June, 1989
The rain came, and should
have washed down the streets. Falling,
it should have captured the particles of dust, the fog of auto exhaust, the
reek from stray fires smoldering in piles of garbage, tackled them all, and
dragged them to earth. It should have
washed the grime and peeling paint down the walls of the buildings. It should have swept all the discarded
newspapers and crushed cigarette butts and rotting banana peels from the
sidewalks, swept everything into the gutter, so the city was clean and fresh,
renewed. Instead, the rain came too fast. The streets filled with water faster than the
antiquated sewers could cope. They
backed up like a plugged toilet, so that pedestrians could expect wet tissue paper
and dog turds plastered to their calves.
In Manila, even the rain didn’t work right.
The cab, a twelve-year old Toyota,
surfed slowly down M. H. Del Pilar.
Waves from its wake rode up the sidewalk, and splashed over the ankles
of the doorman at the Australian Club. “Oy! Shit.
Watch it!” The wave continued, alerting
the street people to the cab’s progress.
Super Star, Love Connection, Bangkok - the front of each club was lapped
by the wave. The greeter in front of
Bubbles, lucky enough to have a stool on which to perch, pulled up her feet,
and waved: “Come in please!” Fifty yards
farther on the cab took a snootful of water, backfired a cloud of angry black
smoke, and died just outside the Boomerang.
One of the idlers out front, talking
with his cousin, the club’s security man, spotted the cab stalling, spotted its
passenger handing a fare up to the driver.
“Where there’s a tourist, there is money,” he told himself. Sandaled feet splashing, he skipped over to
the cab, one hand reaching for its door, the other already reaching for a tip. The door flew open, and caught him square in
the balls.
A large man emerged from the cab in
stages. First the right leg, then the
left leg, then a hand to each side of the door frame. The cab was a foot from the sidewalk. Stepping out directly meant stepping into the
swirling water. Stick a foot all the way
to the sidewalk, and there wasn’t enough leverage to hoist two hundred and
eighty pounds out of the cab. Compounding
the problem, the car door wasn’t wide enough for his frame. Stuck in the cab’s door, he let the rain fall
on him, till he was sufficiently pissed off.
“Arrgh!” He roared like an
angry bear, and heaved himself out of the cab, making it upright, without
stepping in the street.
“Jesus Christ!” Even the security guard was impressed by this
athletic display.
Freed of its burden, the cab
groaned, rocked, and sloshed sewer water onto the sidewalk, up over the man’s
heels. “Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!” All that work for nothing.
There was a little guy hopping
around clutching his groin, but the large man ignored him and headed for the
club.
“Hey mister, you hit my balls!”
Lefty Markowitz turned around. Lefty had a large head, and big blue eyes. He peered inquisitively at the man.
“My balls,” the man said. “I was opening your door.” Perhaps a thousand pesos, for pain and
suffering? We’ll waive the punitive
damages.
“This door?” The man nodded. “Did I ask you to open this door?”
“I only—”
“Uh!
Uh! Uh! No! I
didn’t ask you to open this door. This
door is my door. That’s right. I paid fifty pesos because the driver has no
meter. Everyone knows it’s only twenty
from Paco Park to here. I figure I own
this door. I don’t want anyone else
touching it. Do I follow you
around touching your doors?” The
small man shook his head sadly. “From
now on, leave mine alone.” Leaving the
man to reflect on the nature of private property, Lefty strode into the club.
The Battered Butterfly
The Battered Butterfly
