities, washing, cleaning, laundry. Cubicle baths with plywood doors wrapped in iron sheet were provisioned on one side of the wall, on the other side toilets were located. This was one of the barangay leader’s project sometime before. Water was tapped from the main supply and metered to charge to the local barangay expense. The Sulucan inhabitants would then be charged with a fixed fee per month per household regardless of usage and charges increased each time there would be a newly elected local barangay official. There were two-hour schedules of water ration within the day, two hours at morning, then noon, then night. During these times, the people would be like ants emerging from their holes, line up with empty gallons for water stock to bring to their own shanties or to take their bathes or body dumps there. Oftentimes there would be fights at this place, mostly on whose turn it was in line, or those who didn’t clean up after a dump, or someone hogging the faucet, bath or toilet. Carlo would sometimes figure in these fights, now he realizes, it was better to just fall in line, fetch, fill up his water containers and do his business at home. His mama did say these fights were more a waste of time, effort and common sense. It didn’t even show if you were a better man, just a better fighter.

Carlo was nearing his place, just five doors to the right from the main road. When he entered the house, he placed his mother’s back hand to his forehead as he bowed down, a sign of respect almost completely forgotten by the newer generation.

“So where are the eggs and cooking oil?” Aling Celina, short haired, wrinkles line her eyes beyond her age, medium built and thin, she was now asking her son whereabouts of a supposed errand.

Carlo closed his eyes, he looked pained, “sorry, I forgot.”

“You need to eat something tomorrow before you go to work”

“I’ll eat before I go to work”, Carlo took the broom and started sweeping the floor, preparing the room for the night. He then unfolded the sofa into a sofa bed, for his mother to sleep in. Next he turned to the long wooden bench, wide enough for his body, he added a chair to the end to hold his feet once he extended his length when he sleeps. He was tall and gangly like most sixteen-year-olds. He worked as a delivery boy on a nearby grocery store, helped in the stockroom carrying heavy bags of rice and flour then arranging stocks on shelves. He would come in half a day at mornings and go to school half day on afternoons. He would often question his hard life, but his mother would answer in biblical phrases, offering whatever small comfort they had to prayers and fate, still he never doubted his mother’s will to live. He looked to her as his pillar and promised one day, this life of unquestioning servitude and hardship will be over. His father left before he was born, and his mother worked as a stay out housemaid on one of the well-off families in an elite subdivision near their place. They were housed there by his mother’s employer long before Sulucan looked like a forgotten dinghy corner lot. There was a time when it was a decent place where transients can rent for a limited time just until they can find their own place. That was how they started, they had not planned to live here long, but life didn’t work out. He once thought his mother’s employer was their landlord, they once asked if they could live with them even if not inside the main house, just a maids room or one of the outhouses within the fenced property, apparently his mother’s employer died before the agreed arrangement. Now, without the support of a benefactor, she worked on contract basis for houses in the same subdivision that needs house cleaning and maintenance. Now he does not know who owns this forgotten place, being one of the first arrivals there, no one had asked them for rent. 

He plumped a pillow for his head and lined his wooden bench with linen to make it soft. He sat at the middle, then lay himself down, his upper body propped up higher by the pillow, he took his cellphone and began to scroll.

“No, you won’t eat. You just fix yourself up and leave. Why don’t you go buy now so I can wake up early and make breakfast ready before you leave?”

“Ma, it’s almost nine’oclock, there’s a curfew remember, I’ll buy tomorrow early morning”

“Tsk, you shouldn’t have forgotten,” Aling Celina gave up and laid down the sofa bed, bone tired from the day, she was snoring a few minutes later. The evening wore on to midnight, slowly Sulucan was settling down, cool breeze wafted the air, the moon was out tonight.

There was a scuffle on the outside corridor, footsteps were running a man’s deep voice was guttural.

“He’s heading for the wash area, shoot that mother fucker, shoot him! You incompetent sonafabitches!” Bang! Thud thud… the first fire ricocheted from the concrete corridor floor. The second fire seemed to have found a target. It was dark, figures were hard to discern, flashlights were flickering and swinging towards the target or any unwelcomed movement in the corridor. The shanties on both sides of the walkway boarded up more, no one came out. The running footsteps went to wash area, then another gunfire, a wail was heard.

