Ryan’s Stories

It was Mig’s first time to see trains. My aunt’s apartment was at the end of a dead-end street. Nothing much happened there except an occasional argument by drivers as to who gets the better parking space. My aunt’s housekeeper only wore her heavy, two-tone metal watch when she went out. Inside the apartment, she claimed that the regular passing of the LRT trains was what she used to keep track of time. Everyone nodded as if impressed by this clever ability. I tried to stay something, but on second thought, I let it pass. So what if some people tried to be clever by lying? I knew she was lying because the other night when she claimed that the beef she cooked was naturally stewed in its own flavors, I caught her furtively putting at least 3 kinds of seasoning in it.

As if to affirm what she had just said, we heard the low rumble of the train as it passed by. ” It’s a good thing that they don’t run 24 hours a day, ” my mother remarked, remembering the previous night when all of us, my brother, his wife, their 1 year old son, my mother all in one bed, and me, on the floor on a padded cot, were lying awake for about 15 minutes waiting for the predictable rumble of the train as it passed by. It didn’t, because of course, the service stopped at 10 PM.

“Tren, tren, ” my nephew implored, bored. He had been walking the entire width and breadth of the living area, dodging vases and tall skinny rattan baskets, and was ready for a new environment. Just when you think you had it down pat, he got bored and would pester you to find something new, to do something different. We were just outside the small landing, looking at the train platform a hundred feet away, waiting for a train to pass by and he was fidgeting; he was fed up with this.

” Don, don…” he gestured towards the train platform, just above Taft Avenue. I thought that if I relented, I would be doing this for the next 20 minutes until he got tired of it, or if I did whichever came first. But I thought, okay, for the exercise; to walk 100 feet and back with a 35 lb. toddler in my arms.

When we got there, the street was almost empty, being on a Sunday and wet because it had rained the night previously.

Two persons were lying near the pavement, in front of a closed hardware store, gender unknown because they were covered with newspapers and a dirty blanket. Migs was staring at them, his face unreadable, as I tried to explain in that stupid way adults explained complicated stuff to kids.

Then the train sped by, preceded by that now familiar rumble and Migs was satisfied enough to go back to the apartment; satisfaction that lasted for 10 minutes and we were back again.

The street people were missing and among their meager possessions was a bitch dog and her pups; peculiarly well-fed three-week old puppies with pale brown stripes against a cream coat.

“Awww”, Migs called out as the train sped by above. We went back to the apartment.

Back again for the 3rd time, the bitch and her pups were gone. Then a man passed by with what looked like an entire flock of native ducks hung by their feet on a bamboo pole slung across his shoulders and I thought, ” there goes the Chinese fastfood; Peking duck right on your doorstep.”

When we went back, Migs was trying to tell what he saw, but of course, no one really understood what he was saying. I told them about the man selling ducks and no one seemed to believe me either.

” We’ve lived here for the past 5 years and we’ve never heard or seen anything like that, ” my aunt’s housekeeper remarked, and that was the end of that.