Dogeaters

by Jessica Hagedorn

  I sigh, suddenly very exhausted. I try to recall things Boy-Boy has told me. It is very late. “Aren’t we there yet?” I grumble, peering out the car window. When you get right down to it, the German’s turning out to be just like the rest of them, with their stupid questions. “Some are already hard—before they appear onstage,” I begin, wearily. “Some work themselves up in front of the audience—” I wish I were high. If I were high—“Some are ashamed of their erections. They don’t want to be out there, like that—”

  “Like what?”

  “Ashamed.”

  “You mean vulnerable. They touch themselves?”

  I hope I’m getting paid for this interrogation. “I told you, rain or shine. That’s what it’s all about. The dance. That’s what the greedy audience pays to see.” I wonder if the driver understands our soft-spoken English. Will the German pay me in dollars? Get me high?

  “How long does it take?” His voice is persistent, his gaze probing.

  “What? The dance? Fuck, man. It depends—two or three songs. Fifteen minutes maybe. Shit. You wanna go there and see for yourself? I can arrange it. Nestor’s probably there, by now. Lots of foreigners go—you won’t be the only one. Maybe we’ll even run into that other asshole,. Tito Alvarez.”

  “When? Right now?”

  “Right now, man. You’re asking too many questions. You’re driving me crazy with your questions. Just get me high first, okay? I know where we can get the best stuff, we can go right now, it’s on the way. So I can stay awake. So you can stay awake. We’ll make the breakfast show—” I smile a sick, lopsided smile. I touch him lightly on his outer thigh, grazing his pants in the same offhand way the movie star grazed his arm with her silver fingernails.

  “What makes you think I do drugs?” the German asks. He leans back against the soft leather upholstery, gray to match the metallic silver color of the car. He shuts his eyes. He seems to age even more in the dark, his face drawn and haggard. I have the sudden urge to kiss his dissipated face, just for an instant, surprising myself with the force of my desire. I recoil.

  “No more nightclubs,” he murmurs. “I’ve had enough for tonight. We’ll go later this week—maybe. But tonight—I want to be alone with you tonight.”

  “Sure. Whatever, rain or shine.”

  “I’m scheduled to be here one week. You’ll stay with me every night, won’t you? I’ll take good care of you.”

  “Sure, maybe.” He’s got too many ideas. I want him to back off, just a little. “Is there a swimming pool?” He nods, opening his eyes to look at me. “I want to swim in the pool,” I say, “tonight. As soon as we get there.”

  “Yes, of course. We’ll swim in the pool all night, if you want.”

  The car slows down as it approaches the wrought-iron gates that lead to a winding driveway. The house still seems far away, hidden behind bushes and trees. I roll down the car window, stick my neck out and take a deep breath. I pretend the whole world is mine—dark, perfumed, and peaceful, the only sounds the purr of the fancy car’s engine and the steady clicking chorus of kuliglig in the trees.

  The driver honks the horn. A sleepy security guard in blue uniform with a holstered gun unlocks the gates. “Will he kill us with bullets or tetanus?” I joke, pointing to the big, rusty looking gun. “I wouldn’t want to find out,” Rainer says, smiling faintly. Maybe I’m talking too loud. Maybe I’m being too obnoxious.

  We are driven past the guard to the front entrance of the magnificent house. The guard salutes us as we drive by. I salute back at him. A light comes on as a female servant opens the front door. She wears a baggy dress as a nightgown, holding it close against her sturdy body in a gesture of modesty. I want to tell her, “Relax, Inday. It’s me—Joey Sands. You can take off your dress and show me your tits—I’m not interested.” An invisible dog barks from somewhere out back. Another dog joins in. The servant turns on the lamps in the sprawling living room, which goes on for miles and miles. She stands there, waiting for us to give her some orders. It must be at least five o’clock in the morning by now. Outside the sliding glass doors, an aviary is visible. I spot four giant parrots with long red tails, and some other birds, all sleeping. A spotlight is turned on to show a still and inviting pool, an oasis surrounded by palm trees. Rainer thanks the servant, dismissing her with a curt goodnight.

  In the guest bedroom, we wait for the house to settle once again, snorting a combination of the German’s pharmaceutical cocaine and what’s left of Uncle’s heroin, which I pull out of my pocket. “So, rain or shine. You don’t do drugs, heh-heh.” The German is silent. He pours us two large snifters of cognac, from a bar which has been set up at one end of the room. He seems pleased. “This is perfect, isn’t it, Joey?”

  “Sure, Rainercito.”

  “Don’t call me that.” He bristles, angry now. I rub coke on my gums, help myself to one of his high-class English cigarettes.