The victim was cornered in the wash area. There were three dark clothed men, the victim was fourth. At first glance he looked like he was wearing half shorn pants with the right leg torn off, but as the moonlight bathed the wash area eerily, the victim laid on the floor with his back on one of the toilet doors, what figured as a pant leg was actually his left knee blown off now with gushing blood running thru the length of his left leg. He was moaning with pain.

“No sir, I am not a drug pusher, please believe me.”

“You really thought you can escape us you fucker” one of the men, came nearer slapped the pistol butt on the victims head. He wailed again.

“You’re stupid enough to think you can get away here hah.. See if you can run this time” a booted foot came down on the already banged knee. There was a crack, the victim cried out loud, the pain shot out of his head, he can feel the lower limb separating from his thigh.

“What were you doing outside?”

“I was trying to see my girlfriend” he wailed, sobbing snot and blood was mixing, he was just now realizing, he was also shot by the shoulder, the realization added to his pain, he moaned again. 

“So your girlfriend is the supplier?”

Even in his pain, he could not comprehend the stupidity of the police officers. It was past midnight when Carlo received a text from Maricar saying she wanted to see him. In the long exchanges of messages, he could feel her longing and his excitement. Braving the curfew, he stealthy went out of the house and managed the shadows, afraid to be seen by roving police officers. When he reached the store, he gave a familiar low whistle, the store’s side door slightly opened, he slipped inside. Maricar was waiting, the kiss was hungry. Carlos’s hands were exploring, cupping her breasts, kneading, opening her thighs, in an instant they were fucking, with each ebb and tide, moans were stifled and just as quickly, bodies separated. They didn’t talk, just one more long lingering kiss, he zipped up his shorts, then slipped outside again .

He was grinning walking back to the alley, when a hard clap landed on his back head, he was floored, he had gotten careless with the successful tryst he had with Maricar, he allowed himself to be exposed in the moonlight.

“Now where have you been? Have you already made the deal?” one of the police officers was looking down at him. He was a tall boy and his reach was equally long, Carlos took a forceful jab at the police officer’s balls, turned on his knees and scampered away towards the alley, that’s when the shooting began.

“Please sir, I don’t have any drugs on me, I don’t even do drugs,” He was crying this time. He can only think of his mother, pain was everywhere.

“Nah, you’ve just recently exchanged it with your girlfriend, where does she live? What is her name? Maybe we’ll visit her.” 

Each question came down with metal slaps from the pistol’s butt breaking his cheeks, slashing his forehead, the last one felt it pushed his left eye back too hard into its sockets, it couldn’t see anymore. The kicks and slaps targeted his injuries, meant to cause more pain. Blood was oozing on his shoulder, something there felt not right, he couldn’t feel the pain only numbness, as he looked down, his whole right arm laid on his side away from his body, tissue, bone and flesh was protruding from the shattered shoulder. His body riddled with bullet holes, he felt like a wet sponge, blood leaking everywhere, he was slowly getting weak.

“Noooo!. What are you doing?! Thats my son!” Aling Celina shouted, quickly she ran to her son’s sluggish form but as she reached him, she slumped, eyes opened staring towards Carlo, she embraced her son, her back towards the policemen. There were a few seconds when she gripped his arms, then drew a final breath. The other police officer was surprised by the mother’s sudden appearance, a fatal bullet found her back as she ran towards her son.

“Noooo!.. Mama… please, Nooo!!” Carlo cried, the wail was like a howling bay in the moonlight, a beg to the heavens for hope, for mercy, for a savior, before he could move, he was shot in the chest.

“Make sure no one’s alive,”

One of the police officers pumped another bullet, each to the corpse's head.

That morning, the wash area was strangely quiet... People still did their routines, almost everyone strangely silent, the women by the faucet allowed the water to flow non-stop, the wash floor was still flowing with red stains, there were flies everywhere. It was a uncommonly quiet day.