the wasteland of our discontent

"who are all these happy people? from which planet are they from? because as far as i can see, there's no reason to smile, to feel good, what with all the poor, miserable people living on the streets around you. beggars, hawkers, hookers. rich, dirty old men who steal money from the government trying to seduce an innocent  young man or woman." -- mahatma gandah. "happy people are not humans. they are aliens who want to invade the earth."

why did i bother to come back, i wondered as i searched the smoke drenched bar -- filled with sweaty young men dancing to the band's version of pitbull's americano -- for somebody nice enough to go home with. there were about a hundred men and women inside the bar, at least eighteen and up, all genders, wearing their weekend uniform: cut off denim shorts and skin tight blouson for most of the girls and jeans and shirt for the boys.

it was a bar for upper and middle class kids. most of them were speaking in english or a mixture of english and filipino. latest model of cellphones and iphones on their hands. some even brought the tacky ipads to take photos and send messages. i was guessing, most of them were probably spawns of the thieves in the government who wouldn't mind spending millions of pesos for their children's whims and cravings because they were spending money that wasn't theirs.

***********

amid the crowd, one guy caught my attention. chinito. tall, lean with spiky hair. he was in black jeans, red checkered shirt with the sleeves folded up to his elbows.

i was in my weekend best too: dark jeans (d squared), black v-neck shirt (ck), cardigan (rl) and blue sneakers (paul smith).  no underwear.

i smiled at him. he gave me a cold stare.

my first rejection for the night.

somehow it dampened my spirit. i wanted to leave but it was raining.

so i decided to stay for a while, regretting my decision to come back to this bar.

earlier i left for another bar. but it was boring there. the crowd was mostly middle-aged guys singing along with the band to the tunes of vst and company and other old tunes from the seventy's, eighty's and ninety's. i am a modern man. i deserve something current.

*****

at almost two a.m., the rain stopped. i left. outside, it was a bit cold. but i didn't mind. there was something liberating about walking on a cold night on dark alleys with just the minimal clothing to keep you warm. suddenly, i wanted to go home. take a hot shower. lie in bed. sleep. i longed for a long sleep, the kind that will make you forget all your troubles away. and so i walked in search for a cab, as elusive on a rainy night as water in the desert. opps! an obviously bad metaphor. or simile.

i kept walking. the streets were filled with people, mostly drunk, who were on their way home. or to a motel. or to another party where i was obviously not invited.

after a few minutes of walking, a bar caught my wandering eyes. insomnia. (i thought this was the same bar along julio nakpil street years ago when malate was at the peak of its popularity and where gorgeous kids from the super upper east side, bohemian artists, wandering writers, penniless poets, frustrated actors and lonely hunters like me would hang out. to spend the night with other sad, restless souls.) the name of the bar was an apt description for the crowd that had made malate its home.

it wasn't. the same old insomnia was gone. it was a reincarnation of sorts. more modern, less convivial.

there were a lot of koreans outside, smoking cigarettes, drinking. talking in korean. i could barely understand a word they were saying. but they were all gorgeous, fashionably dressed. obviously wealthy. this could have been us, filipinos, i thought, if the government and its officials, politicians have not been screwing us left, right and center and stealing public funds, wasting government resources. if we didn't let them. if we have been wiser, more vigilant, less forgiving. like the singaporeans or the koreans. look at them now. then look at us now. we used to be wealthy, of course. there was a time when the philippines was the second richest in asia next to japan. when filipinos traveled overseas to shop, to wine and dine. unlike today when we go out of the country to clean other people's homes, take good care of other people's children, cook their food, take them to school, then wait for them at the gates at dismissal. in between, we do their laundry, shop for their needs, even take their dogs for a walk. i dismissed these current of thoughts. they were giving me a headache.