  “Okay, okay. Relax, rain or shine. I don’t mean to offend you. We’re in paradise now.” I grin at him, sipping the cognac slowly, like Andres taught me to do. I’m not sure I like it any better than I do that gasoline vodka, but what the fuck. It works—cuts the edge off the coke without putting me to sleep. “Let’s swim,” I say.

  “Call me Rainer, please—”

  “Sure. Rainer.”

  He cocks his head, listening for something. “There—I think they’re asleep.”

  “Who?”

  “The servants. They’re curious about us, don’t you think?”

  “The driver, maybe. Fuck it. Relax, man. Let’s party.”

  “That’s the problem with these colonial situations of yours—”

  “No problem, man.”

  “Rainer.”

  “Okay. Rainer—” I pause, letting the sound of his name sink in. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “Servants. They end up knowing your secrets, they always end up knowing too much. It’s a kind of insidious power—”

  “Servants can’t do shit to you, boss. You’re being paranoid. They’re paid, di ba?” I wish we’d quit talking and go swimming. I don’t get what he’s so worked up about.

  “Back in my country, I don’t live like this. I live alone, and I like it that way. In a warehouse, with only my cats for company. Don’t you get it, dear boy?”

  “I’m not dear boy. The name’s Joey.”

  “Did I offend you?”

  I’m higher than I’ve ever been, sick to death of his questions. “Sometimes I shit, Rainer. Sometimes I shit all day long. I wonder where all my shit is coming from, especially when I don’t eat. I don’t eat for days, sometimes. How come I shit? It’s scary at first. Then it feels good. Good shit cleans out my system. I get rid of everything.” My gaze meets his, sure and steady.

  The German gets up from where he’s been sitting on the bed. Matter-of-factly, he steps out of his rumpled clothes. I avoid looking at his heavy body. I’m aware of his overpowering scent, the scent of sweat, liquor, and too many cigarettes. I undress fast, glad to be out of my own damp clothes. “Let’s go swimming, Joey.” The German says my name carefully, tenderly.

  Without hesitating, I dive into the turquoise water of the long pool. The impact of my body hitting the lukewarm water is a soft explosion, the only noise for miles around.

  Happily, I float on my back, serene under the canopy of stars in the black sky. A coconut tree bends in a graceful arc over the pool. I could die right now, I feel so good.

  The German swims languidly beside me, a big white fish with anxious eyes. “Your father—he was a black American, yes? Andres told me.”

  “Andres talks too much,” I say, though I don’t really mind. “He was stationed at Subic Bay—that’s all I know about him. Not his name. Not anything.” I swim away from him.

  He swims after me. We do a couple of laps, then drift toward the shallow end, resting our heads against the black and white tiles that line the pool’s edge. “Look,” Rainer points to the high fence that enclo
ses us, a tangle of barbed wire and broken glass on top of cement walls. I say nothing. I’ll poke around later, while he sleeps. See what I can pick up as souvenirs. Next door, the king of coconuts snores in his sleep, wrapped around that skinny wife of his. Wait till I tell Uncle and Boy-Boy. Wait till I tell Andres—“There I was, your rich cousin’s neighbor!” Me, Joey Sands. Andres has never been within three feet of his own relative’s house.

  “Who does all this belong to?” I ask the German.

  “I was told some rich doctor and his wife, also a doctor. They’re away on vacation. You like it?” Of course I do, who wouldn’t. I shrug in response.

  “Will you stay with me, Joey?”

  “All week?”

  “Yes—night and day. Don’t leave me for one moment.” He stops talking long enough to peer at my face, trying to read my mind. “A government official offered to loan me his private plane. I could call him tomorrow, accept his offer. We’ll take a trip—we’ll have a wonderful time. We’ll fly to the jungle. You’ll show me waterfalls and volcanoes—”

  “Waterfalls and volcanoes? You’re crazy. Let’s go somewhere fun. Let’s go to Las Vegas.”

  “You’ve never been out of Manila, have you? How terrible. All the more reason, then. We’ll explore your country. Joey—please. Stay with me.”

  “I work. I have a job, remember?”

  “Don’t worry about money. Come on, I’ll talk to—what’s his name. Your boss, Andres. He’s a reasonable man. I’ll call him today. He can get a substitute for a week, can’t he? What about that other guy last night? Don’t you know someone?”

  “Not like me. No one’s as good as me. I’m the best DJ in Manila. Andres will tell you that.”

  Enjoying myself, I play my stubborn games, reminding the German over and over how good I am, how much Andres depends on me, how I’m indirectly responsible for the club’s success. When I’ve got him where I want him, I finally and reluctantly give in. “All right, all right—one week. But you’d better fix it with Andres. I don’t want any shit from him after you leave.”

  I climb out of the pool. “Where are you going?” Rainer asks, grabbing my ankle. I wiggle my foot, loosening his grip on my leg. I give him a cold look. “To bed. I’m going to bed. How about you?”

