Tatters

This place is amazing. It's something bad to most people, but something too good to be true to me. With a little bit of money I can turn these walls into paradise. Tonight it’s like I transformed this whole village into heaven.  I’m the only one in here tonight. Just the way I like it. Just me and the angels.

*

Nights like this remind me of Ton. I know you’ve heard all kinds of things about him; he’s always been easy to talk about cuz he’s so strange. When I met him, though, he wasn’t all that over the edge. I mean, yeah, he did walk around with slippers so worn out they should have been thrown in the garbage, but he ain’t the only one on island who holds on to things he ought not to.

I hope you don’t laugh when I say I always paid attention to his clothes and things like that.  Ton’s clothes were way too baggy. In fact, he reminded me of a fat person who dropped weight too quick; his shirt and legs looked like folds of leftover skin. I’ve always regretted not offering him a pair of my old shirts—he coulda fit ‘em. He told me he got all his clothes from the Red Cross and he was their number one customer; I had to hold back my tongue to remind him those were donated clothes. 

He kinda had that way about him in the bar: loud and proud of things no one else considered important. He’d strut in all alone with nothing but those tattered slippers and baggy clothes for company, then plump down on a stool right in front of me and exclaim, “My favorite haole! Ta fan guimen!” But of course I could never give Ton enough beers to get way hammered; he was flat broke like almost everyone else. Plus—and don’t tell anyone about this—Ton was only nineteen when he started hanging around here.

But just cuz he was broke and young didn’t mean he was selfish. After he’d spend his last dollars on a bottle of beer, he’d almost always offer a joint to share between the two of us. And when I’d say no, I’d notice something fade behind those bloodshot eyes of his.

I hear you and other customers make fun of Ton as you look at him through the window. I wish you would stop. You all seem to think its funny he’s missing a finger, or that the drug dealers normally shake him down for money he doesn’t have.  

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not trying to change any opinions of him. If it pleases you to beat down on a man like Ton, then go right ahead. The next time you do wanna make him the butt of the joke though, make sure I’m not in listening distance. Or at the very least, realize things weren’t always this way. Knowing all the things I know about him…jokes like the one you guys make don’t seem funny at all.

Like, what’s that thing Juan always says about Ton? He’s so bad in bed the hookers down the street tell him to keep his money? Something like that, right? Well first off, how the hell is Juan supposed to know what Ton is like in bed? That’s weird. And secondly, that’s about the most ignorant thing anyone could say about Ton—hookers not taking his money, I mean. Ton was always such a sucker for easy women, and the easier he could get a woman to suck, the bigger of a sucker he became.  Once he barged right through that door and sat at his familiar seat and pulled me in close, like he needed to tell a secret.

“Did you know $30 will get you a blowjob from those girls down the street?” he asked, with a huge smile. “I’m one lucky guy.”

Ya I know, I know. B.j.’s aren’t supposed to cost that much—not that I speak from experience or anything. I should have said something, but I figured Ton didn’t have the cash to make a habit out of visiting those girls. I didn’t think he’d ever go back. But then again, like Juan sometimes says, pussy’s one hell of a drug. It can make you do strange things. I’ve seen enough evidence of that to argue against Juan. Hell, I’ve given enough tequila shots to enough half-clothed women from enough fully drunk men to say otherwise. I just wish Juan and his sayings were wrong about Ton and his women.

I never understood Ton in that regard—how he could so eagerly pay for sex. Also I don’t understand the concept of paying for sex in general; enough people give it away for free. Like, look down the bar for example.

No! Don’t turn your head that much.

Stare out the side of your eyes….

There that’s better.

Ok, see what’s-her-name in the black dress with her boobies all ready to say hello to the whole damn bar? Notice how she’s talking to Mr.Actslikeabadass? Notice how she has 5 empty glasses next to her and is hanging all over him? Notice how she’s saying her head is light, and her face is hot, and she needs to get to bed soon cuz she drank too much? Well she’s full of shit. I only put alcohol in one of those drinks.  She just wants someone to spend the night with, looks like…don’t know why she has to put up an act.

There I go rambling and looking at boobies again ……I really need to stop drinking as I tell a story.

Anyhoo. Back to Ton.

I figured Ton didn’t have the money to make a habit out of visiting those girls. Man, was I wrong. I’d see him most nights as I locked up, stumbling out their wood and tin barracks, wallet in hand. Sometimes he wouldn’t leave right away; he’d stare at the light glowing out the window with eyes like a lonely boonie dog about to die. The pain of leaving was a shot of low-end vodka, burning all the way down his chest. He’d let out a sigh as he’d glance at his beat-up wallet, its weightlessness weighing heavy in his heart. Sometimes he’d open the wallet looking for money, but close it right away because he spent it all. He’d open it one more time, just in case his eyes were fooling him. But it’s not drunk eyes that fool a person; it’s a drunk brain and a drunk heart working together that do. So Ton would wander down the road, tattered slippers and all, his head down and his back bent as he made his way past me. Sometimes he’d say goodnight, but most of the time melancholy kept his mouth shut. After that he’d start that lowly jalopy of his and drive home. Ton always headed south; Ton was always heading south.

