After work one day this week, I went to buy some cigarettes from the takatak man of whose wares I am a suki. I found him hanging out, while peddling his cigarettes to jeepney vendors and passersby looking for a nicotine fix, with two drunkards enjoying a bottle of Tanduay Rum with Sprite under 4 o'clock sun. Manong Roj was in charge of the tagay, but more interesting was their other companion who took care of that afternoon's entertainment: Fidel Inserto.
Mang 'Del, according to 'Nong Roj, is in his forties and had lost some of his marbles. That afternoon, 'Nong Del was crouched against the wall and holding two sticks; in front him, a big carton box and to his right on the ground was an empty Tanduay bottle in lieu of snare drums and cymbals. The pedal and the bass drum were left for him to imagine.
From what little I was told, I conjectured that his stint with the military had left him scarred. "Na-Warshock na siya, 'day." But, 'Nong Roj said, his drum skills had earned him his previous position in the military band; he had always loved music. Now, without a means of livelihood and having only a portion of his sanity spared, he is left with nothing but wine and music.
And how he rocked the streetside.
We sang in time with his drums and he banged his way through music from the past few decades. He remembers where the drum rolls fit, while flashing a genuinely happy smile at people who sing to fill the gaps where the lyrics or the hooky guitar riffs should be. I stayed with them for a good ten to fifteen minutes drinking my coffee, smoking cigarettes and singing as loud as they did. Beatles. Deep Purple. Pink Floyd. Journey. Frank Sinatra. Name it, he knows it.
Passersby could only look on with passive interest at the motley crew.
Or if they did wonder, perhaps some few minutes after, they might have thought of how this decrepit old man has so much passion over a box and a bottle. Or why this short and curly haired call-center employee (I was still wearing my ID) would hang out with these hobos.
I can only surmise about the first question, but I do have an answer for the second: if it's any consolation to 'Nong Del, I hope he feels that there is at least one person who understands his choice for this escape route at the expense of his marbles. I feel I owe him that, being part of an industrial world that generally holds higher esteem for scientists or mathematicians, the world that has cast him away among the forgotten. And despite this, I could only hope he feels I understand that wide grateful grin, and that I sing along because I remember the soul that was given him, now left for dead in some distant hopeful decade.
In their behalf, 'Nong, we who understand this pain apologize.
