Happening all in one morning

IARRIVED very early in the morning at my hotel. Waiting for the privilege (rare) to have an early check-in, I spent the hours looking out on the street. It was a little past 5 a.m., and the street was still empty save for two women behind what looked like a giant square crate. They were removing the big rope tied around it, sealing the box with cartons the two were lifting off. as each panel was peeled out, they would put each of them under a tree fronting a bank. The next time I see such cartons beneath a tree, I know they are not for the dump truck to collect.

Soon, a table, which doubled as a cabinet, materialized before them, as I watched this entrepreneurial drama unfold. A stack of soft drink boxes was standing beside the table, which had, by now, turned into a small cafe. Huge mason jars were now arrayed in front of them. I could see cookies and candies. Another cluster of food was looking like noodles. On the left side, from my right, was a frying pan.

What must they be cooking? What could they concoct out of that makeshift kitchen, which also was, before us, (a security guard from the hotel had joined in) transforming into carinderia/cafe/ commissary. It was only when the store was finished being set up that I realized the green tricycle behind them. A little girl also began playing around the structure. Was she their child, only child? It cannot be; both were women. But why not? Why not indeed?

By the time the sun was dappling the street and trees that dotted the surroundings, the store was standing solid, with big umbrellas giving an extra adornment to the makeshiftness of their store.

What time did these two businesswomen leave their home, their bed?

Across the same street, as I started to look for my own kind of cafe, I saw a similar store. I decided to cross the street and inspect the structure up close. The business was being managed by a very young man. Or, maybe he looked young. I had to ask myself: if he is poor, how does he manage to be young? He must be working hard so he could afford an injectable glutathione. The early morning had created in me a judgmental monster, with my own class as a filter.

In the cafe patronized by people like me, people who believe we belong to that class of thinking individuals with education in our voice and gestures, I seated myself close to the window. Cozily tucked against the red wall, I looked out of the window, imagining either a late winter or an early spring.

Why don’t we have autumn, winter and spring?

Men and women, by virtue of the distribution of countries with four seasons and those with just a tandem of summer and non-summer with bits of rain to make some days bearable and different, are not created equal. There is always something glamorous about wearing thick clothes—sweater, cardigan, coats, etc.—and we know if we do not belong to the film industry, we have no right to wear trench coats or bomber jackets or cable knit sweaters in the winter, summer or fall in our mind.

Glam is so first world; our glamor is good only in magazines. The expensive ones, because glamor is really for the moneyed. The poor can be merely smart, or tidy vis-a-vis the trash we consider given in being poor.

In the cafe, I remained cozy until the arrival of a gang of five plus one. The boss who came in was drunk (from last night?). The “Bossing” was loud in gesture and oral language: his voice rose above the din, a big bulk of which was contributed by an old air conditioner. Oh, he was loud. And the five people who came in before him were not loud; they all looked like those big-leafed plants— monumental in their repose so long as you ignore the small handbag they each carried. Were those guns? Or maybe hand grenade?

I went back to my hotel as soon as I sensed the Big Voice of Violence getting more agitated.

Would I want to be caught at the crossfire? Maybe not, I offered an answer to myself.

History would answer all my anxiety and questions. By the time I passed by the young man’s store, his tub of meat had all been sliced. Already, there were two young men partaking of a thick broth with meat and herbs and two more girls were in line. Business seemed good. The glutathione angle came back.

Early check-in arranged by the office. I had to thank my stars and the connection with the PR of this hotel.

Inside the room, the TV was on. I looked at the screen. A handsome man had bruises on his lips and he seemed not to be able to work. His equally good-looking officemate asked him the stupid question: Are you ok? Came the more stupid answer: No. Of course No. The bruises speak for themselves like the wounds of Julius Caesar (I am being pedantic). More camera work: an effeminate-looking (cinema is an able stereotypist) man is surrounded by three women trying to look gorgeous but succeeding in erasing any allure from their face given their wooden acting. Came the next scene: a lovely woman a tad overdressed for the office committed to going home, upon the prodding of the mother through the brother. But the woman’s paramour or partner is convincing her not to because he has made a reservation in the restaurant.

Who writes this script? Who makes this kind of film?

They all happen in just one morning.