(if the headlines are true, then we are run by thieves, a syndicate of the "honourables" who sucked the country dry, leaving the majority of the population with nothing except their broken wings and famished stomachs. how could these people accused of corruption ever sleep well at night? go to church? feed, shelter, educate, lavish their families with stolen money?)

i went in.

the receptionist, who was seated right beside the door, asked me to pay the full entrance fee even if it was already late. almost morning.

because curiosity had gotten the best of me, i paid.

inside was seoul, in a party mode.

there were plenty of cute koreans in their twenty's. some of them were with their filipino friends, others 

with their filipino girlfriends.

the kimchi invasion, i thought. first, the korean telenovelas on our homes (winter sonata was my mother's favourite). now their citizens enrolled in our universities to learn english.

it's cheaper here, of course, than say going to the united states of obama to study.

of course i love kimchi and other korean food.

as far as i was concerned, korean food has always been here, way ahead of their telenovelas and their well-dressed, shiny youngsters.

the dancefloor was full. i joined them. sweaty bodies gyrating to psy's gangnam style.

*******

then i got bored. nobody seemed interesting and interested on me. by now, i reeked of cigarettes (the bar allowed people to smoke inside) and beers. my breath smelled of stale beer.

more walking.

i stopped to buy mints from a hawker. he was a young boy, about six i think. where are your parents? i asked. they're dead, he answered matter-of-factly, with no bitterness in his tone. he was wearing an old blue shirt with a superman logo and shorts. bare feet. why are you still awake? i usually make a lot of sales at night, he answered. then he ignored me as he kept on walking, approaching other people on the streets if they wanted to buy cigarettes, candies. 

in my next life, i thought, i would be very rich so i could help out all these poor young people living on the streets. but this was wishful thinking. another one of those ideas that i would forget or abandon the next day. if there is justice in this world, this young boy should grow up as a successful business mogul, be comfortable for the rest of his life.

there was another one buying cigarettes. i stared at him, forgetting about my manners. he was edible enough for the night. in shorts, jacket and flipflops. no, i take that back. he was good looking enough to be on the cover of candy magazine. young enough (early twentys?) to feed.

i followed him, let's call him candy boy, inside another bar.

a few minutes later, i was sitting on a table with him and his friend, drinking san miguel lights.

we talked about important things after the usual introduction such as the quickening inflation in china, the investment grade ratings for the philippines, the pork barrel scam, the federal reserve's plan to start tightening monetary policy at the world's biggest economy later this year.

&&&&&&&&&&

more talk.  i was getting anxious. more beer. more cigarettes. in a dark, cold, crowded, noisy bar.

it was already a quarter past four in the morning,  but they haven't agreed yet to come home with me for another round of beer. or at least candy boy.

in fact, candy boy was more interested in the girls at the other table than on talking to me, the fallen star.

it was his friend, cigarette boy (he was always smoking even inside the bar, ignoring the fact that it was no longer allowed and he could end up in jail for doing so) who kept the conversation alive.

if only you were as cute as candy boy, i thought.

****

ah the irony.

kung sino pa ang gusto mo, sya pa ang ayaw sa yo.

in english, if you are fat and in your forty's, be prepared to spend more to get the guy that you want.

at five, the bar was about to close.

candy boy was willing to go home with me only if cigarette boy would go too.

but cigarette boy was reluctant. he wanted to go with the girls from the other table. yes, candy boy was able to chat with them and got their names and numbers.

tired, sleepy and drunk, i told them i was going home.

with or without them.

i went outside.

it was nearly six.

the sun was hurting my eyes.

a taxi stopped and i got in.

sleep.

sleep.

sleep. 

as the driver navigated through manille's filthy, smelly streets. where beggars and homeless people slept and lived on the streets. their meagre resources displayed on dirty pavements: old, worn out clothes and slippers, a stove, some broken plates, plastic glasses and bottles with water. 

after a few minutes, the driver woke me up. in front of my apartment. home. at. last. tired. i slept immediately. the bars were still in my worn out, sweaty clothes. i didn't even make it to bed.

when i woke up, i felt cold. i slept on the concrete floor, with the aircon at its full blast. i had no idea what time it was or how long i had been gone. 

immediately, i looked at my old sony ericsson phone. this is how modern technology has changed the way we live, the way we have fun, the way we wake-up. i had ten missed calls and five messages from candy boy, asking where i was.

the messages were sent at around six thirty to seven in the morning, when i was already in the dream land.

twelve hours ago.

stale as the wine and cheese that i left on the coffee table the other night.

**********

ah another day, another night wasted in the land of our discontent.