Romy and I were in Manila over the New Year, visiting his relatives and decided to go out for a few drinks. As he drove out of his uncle’s compound into the chaos of New Year’s Eve traffic, tall office buildings loomed in front of us.

 “What’s taking so long,” I said.

 “Traffic all the way up Paseo. This place is out of control. Construction everywhere.” 

Inching toward Makati Avenue, a taxi cut across his blind spot, sandwiching his car against a brightly painted jeepney. He hit the horn furiously to pass, but was left in the wake of his thick black exhaust. The traffic slowed to a halt as we approached Malate.

We parked in a small alley beside a bike repair shop and entered Reno Diner. Joe ‘Macho Man’ Garcia, the film actor, sat in a corner booth, wearing a dark suit and matching shirt, surrounded by some models and two guys wearing Burger King Whopper gear, the jerseys of the PBA team of the pro basketball league. 

Romy and I came by Joe’s table.

Joe looked up.  “Oi, conyo.”

‘Thought you were still in jail, pare,’ Romy chuckled, patting him on the shoulder.

“I am…sort of.”

“That was some arsenal the cops seized when they raided your place.”          

“Wasn’t it. I got two years for that. But that’s cool,’ he laughed, ‘long as my buddies get me out to party now and again.”

Joe was tight with the mayor of Manila, so he often only served the daytime part of his sentence, sleeping off his hangover in the cell and resting up to party at night.

We sat down at another table. I glanced over at the action star surrounded by his entourage.

“How about Joe. What’s he like really?”

“He’s the real item.”

“No doubt.”

Romy leaned across the table to speak more closely. “I’ll tell you something. Last month this drunk conyo confronts Joe in a bar and calls him a ‘pussy faggot shit,’ but Joe doesn’t stress ‘cause he’s backed up by guys from the Burger King Whoppers, some of the most fanatical followers of basketball in the Philippines. When the guy leaves the bar, they follow him into the parking lot, beat him, stuff him into the trunk, drive to an abandoned construction site, drag him from the car and throw him to the ground. Joe puts a gun to his temple, tells him to pray and then shoots him in the head with blanks.”

“That’s fucked up,” I said.

After a few drinks I suggested we go to Hobbit House. Romy called the waiter and we paid our tab. On our way out, Romy nodded toward Joe, but I stayed clear of his table. Outside it was dark.

Romy drove down Taft Avenue as firecrackers and stray bursts of firearms filled the air with acrid fumes, in celebration of New Year’s Eve. I was jolted when a loud noise reverberated against the car.

“Drive, man,” I said, “Go, go…get the fuck out of here.”  Just five feet ahead of us an M-80 firecracker blew a hole in a garbage can standing by the side of the road.

“Fuck, man!” Romy said as he suddenly swerved to avoid a tire. A tin drum of burning garbage rolled slowly down the road past a drunk standing on the sidewalk shooting a gun in the air.

When I took my tea out to the patio the next morning, the acrid smell of smoke from the fireworks still lingered in the air, clinging to the foliage and dusting the garden with a fine powder. I walked over to the pond to feed the fish. There wasn’t the usual feeding frenzy when the pellets hit the water. Not a ripple. The pellets floated undisturbed on the murky pond. Out of my morning stupor, I spotted slivers of gold and silver among the lily pads. Goldfish, minnows and carp lay belly-up, poisoned, bloated and dead—casualties of the deafening and toxic New Year’s Eve celebration.

 Not wanting to deal with cleaning the pond just yet, I walked back into the living room and turned on the TV.  I was shocked by what I saw. Vivid footage showed casualties of the night’s revelry. Doctors and nurses were treating wounded patients lying in the emergency ward. The camera focused on a small boy who had blown off three of his fingers with a firecracker and then panned over to a young man who managed a feeble smile, and then showed the bandaged stump where his hand had been. In the intensive care ward lay a young woman who’d been shot in the head by a bullet that ripped through the roof of her house. 

A few days later the village association sent a circular to every house in the compound. 

TO: ALL RESIDENTS

WE HAVE HAD REPORTS OF ROOFS OF SOME RESIDENCES THAT WERE PENETRATED BY STAY BULLETS DURING THE HOLIDAYS. IT IS ADVISABLE FOR YOU TO HAVE YOUR ROOFS CHECKED FOR ANY BULLET HOLES AS COME THE RAIN SEASON YOU MAY FIND YOURSELVES FACED WITH A LEAKING PROBLEM.

THANK YOU

THE URDANETA VILLAGE ASSOCIATION