The Masks That We Wear

I was in a club in Makati with my friend Toph, looking down from a ledge at a large group of people dancing. Toph wasn't in a good mood, and when he's not in a good mood, he has a tendency to rant.

"Just look at them. It's so disgusting."

Eyebrow raised, I looked at him sideways, curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Everything is just so fake."

"Fake?"

"Fake. I mean look at that guy." He pointed at a guy dancing on a small stage to our left. "I'm sure that when he's at home, he's a minimum wage worker who probably had to save money all week just to be able to get in here. But here he acts like he's the coolest guy ever created in the history of the world. It's so annoying."

"I'm sure that he's just here to have fun."

"Of course not. Look at him. That swagger, that annoying posture. He acts like he's God's gift to mankind."

I didn't really know what to say. So I kept quiet.

"See, I have a theory," Toph elaborated. "A lot of these people who act so cool, and so composed, and so goddamn perfect are really losers out in the real world."

He now had my attention. I looked at him directly. I wanted to see if he was sincere.

"See, look at that guy." He pointed to another guy dancing in a dark corner of the bar. "I know him. He's jobless, and practically homeless, and he sells soap to random people as a means to get by. I even know one person he slept with whom, right after they did the deed, he tried to sell soap to. It's just all so sad. But here, look at him. He acts like he owns the place."

"Well, he doesn't really act like he owns the place, but I get what you mean. He does seem a bit conceited."

"That's because he is. And I don't get it. These masks."

"We all wear masks Toph. You know that better than everyone else. Hell, it's your job to make something or someone look better than he really is. I think you call that marketing or advertising. In the real world, we call that lying."

"Hahaha. What can I say? I'm a corporate prostitute. And I get what you mean. But it's one thing to wear a mask and know it's a mask, and another to believe it is the real thing."

"I agree. But we all need to wear masks sometimes."

Photo taken here.

More Sketches of a Year Lived Next to a Red Light District

I was heading back up to my apartment when I encountered an old Arab guy and his Filipino girlfriend on the elevator. I was reading a book, so I didn't immediately notice that the old man was speaking to me.

"Korean? Japanese?" he asked.

"I'm Filipino."

He started to laugh, then began pawing my shoulders with his wrinkled hands. He was speaking in this weird language I couldn't understand. I backed away, while the Filipina took his hands and held it against his chest.

"I'm so sorry. He's drunk." The old guy smiled foolishly.

I gave her a half-smile. "No, it's fine. Don't apologize."

His hands wriggled out of hers and touched my shoulder. I backed off. She held him, and apologized again. I just shook my head, and hoped we'd get on my floor soon. She was smiling awkwardly, and I couldn't help but smile awkwardly back. My irritation melted. It turned into something I couldn't put my finger on until I looked at her. I realized then that I pitied them.

And I thought that it was the saddest thing, to be pitied.

***

One woman in particular broke my heart. She’s this dark-skinned girl who looks like she has Aeta blood, and who’s more than a little loopy in the head. When you pass through my red-light district, it’s almost impossible not to see her. She usually appears like she’s shouting at someone. Her hand gestures are huge, accompanied by facial expressions that would be comical if they weren’t so pitiful. She looked more like a caricature than an actual woman.

2am. I was in line at the 7-11 to purchase a lightbulb since the one in my bathroom conked out and I had to take a shower in complete darkness. Two foreigners were in front of me, while this crazy woman, was dancing, uhm, energetically near the entrance.

One of the guys said, "My friend thinks you're sexy. You should go do your sexy dance for him."

"Buy me a Coke!" she answered.

"Sure, if you do your sexy dance."

The girl shook her breasts and started chanting.

The guys laugh harder. I pay for my lightbulb and walk away, feeling uneasy. Perhaps it reminded me too much of kicking a person who's already down.

I was wearing my Persian-print pajamas. I didn't feel like changing into something more appropriate, and I figured I didn't particularly care if anyone saw me or not.

The bulb I bought wasn't as bright as the one I had before. I'd have changed it, but I figured I'm helping the world fight global warming by using less bright lightbulbs.

Photo taken here.

Sketches of a Year Lived Next to a Red Light District

I was halfway through law school when I had to move from my first studio apartment to a smaller space right next to a red light district in Makati. I moved because I was renting my first apartment for an incredibly low price and when the contract ended, the unit owner got smart and demanded 50% more than what I was already paying. I couldn’t afford that, so I moved to a small studio in a fairly decent condotel.

Living right next to several prostitution dens offers a variety of experiences that I probably wouldn’t have encountered in my first apartment. Most of the rooms were used to service foreign tourists who wanted to avail of the entertainment the red light district had to offer. I once shared an elevator with a huge dark-skinned man with doe eyes and a heavy beard, and two young women. The girls were leaning on him, different sides, and I noticed his huge hands, separately stuffed in the back pockets of the girls.

They were talking in broken English. When I realized that the topic was bl*wj*bs, suddenly the wall was the most interesting thing in the world. The small space gave me no choice but to listen, flaunting as that trio did their plans for the immediate future. It might have been okay if they were a good-looking group, but they weren’t, so I stood there wanting to stab my eardrums until I bleed to death.

***

Another time, I was in the internet place downstairs. I hang out there when I’m suffering from an unusually strong bout of insomnia. It was very early in the morning, and the place was empty except for me and two girls.

One girl was shouting, “P*ta, nakita mo na ba yung video ni Hayden Kho at Maricar Reyes? (Wh*re, have you see seen Hayden Kho and Maricar Reyes’ video?)”

“Sino ‘yon? (Who’s that?)” said the other, in an equally loud voice.

“Jowa daw ni Vicki Belo. (Vicki Belo’s lover.)”

“Anong meron? (What’s in it?)”

“Nagkakant*t*n sila. (They were f*cking.)”

“Magaling? (Was he good?)”

“Maliit, parang daliri ko, pero magaling. (Tiny d*ck, like my finger, but he was good.)”

“San yung video? (Where’s the video?)”

“Teka, hanapin ko. (Wait I’ll look for it.)”

They never found it. They did, however, find Hayden Kho and Katrina Halili’s rendition of “Careless Whisper”. As one girl so exquisitely put it, “Mukha silang durog. (They look wasted.)”

***

Another conversation. Same girls. Same place. Same time. Same loud voices.

"Yung customer ko kanina, ang kulit. (My customer earlier was so annoying)."

"Bakit? (Why?)"

"Sabi ko na ngang masyadong malaki, hindi kasya, pinipilit pa nya. (I already told him it was too big, it won't fit, but he was forcing it)."

"Anong nangyari? (What happened?)"

"E 'di pinilit nya. Sabi ko bayaran nya na lang ako ng extra. (Well, he forced it. I just said he should pay me extra.)"

"Tama lang. (Damn straight.)"

Photo taken here.