Mabini Magic
by
Mason
SMASHWORDS EDITION
Published by Wendy on Smashwords
Copyright © 2010 by Wendy and Papaya Passion Press
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Chapter One
Jeff was tired after his very long trip to The Philippines, but too excited to go to sleep.
Just outside the window of his third-story hotel room, on street level, two middle-aged twin dwarves in flashy business suits were shouting out to men passing by to visit the Rock n Roll Bar -- while loud music blared.
Just one drink, he promised himself. One fast beer and a quick look around at the girls, and he'd go back to bed so he'd be in better shape tomorrow night to really have fun.
The middle-aged woman behind the hotel's front desk just looked at him and smiled as he stepped quickly through the tiny lobby, then out the front door.
The hot, humid air smacked him, but the loud music blaring through the night and bright, glittering neon lights electrified him. Crowds of men strolled by him along the sidewalk, some of them with their arms around scantily clad, beautiful young Filipinas.
He was home.
He was finally home.
Jeff had never before been to the Mabini area, to The Philippines or even to Asia until tonight. Yet since he was a little boy, somehow he'd known that was where he wanted to go. That was where he wanted to live. That was his destiny.
It'd taken him many long hours of work and saving his money by staying home while his buddies took out their girlfriends and drank beers at parties and gave half their paychecks to their marijuana and coke dealers . . . but he knew it was going to be worth it.
He'd dated some women of course, but could never get serious. Those seriously interested in him were hurt, and moved on. What could he do? They were beautiful, fun and interesting, but American.
For reasons he didn't understand, he'd always been fascinating by what he saw and read of Asia, particularly The Philippines. From World War II stories to Bruce Lee gung fu movies to the way Vietnam vets bragged about their R & R weeks in Bangkok and Manila.
And now he was here, in one of the most notorious red light districts in the world.
One grizzled vet he met at work once told him, "Boy, you can get anything you want in Mabini, long as you got the money. Ladies, boys, or lady-boys. Heck, you can fuck tomboys too, if that's your taste and you got the cash. I once had me a tomboy still young enough to look pretty, before she went all mannish. Her pussy felt as good as every other pussy, even though she'd rather been muff diving."
The two dwarves (or midgets? -- Jeff didn't know the difference) were working so hard, Jeff decided to make the Rock n Roll Bar his first stop. He crossed Padre Faura Street and stepped through the door.
Just one beer, he promised himself.
Chapter Two
The bar was crowded, mostly with American men -- foreigners, Jeff reminded himself. Outside the U.S., not everybody with a white face was American. They could -- and probably were -- Canadian, English, Australian, German . . . the list went on and on.
In front of him, a middle-aged man ordered two San Miguel beers in a tortured, probably German, accent. At least English would be the most likely common language. That made it easier for him.
Jeff didn't know anything about local beers, so just ordered a San Miguel for himself.
With Mick Jagger singing "Satisfaction" while Keith Richards' guitar blared out at ear-splitting volume, he looked around. A white light flashed across the room, illuminating a small stage where four women in glittering, purple sequin bras and panties were dancing around poles.
Other women mixed with the men in the crowd. They were hard to see, however, because they were a foot shorter than most of the men.
Quite a crowd for a Wednesday night. What were Friday and Saturday nights like, Jeff wondered.
Then he realized -- probably the same. Except, perhaps, for the men who lived and worked in The Philippines, most of these guys were on vacation just like him. Every night was Saturday night until it was time to return home.
Back to America, Jeff reminded himself.
In two weeks he had to return to America. But he wouldn't be going home -- he'd be leaving his real home to return to his job.
But Jeff didn't want to think about that now, on his very first night, before he'd even recovered from his trip and the jet lag.
The bottle of San Miguel was already empty. Jeff bought a new one before he remembered his promise to have just one and go back to sleep. How would he be able to sleep with this music blaring through his hotel window?
Chapter Three
Every so often, the ladies on the stage walked off and were replaced by a new shift. In a few minutes, those who'd been dancing were circulating among the men, talking, laughing and asking for drinks.
One of them stood in front of Jeff. He couldn't even remember her coming into his field of vision -- but there she was.
Short, under five foot tall, thin with smallish but well-shaped breasts. Her dark brown skin gleamed in the white nightclub light. Her eyes were deep and black. Her smile seemed warm and genuine. She took his arm.
