Chapter Text
“Laro tayo?”
Puzzled, Josh looked up to see a tall shadow looming over him, backlit by the scorching sun of an April afternoon. Basing on the silhouette, he deduced that this was a boy his age—around 9–10 years old. Clean cut hairstyle. Red button-down polo on, hems loosely hanging at the sides. He also wore beige slacks and brand new white Nike sneakers. Looked like he had just stepped out of mass wearing his Sunday best.
And it was true—but even against the backdrop of the Sto. Domingo Parish, it was not difficult to see that the boy staring down at him looked out of place.
Church bells were still ringing at the end of the Angelus, concluding the weekly 12 o’clock mass. The Sto. Domingo Parish dated back to the late 1500s and boasted a Baroque style with adobe stone, providing a dark gray contrast to the clear blue sky behind. The main entrance, characterized by two black arched doors, were open wide enough to see the interior of the church’s singular nave, with multiple people shuffling in and out of their wooden pews. The aisle stretched out into an elevated altar, its stairs delineated by red carpeting, with golden arches that lined the carved retablo holding certain images—of what or who, though, Josh couldn’t see, also, because he’s never been inside. Not that he was religious. His school didn’t require him to hear mass on Sundays (on any day, actually) or write down his reflections on the Gospel in a cheap notebook and then ask the parish priest to sign it for attendance like an employee punching out of work. That didn’t earn Josh any extra money for an extra hour on the PC, so why would he?
The outside… well, that was what Josh was more at home with.
Spots of the church’s facade were grayed (and sometimes blackened) from years of aging, amplifying the brightness of multicolored umbrellas shading street vendors selling deep-fried, processed seafood balls whom a few of the churchgoers are lining up to buy. A portion of the sky was obscured by black, thick, tangled telephone and TV and internet wires. To the sides of the church laid a hodgepodge of old Filipino wooden houses with Spanish influence and gaudy gates and vibrant signs indicating “Load Here” and “Bawal Mangutang,” with the worst but best Filipino puns you could have for small local businesses—the corner bakery named Bread Pitt or the chicken shop inappropriately named Chickenene (subtitled “nagmamarka ang sarap”). There were also the usual suspects, such as the neighboring Jollibee–McDo–KFC combo, that, albeit popular, didn’t completely overshadow their roasted counterparts: “ Chooks to Go: Mas Masarap Kahit Walang Sauce”, and its worthy competitor, “ Chicks to Go: Mas Masarap Kapag May Sauce.” San Francisco St. was a busy street that never died down, even in ungodly hours after dark. The left side of the parish was directly connected to the main compound of the Sto. Domingo Integrated school, which offered education up from kindergarten to fourth year high school. It was private and sectarian but wasn’t too unattainable for the lower middle class nor closed off to those who practiced other religious beliefs. Because of that, it was the perfect hotspot to see various people of different socioeconomic classes engage with each other despite being privately-owned. Still, that didn’t change the fact that the rest of the barangay surrounding it was rowdy, congested, and filled with so many people desperate to get by.
Josh was one of those people.
He and his mother were in slightly better financial capacity than when they first arrived in Manila, forced to take shelter under the small unoccupied tent located next to the church steps when rain poured. Fortunately for them, it did not flood, but their sleep had been cut off quickly—to the sound of a honk! and the parish priest stepping out from the church’s official van. Embarrassed, Josh and his mom scrambled to gather the last of their luggage and the jackets they used as blankets overnight, but the chaplain stopped them—insisted that they take a seat and eat some arroz caldo prepared for the outreach program that morning.
Josh and his mother were both Catholic, but merely on paper. Although the handing out of arroz caldo was initially an occasional occurrence, it eventually became routine, with the parish permanently establishing a soup kitchen, handing out small meals nutritious enough for the community to benefit from. On their second day out in the rain, they had passed by the parish again, quickly, hoping to go unnoticed—but time and time again, they always failed: either the parish priest or one of the teenaged sacristans would recognize the pair and call them over for dinner. Eventually, the two started coming on their own.
The warm arroz caldo with rice and hot tsokolate had been able to keep them warm for their first two weeks out in the cold, but not for longer. On their fifteenth day, they eventually made friends with one of the residents along the lengthy San Francisco St.: a boy named Justin, his older brother Yani, and their two parents. The De Dios residence was located toward the end of the street, a 10-minute walk away from the church and school. They also had another property in front of the church, which had multiple single bedrooms and bed spaces rented out to others. In the latter, the last vacant one was a room big enough for Josh and his mother—bare and void of life, save for an empty wooden wardrobe and a twin-sized bed. Beyond grateful, Josh let out a breath as he set their luggage down. When he turned back to the door, for the first time in months, he saw the deep crinkles that formed at the wings of his mother’s eyes. He smiled back.
