First Loves

A child braving the smoke and traffic approaches my window with swollen eyes, knocks and peaks through the tinted glass, asking for change. Only a poor upbringing could push such a thing through great extremes, rewarding his courage with the few coins I had in my wallet. I urge my driver to find an alternate route, only to leave our vehicle stagnant. How I loath watching the demise of this city, the far cries of its golden past long gone.

Apathy has been my approach nowadays. It’s easy to overlook the piling vermin by the roadside once the sun’s spotlight has burned out, leaving only the wonders of architecture that is Makati revel in its magnitude, towering over the flaws of its urban landscape. It is this place, this haven where I seek refuge for the night, away from the madness and chaos of my surroundings.

It’s nice to see my colleagues once again from ISM. They almost seem foreign, detach from the outside with their wallets dwarfing my mother’s financial assets. I like being around their kind. Their breeding may be different from mine, but my English proficiency camouflages my shortcomings. Conversations ranging from Prada’s latest seasonal collection to Yunhee’s brand new Porches allow only nods of agreement and the occasional smudges of knowledge I absorbed reading GQ. Absent are the issues on the urban poor and our dwindling middle class often discussed by their established relatives, guiltless in their unlimited pool of excess and extravagance. The gasps and giggles drown amidst the loud bass and rounds of drinks, trembling my eardrums and stomach. It’s time to call it a night, this atmosphere is too stifling for my meager tastes.

The door opens, the fresh air of diesel fumes and drunken piss suffocate my lungs. Even in the most posh of locations, the stench of third world poverty and politics remains. It’s unusually cold tonight, without a current of breeze. I dig into my pocket, pulling out wads of cash, crippled and stained with its lowest denomination in the four figures, those frugal cabdrivers are too stingy and conniving to offer me a large amount of smaller ones for such a short drive.

The outskirts beyond Makati’s concentration of wealth seem so condensed and packed with vendors, pedestrians, and myself wandering aimlessly. My stomach grumbles, empty, and I still need change. I settle for fine dining at a rundown eatery nearby, situating myself across a nestled group of college students, still in uniforms, drinking with delight. Slurping my congee without care, I look on with curiosity at their cheerful display. A dangling bulb overhead swings back and forth, offering glimpses of genuine interaction in between, its dim lighting enough to capture their joys and intimacy. I pay my bill, ready to leave until one of them stop me, aware of my disheveled state. I accept their offer.

It’s getting late, the streets empty of traffic, and I’ve never ridden pillion before. The motor sputters then roars, ripping through with exhilarating energy, down Malate’s dense placements of bars and whore houses, glowing with flashes of neon saturating the darkness, passing between Jose Rizal’s legacy and the bay’s pristine beauty, endless in its distance, gleaming against the fading moonlight.

I hold on tightly, such fleeting moments can only last so long. I urge the driver to hasten as hues of blues loom over the horizon, chasing us down to the ends of reality. The sun may eventually catch us, its glaring spotlight exploiting the humiliation protruding from the cesspits and landfills once again. We may never recover from the failures of our past generations, never contract the economic disparity that separates my two worlds, but right now, all I can see are traces of our history sparkling in momentary lapses of boastful pride. My arms envelop the warmth of a stranger’s generosity, beneath the somber tranquility of Manila, this is the city I fell in love with.