"Buy me drink, pretty please?"
"What's your name?"
"Analyn."
"How old are you, Analyn?"
"You buy me drink, sir?"
"Yes."
He signaled to the bartender. Analyn took the glass full of ice and some light blue liquid with a straw. For all Jeff could tell, it was blueberry Koolaid. That's what it looked like.
"How old are you?" Jeff asked again.
"Me, I am eighteen years old. You?"
"Twenty-five."
"Oh, very young."
Jeff smiled. "How come you work here, Analyn?"
Her face creased in a weird look. Maybe he wasn't supposed to ask that, Jeff thought. Of course she was poor. Wealthy women weren't here working as bar girls.
"My daddy . . . she smoking shabu," Analyn said.
"You mean, HE smokes shabu?"
"Yes. My daddy smoking shabu. No money. All money -- for shabu for Daddy."
"What is shabu?" Jeff asked.
Analyn's face looked sad. "Don't know English. Smoking . . . Daddy crazy crazy."
Some kind of drug, Jeff figured. Maybe shabu was the Tagalog word for crack.
Jeff's arm around Analyn's shoulders felt good, so he ordered another San Miguel for himself and another lady drink for her.
Chapter Four
Jeff could barely see his watch when he decided he finally had to go, before he passed out. He was sure that a drunk foreigner in the street was not a safe foreigner. His hotel, and safety, was only fifty feet away, but suddenly seemed a long distance.
"I have to go," Jeff told Analyn.
"I go with you."
"OK." Jeff headed for the door.
Analyn's face suddenly looked puzzled. "What about me?"
"OK, you come." Jeff didn't know whether he could trust her or not, but by now he knew her more than anybody else in The Philippines. He was not thinking too straight.
"You must pay bar."
"Pay the bar?"
"I cannot leave bar without you pay. Only five hundred. Please."
Jeff handed one of the yellowish-orange bills to the bartender who wrote down something, then nodded to Analyn.
She told Jeff, "Wait one minute please, sir."
What now?
In a few minutes, Analyn returned wearing short shorts and a t-shirt in place of her purple bar outfit, and carrying a small purse.
"Ready now. Let's go."
Remarkably, many cars and the big station wagons carrying passengers still streamed along Pedro Faura Street. Analyn held Jeff's upper arm and helped him cross the street when there was a gap in the traffic.
Without her help, he might been killed.
Once inside his hotel, Analyn smiled at the woman at the front desk, who smiled back and nodded. Both of them smiled at Jeff, but he barely noticed, just took his room key from the desk clerk. He'd forgotten his room number, but she remembered.
Jeff had a difficult time walking up the two flights of stairs to his hotel room on the third floor. Because the Rock n Roll Bar's music still pounded through the walls, he sometimes thought he was still back there. He weaved a lot, but Analyn kept him headed straight.
Once he reached his floor, he almost kept going up the stairs to the fourth floor. Analyn stopped him. "What number?" she asked.
Jeff had to look at his room key. On the green plastic tab attached to the round metal circle were the numbers 304. He held them up in front of Analyn's face.
She nodded, looked down the short hallways, then led him to the door. She took the key from his hand, inserted it into the lock, and led him through the open door, then placed the key on the small desk.
Jeff staggered into the small bathroom. Not having gone to as many keggers and beer parties as his friends, he didn't have a stomach used to drinking so much beer. He dropped to his knees, gagged, then puked into the toilet bowl.
He grabbed a glass, filled it with tap water -- only dimly remembering that was dangerous and he should put only bottled water into his mouth, but he hadn't had time to buy any yet -- and swished out his mouth, then spit it into the toilet bowl.
"You OK, Jeff?" Analyn asked when he came out. She was sitting on the side of the bed. She'd already removed her flip flops and was taking out an ear ring.
"Ergggh."
Jeff fell down on to the bed and passed out.
Sometime later, when gray light was filling the room, the sound of splashing water brought him to the edge of sleep. A little while later, he thought he opened his eyes and saw Analyn riffling through his billfold.
This outraged a part of his brain, but the rest of his brain and body were still too tired and alcohol-numbed to react. He sank back into sleep.
When he woke up late the next morning, he was alone.
Chapter Five
For five minutes or so, while kneeling in front of the toilet to see if he had to puke again, Jeff forgot that he'd even brought a woman to the room with him.
