The rain slacked off. Looking up from Jimmy’s doorway, the clouds hung heavy and ominous in the evening sky. The alley had a stream running down one side, carrying the runoff from the rooftops down to the corner and out of sight.
“I’m going to make a run for it. I’ll see you guys later.”
Tom left a message for Rocky and Bill, then left Piso Jimmy’s, stepping over the puddles and wading the stream that ran down Fendler St. He turned onto MagSaySay, and into the crowd of sailors moving along the sidewalk. He flagged down a jeepney, climbed aboard and headed toward Emie’s.
‚ÄúYou‚Äôve been drinking, how many beers you drink? What kind of shirt is that, did you buy it?”
Tom smiled, “Four, I would have had five, but I had to leave one behind. I bought it, it’s a cheap shirt. It’s a long story. Look, no more beer tonight for me. Are you hungry?”
Only slightly mollified, Emie agreed and suggested a new place, a Thai restaurant that had opened up near the traffic circle. Tom agreed, and leaving his bag behind, took Emie to dinner. Before they reached the restaurant, Emie steered him into a shop and selected a dark blue polo shirt, then put it in his hands. He nodded, paid, and changed his shirt yet again.
The restaurant was quiet, the other patrons appeared to be mostly officers and their dates or wives. The food was spicy, hot enough to burn Tom’s mouth and make him sweat. Emie seemed unfazed, relishing the noodle and vegetable dish she had ordered.
At a table in the back, a group of his Squadron’s officers had gathered. Slightly louder than the other diners, they laughed and talked, audible above the murmuring conversations at the nearby tables. Relaxed, they talked with an easy camaraderie, and as always, talked of flying, their hands moving.
When they left the restaurant, it was raining again. They tucked together under Emie’s umbrella, and walked up MagSaySay, continuing the conversation they had started over dinner. Reaching the river, they took a jeepney back out toward the market, and out to the rooms Tom had rented.
Someone Emie knew owned the building, and once she had vouched for him, had rented him the second floor. With access to the kitchen and toilet downstairs, and two rooms upstairs, it gave him more personal space than he had enjoyed since leaving the U.S. five months before.
The owner and his wife sat with friends under an awning playing mahjong, talking and clacking the tiles at a pace Tom could not follow. They greeted Emie and Tom, speaking mostly in Tagalog.
“I have two friends coming, possibly.”
The reply was quick, “No parties. No drinking.”
“No, no, quiet, they would come to sleep, to visit, and only two, no more.”
Emie spoke in Tagalog, the only words Tom caught meaningless without context. Then she turned to him, “You are responsible for your friends while they are here. But they may come.”
“Thank you, maraming salamat,” Tom tried one of the phrases he had managed to memorize.
The players laughed at his accent and the owner waved them away. They turned and went upstairs. The only bed was a mattress on the floor of the larger room, but it appeared to be fairly new, and when he moved in Emie had brought a set of sheets and a new pillow. Three small wooden chairs and a table sat by the window. A ceiling fan, a metal floor lamp, and Emie’s radio completed the furnishings. It was enough. It felt like home.
Ooh, those rains! I was in Olongopo right after Mt. Pinatubo erupted, which was followed by the rains…I can remember walking in shin-deep, and knee-deep water crossing the streets…The ash from the volcano had clogged all the street drains, and the water just had no where to go. But sailors still had to get out there, so we went, and we tried not to think of the many microbes in that water.