Is he still funny to you?  

There he goes now, right across the street. I’m surprised he can muster up the courage to walk by that side of the village anymore…Oh, hold on a minute. Juan’s asking for a beer.

*

These girls definitely deserve better.  Mama-sang never lets them go any further than the bar down the road. She really gets mad when the girls don’t convince the sailors and marines to do business. Like sailors and marines are the only guys that have money, or what? Actually, to be honest, I like it when the girls don’t do business with those guys. The girls aren’t tissue paper. You don’t throw them away like that.  

And you know what? Mama-sang doesn’t care about the girls’ feelings either. She’s just a matåpang lady. If she were a dude I’d slap her. She always atan båbas me when I come in the door. I think it has something to do with my slippers or something.  Or maybe it’s just cuz she’s a bitch.

If I could, I’d take all the girls away from her. I’d make ‘em stay in Fiesta. There aren’t cockroaches or rats there. And they’d get to eat real food, not soba or steamed vegetables everyday. Best of all the bedsprings don’t poke into your back at Fiesta. You can take your time and roll around.

            I’d teach them Chamorro too. They could tell me all those jokes they like to crack. They’re always in such joking moods when I’m around, laughing and giggling. Even though I can’t understand their Chinese, I like to think I make them happy.  

But not Mama-sang.

*

Håfa Adai, Tirow Wami, and good evening commonwealth. This is Jane Havisham reporting for KSPN evening news. Our top story: A Chamorro minor was taken to the Commonwealth Health Center after he was assaulted early yesterday morning in Garapan. The victim, whose name has been withheld due to ongoing police investigation of the assault, is believed to have been involved with the drug and prostitution rings that plague the Eastern Garapan area. Mary Phelps has more on the story. Mary.

*           

Thanks Jane. I’m here at the intersection of Bella de Noche Street and Amantes Avenue, where police tell me that a young Chamorro man was recently beat by three men brandishing blunt weapons and brass knuckles. Eyewitness accounts say the young man is a frequenter of a known brothel just down the road from Jimmy’s Bar and Grill. Purportedly, the victim was seen sprinting from the building at around 1:30 a.m. Moments after seeing this, eye-witnesses also report hearing men and women in the tin-structure yelling, before seeing a group of men rushing after the victim. Police say the group of men caught the victim hiding here, in this boonie area behind me, only about 150 yards from the alleged brothel. The group of men is suspected of violently beating the victim unconscious and leaving him there to die.

*

            Where are they? I got to hope they didn’t see me run in here… It’s dark…and I’m not that big…I’ll be ok… I’ll be…Oh man, what the hell was I thinking? Hell, I wasn’t thinking at all—I just reacted. It’s not my fault. Mama-sang went too far this time. I paid for my time godamnit! I paid. Mama-sang ain’t the boss. She just watches the place. She has no business holding anyone’s cash. Who is she to demand that I pay her? It wasn’t her in the bedroom. I can’t believe she went for my wallet like that—straight ripped it out my hand.

           

            But did she deserve to be hit with that pot full of boiling water?

*

            Who were we talking about again? Oh yeah. Ton.

Man… I felt bad when they arrested him for smacking that old lady. Ya, they treated him for his wounds and everything up at CHC, but once he was cleared—wooo—out the window and straight to a holding cell. Judge Cabrera wasn’t going to give him a chance; he was johning in Garapan and splashing boiling water on old women! Of course he’d get jail time—black eyes, broken ribs, and bruised skin notwithstanding.  The news reporters just loved that particular detail.

Hey, did you know that’s the only way I learned his last name? By listening to the news about his case? Ton Guerrero. Juan told me that Guerrero means warrior in Spanish…Ton Warrior.

Oh sorry. That’s the beer rambling again.

Ton ought to come by here one of these days.

Oh don’t get that look on your face. I’d keep him out of your hair. What with the jail time, and the years past, I think I’m long overdue for a “Hey haole! Ta fan guimen!” or whatever he used to barge in here with.

           

*

Nothing —I am nothing.

Who’s ever been my friend? Who’s ever been my family? I’ve never had either. No one can rescue me now; I’m filthier than the mud at my back.a There is no light in me and I have no guts. I’m just hallow and dark; a pig that’s been killed and cleaned. I deserve to be killed and cleaned. I deserve it all.

I deserve it all….