After splashing water on his face he remembered Analyn and the sweet promise of her body, which he'd lost. That brought back the memory of Analyn holding his billfold.
He rushed to the desk and searched. His billfold was still full of the strangely colored bills he'd received when he changed $300 in American money at the money changer's booth in the airport.
He counted it, just to make sure, but couldn't remember exactly how many pesos he'd received. Besides, he paid some to the taxi driver. And some for the San Miguel beers and Analyn's lady drinks. How many had he bought? He couldn't remember.
He still had nearly 7,000 pesos, which was most of his $300 anyway.
The odor of some cream or perfume Analyn wore still hung in the air, oddly out of place in the bright morning sun streaming through the windows.
Jeff took a thorough shower. He wondered why there was a big gray bucket half-full of water, with a red plastic scoop, sitting in the shower stall.
The cold of the water and the air-con blowing on him cleared Jeff's mind and woke up his body. Once dressed, he felt again confident, ready to take on everything The Philippines had ready for him.
In the day time, M.H. del Pilar Street was just as busy as during the night, but full of bustling Filipinos. With their doors closed and padlocked, their speaker systems silent and their neon lights turned off, the bars faded into the background.
As Jeff walked down several blocks, he saw many stores open for business, and a few tiny restaurants selling food setting in aluminum cookware. The daytime street seemed to have just as many money changers as the nighttime street had bars. Every few steps a security guard in a crisp, starched white shirt and dark blue pants held a door open for him. "Money, sir," they all said, while their other hand cradled a saw-off shotgun.
The sidewalks were full of street vendors selling tiny packets of gum, pieces of meat cooked over an open fire on a stick like shish kabob, juice drinks, crude comic books and newspapers.
On one side street, a woman sat on an old beat up couch sitting on the sidewalk. She was bathing a naked child while a baby slept beside her.
A little while later he passed a small restaurant named The Hobbit House. That looked interesting, but it was closed, so Jeff moved on to the corner where he was shocked to find a restaurant that looked like a classic American diner, like from the 1950s or 1960s.
The bright blue neon sign read: Rosie's.
Chapter Six
Jeff's first thought after he got a little oriented and sat himself at the long, U-shaped counter in the center, was that his father would love it here. Old mementoes, including old pictures and Rosie's first high chair, hung around the walls.
The tables were of shining Formica with bands of shiny chrome. The many waitresses wore crisp white blouses and red or navy blue slacks. Some were more attractive than others, but all were attractive.
Seated at the various tables or on other stools around the center counter was a wide assortment of people. Foreigners who looked even more hung over than Jeff. Young Japanese dudes with long hair and tattoos smoking cigarettes. And young Filipino mothers with their little kids holding Rosie's balloons in their fists.
After he sat there for around ten minutes, one of the waitresses gave him a smile and placed a menu and glass of water in front of him.
He soon discovered the menu was a small book, bigger than his high school yearbook. He flipped the pages.
Filipino food. Mexican food. American grilled food. Chinese food. Japanese food. Thai dishes.
After the long listings of food, there were pages intentionally left blank for people to write in notes and messages. Thumbing through those pages was almost like reading bathroom wall graffiti, though they included comments on the food as well as on some of the waitresses and various bar girls in the district.
Plus many notes in Tagalog, Chinese, Japanese and German that Jeff could not read.
One part of Jeff wanted to start trying out new food, but his tender stomach advised him to stick with pancakes and orange juice, at least this morning.
After another ten minute wait, the waitress took his order and zipped into the kitchen.
One thing about Rosie's Diner, he thought after fifteen minutes had gone by, it's sure not fast food. He couldn't see how many cooks were in the rear, but it must have been only one overworked guy who probably had to consult a recipe every time somebody ordered a double bean burrito or Japanese sopa green noodles.
Although there were many waitresses, they seemed to spend far more time talking and joking with the customers than taking orders and serving food.
The elderly man next to Jeff said to one of the waitresses in a gruff British accent, "Young lady, do you know what that pin you're wearing means?"
She pointed to a multi-colored pin on the collar of her blouse. "This one? It was given to me by Mr. Joseph Hardy, the grandson of Thomas Hardy the author."
"It means you're a member of the London Town Council."
She turned to Jeff. "Did you ever read his books?" she asked. "I read RETURN OF THE NATIVE in high school."