This would do, for the meantime.
———
Tita Adeline, Josh’s mother, worked for a while as a saleslady at Chicks to Go. But just like the two-week arroz caldo , this job was not sustainable for her and her son in the long run.
So she looked.
While she was busy running around hunting down a job that paid well and still allowed her to have enough time for her son, Josh was taken under the wing of Justin’s parents: Tita Gina and Tito Eric. They also ran a small computer shop, Type Kita, to add to the finances they were getting from rentals, and Josh had volunteered to do the basics—collect customers’ coins, give them change, boot their PCs up, and switch it off if they failed to trade in coins for more hours. Eventually, the De Dios family bought a printer for personal use but also decided to milk it, charging a few centavos per black and white or colored page. It only took Josh a little time and his boredom to master the ins and outs of Microsoft Word and print efficiently to anyone who came by. By no surprise, the De Dioses’ computer shop right beside the chicken stalls was then known to be the quickest and most reliable printing service in the area. As a token of thanks, Tita Gina would give him a bonus, while Tito Eric would also slip him a few coins, returning the index finger hovering above the lips and the surreptitious wink thrown at him by the adult man. By the time Kuya Yani would return home from university, Josh would close up shop, then calculate and set aside a few of his earnings. Once he was done, he would slot in the coins given by Tito Eric to play some DotA or even just Minesweeper.
His mom eventually found a job as a data encoder somewhere in Ortigas, which was more than enough to sustain daily expenses indefinitely. They also ended up saving enough to insist paying Justin and his family for rent. However, her office was far away and it was a contract that she couldn’t have ignored—a ridiculously high amount in exchange for a contract of at least five years doing 12-hour graveyard shifts encoding data for big accounts. Other offers didn’t ask for that lengthy a stay nor a gruelling schedule, but also reflected the demand for such jobs in the relatively low pay. So Tita Adeline accepted. Even if that meant going home in the wee mornings to catch Josh having cooked breakfast for himself and leaving for school. But if she hadn’t done otherwise, then Josh wouldn’t have had a school to go to.
By what was a miraculous string of events, San Francisco St. became their holy ground.
And although it was the best environment yet for the two, it was hard to imagine how it could fit this boy wearing clean, crisp Sunday best. San Francisco St. in his presence remained the same—never failed to have a few offenders of the quiet school zone policy, blasting the latest Yeng Constantino hit, or honking at reckless motorcycle drivers squeezing their way in on unprotected bike lanes and dilapidated sidewalks.
As if anyone couldn’t have been a more glaring juxtaposition, Josh was crouched down, all sweaty and in need of a break—judging by the reddening spots on his cheeks and exposed parts of his skin framed by the round cut sleeves of his white sando. He wore khaki shorts that conspicuously yellowed over the years and black rubber sandals worth thirty pesos at the tiangge . Despite the summer heat, it looked like he had been rained on. Sweat dripped from the top of his scalp to his neck and managed to transform white cloth on his back to see-through fabric; the pink face towel precariously placed on his back did not do any favors, having been made from cheap, non-absorbent material. While he had naturally fair and glassy skin, he quickly tanned from hours spent under the sun. His hair was tousled along the sides, and his cheeks and clothes were always smeared with dirt and reeked of whatever pollution was present in Manila. He still worked at the De Dioses’ computer shop and regularly played DotA with foul-mouthed kuyas shouting insults at each other in their monobloc chairs. However, a little older now, Tito Eric would slip in less and less coins, and now could only use his remaining allowance to buy some kwek-kwek and two pieces of White Rabbit candy. Today, out of money for PC games, he was playing with his rugged, secondhand toy cars and purposefully driving them into puddles.
However, while Josh was used to playing alone, or spending company in the presence of people much older and more mature than him, he did not hesitate to stand up and hand out his hand for a shake. Just like how he’s seen the adults do it. He could also see polo boy much clearer now, and the small mole on the right side of his cheek a thumb away from his eye.
“Sige,” the mud-stained boy said, keeping his grip firm on the hand of Mr. Sunday Best.
“Ano pangalan mo?” Mr. Sunday Best asked.
“Josh. Ikaw?”
The other boy let go of his hand and broke into a wide grin.
“Hi Josh! Ako si Stell.”
Before they knew it, a month had passed.