“Uh-huh.”
“I go to my source’s house, and he’ll say someone else is doing the buying. You know that, Cesar. It’s a chain of errands. It’s endless and, yes, dumb. But what else can I do about it? It’s not as if I can buy from the 7-Eleven.”
“There’s even a rumor that Mang Eddie runs a lab inside his house.”
“Big time!”
“Yeah, and I wouldn’t be surprised, you know. It’s the perfect spot. A large house that looks like shit. Big, angry dogs by the rusty gate. And the smell, Jesus. I don’t know whether it’s dog shit or some nasty chemical. Some of the other neighbors have complained. But it’s not as if the barangay could do anything.”
“Man, you’ve read the news about those meth labs they run in Alabang and Rockwell?”
“Genius, if you ask me. Who would’ve thought of holing up in those fancy villages? Cause that’s the last place the cops would ever think of raiding.”
“Those Chinese...”
“But it was really the smell that gave them away. Have you ever smelled meth being cooked? It’s worse than sulfur, it’s worse than shit. The lesson here: so you don’t raise a stink, don’t let your stuff stink. But this thing, this stuff, Franco,” Cesar said after drawing in another whiff, “is really good.”
“Told you.”
“But I still don’t think it’s worth one-five.”
“I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”
Satan has already bought you. How the fuck did he even think of that? Only a genius meth-head like Cesar could come up with that shit, Franco thought.
“Can I have some more?” Franco gestured to the foil.
“No.”
“Why?”
“Cause you already smoked half. More than half, I think.”
“Fuck you. I’d never do that to you, Cesar. Come on.”
“I’ve heard stories.”
“What stories?”
“And it’s not just me you’re fucking with.”
“Come on!”
“You have a reputation.” Smoke curled from Cesar’s mouth. He took another hit and kept the vapor in his lungs as long as possible. Two streams of smoke flowed from his nose.
“Damn.”
“Human life — so cheap. Especially in these parts,” Cesar said. “People today will stab and kill for a bag of peanuts.”
“They’d kill for a plate of corned beef,” Franco agreed. “Did you see the news?”
“About what?”
“That guy in Tondo. Shot his wife, kids, and in-laws cause the missus wouldn’t serve him corned beef while he was drinking. They called it the Pulutan Massacre.”
“Oh yeah. See? You don’t even need shabu for that shit. All you need is rum. Booze is deadlier than meth, because you can buy it anywhere.”
“The things they do in Tondo.”
“You don’t have to go far. Just last week, on Pajo Street, a kid, nine or ten I think, planted a fork in his sister’s eye.”
“What is it about this place and eyes getting stabbed?”
“But booze, I tell you. Government keeps blaming drugs for all of society’s problems. They should really be looking at the liquor section of these corner stores.”
“That’s the real nasty stuff. That’s how Satan really buys you. Not shabu.”
“Nah. Shabu’s still something else.”
“Yes, it is something else. Booze only fries your brain for a couple of hours, and maybe your liver too. But meth incinerates your brain forever. There’s no going back.”
“So, Cesar, does this mean our brains are cooked for good?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Have you seen a mirror lately? You look like shit.”
“You look like shit yourself.”
“So we both look like shit. But at least I have a job.”
“What is it that you do, really? You never tell me.”
“Satan has already bought you,” Cesar said.
“No, really.”
“What is it I do for a living? I work for Precinto Cinco.”
“Hahaha. Good one.”
“Your tattoos look stupid.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“The last guy they fished from the river had a tattoo on his butt.”
“What?”
“It said Elena, and there was a broken heart.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“They found a broken bottle stuck in his eye, and barbed wire around his neck and hands.”
“What?”
“They said it was a drug deal gone wrong.”
“What if we go straight to karaoke after we’re done?”
“Satan has already bought you.”
“Hey...”
“That deejay who broke up with his wife on air. Now that’s gangster.”
“Hey, listen. Let’s just relax and get a few drinks. And karaoke,” Franco pleaded.
“Where? Pampanguena’s? People get stabbed there.”
“Well, let’s not sing ‘My Way.’”
“How can you do karaoke without singing ‘My Way’?”
“There are better songs.”
“You and your stupid ideas.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“You fucking cheat.”
“I wanna sing ‘Love Hurts.’ I wanna sing Air Supply.”
“‘Love Hurts’ is by Nazareth, stupid.”
“Nazareth, Air Supply... they’re all the same.”
“And this definitely ain’t one-five. It’s you — you fucking cheat. Satan has already bought you.” Cesar stood up, went back to his drawer, and pulled out a knife.
“Hey, man, I thought we’ve been through this—”
Cesar buried the knife in Franco’s eye. It was a single blow, swift and sure. Franco staggered, his arms flailing like a man drowning in air that was soaked in smoke, the upper part of his shirt turning a deep crimson.
Broken Glass
by Sabina Murray
New Manila
Sunday talk and it was all gossip. I sat watching my Tita Baby pick at the chicharon, while my mother lit cigarette after cigarette, her smoke rising in an elegant column until the fan — rotating and mounted high on the wall above the dining table — blasted through it. Manong Eddie, our driver, had been sent away the week before and my mother was explaining why.
“You won’t believe this,” she said. “I was taking my siesta. Eddie wanted an advance on his pay to go the movies, so he parked himself outside my window and started calling, ‘Yoo-hoo! Yoo-hoo!’ So I called back, ‘Who’s that yoo-hooing there?’ I think he expected me to go downstairs.”
“And that’s why you fired him?” asked Tita Baby.
“Not just that. Last Sunday, I caught him urinating against the front wall. We were all in the car waiting to go to Mass and I was wondering what was taking so long, so I looked back, and there he was.” My mother glanced out to the hallway where my Tita Elena — the eldest of the three sisters — was involved in a lengthy phone call, one that had been going on since my mother and I arrived at her house a half hour earlier. “What’s that all about?” asked my mother.
“I’m not sure,” said Tita Baby. “But you know Elena’s crowd. Those old ladies and their very young, very handsome—”
“—most likely gay yoga instructors,” my mother interrupted. “Of course, that’s all revealed later, after the money’s spent.”
“And the champagne has gone flat.” Tita Baby pursed her lips, faking sympathy.
From the hallway I heard Tita Elena’s voice become animated. She was making her goodbyes now. Tita Baby, my mother, and I all watched as she hung up the phone. Tita Elena had a smile that meant she had a good story to tell. “Sorry, sorry,” she said. “Unavoidable.”
I wondered what the tsismis was.