  I feel the heat from the morning sun, slowly rising. Without looking back, I walk through the patio to the bedroom, the German at my heels.

  The day he leaves Manila for Berlin, we have an early breakfast in the coffee shop of the Intercontinental Hotel. The German prefers the coffee shop to having breakfast at the mansion. He’s never gotten over being uncomfortable in the presence of servants. Me, I don’t give a shit. When I feel their eyes on me, I stare right back. So what. If I stare long enough, they drop their gaze and go about their business. It’s simple. I know them and they know me.

  The German carries his shoulder bag, the canvas one filled with his most precious possessions: drugs, passport, plane ticket, notebook, pens, toothbrush, comb, and dollars. He’s paranoid, dragging his bag with him wherever we go. “You don’t need your passport at Studio 54,” I’ve told him. He wouldn’t listen. “You never know, I might need to make a quick getaway—”

  “You think like a criminal. Are you a criminal or an artist?” I tease him.

  “Both,” he answered, smiling that dumb sad smile of his.

  What a weirdo—seems like that’s all I meet these days. What the fuck. He’s so generous, I can’t complain. I just have to put up with his crazy shit a few more hours.

  After breakfast, we’re going back to the house and pick up his suitcases, then off to the airport for one last time in the fancy car. “I don’t care about my clothes or shoes,” Rainer says, as we sit down at a booth in the coffee shop. “But I can’t afford to lose this—” He slides the bag under the table, between our feet.

  “Joey.”

  We’re drinking coffee. The German drinks his black, with plenty of sugar. I like mine with plenty of milk. Except for another foreigner with eyeglasses reading a newspaper across the room, the coffee shop is empty. I love the interior of our booth, all striped garish upholstery, tiny mirrors, and bright plastic banners like a loud, gaudy jeepney.

  “JOEY. I’m talking to you.”

  “What.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” the German asks, shyly. I remember the American and his postcard, pouring myself more coffee from the steel coffeepot the sleepy waiter has left on our table. It isn’t even six thirty yet; I’ve slept a few hours, but I feel like I’ve been up all night.

  “Joey. Did you hear me?”

  “Yes. And the answer’s no.”

  “I’m a little in love with you, I think.”

  He confuses and exhausts me. I’ve grown to like him too, but I’ll never admit it. “A little? How can you be a little in love?”

  “Are you sorry I’m leaving?”

  “Sure, Rainercito.”

  “I told you, goddammit. RAINER.”

  “Okay, Rainer. You want me to be sorry? I’ll be sorry.”

  “Whoretalk. You’re too young to be so cynical, Joey. You enjoy hurting me, don’t you? This is foolish, I suppose. I’m much too old for you, anyway.” He pauses. “Would you like to order breakfast now:

  I thought he’d never ask. I look for the sleepy waiter, who scurries over when he sees my signal. He must be a hundred years old, a bent man with faded eyes. He wears a limp barong tagalog over black uniform pants, shiny and threadbare from too much use. His thin-soled, imitation-leather shoes with pointy toes are gray with dust. There’s nothing sadder than cheap shoes on a man. “Yes, sir—” the waiter is ready with pad and pencil.

  I order a big breakfast: scrambled eggs over garlic-fried rice, side of longaniza sausages and beef tapa, kalamansi juice, and fresh pineapple for dessert. My last good meal for the next few days…The German is amused.

  I feel his eyes boring holes into me, watching every move as I eat, as if he’ll never get enough. “It’s a picture I take with my mind, so I won’t forget you.” I wish he’d stop. I don’t mind when he takes real pictures of me with that fancy camera of his, which he’s done all week: Joey Swimming. Joey and Cup of Coffee. Joey Lighting a Cigarette. Joey Bored. Joey Brooding. The man has titles for everything! I can’t stand those imaginary snapshots he takes, especially when I’m eating. “Stop staring at me! You’re bugging me, man. You’re spooky—” I stress my words, narrow my eyes to make my point. Crazy. He keeps it up. I give him an exasperated look, then give up and go back to my food. I’m too tired to fight. Let him look all he wants—he’s paying for every second.

  I eat my rice, my longaniza, slices of tapa, and fluffy scrambled eggs. Lots of ketchup and Tabasco sprinkled on everything; it all tastes incredibly delicious. I’m still hungry. I could eat a whole other plate of the same thing; I can’t wait for dessert.

  The German refuses to eat. He orders more coffee and just sits there, smoking, staring at me. His sad, stupid smile—just like Neil. I keep my eyes on the crumbs on my plate. Ask the old waiter to hurry up with the dessert. If I keep my mouth busy, I won’t have to think. Should I ask the German for more money? Should I ask him to send for me? Whatever it is, I don’t have much time.

  The foreigner reading the newspaper looks up and recognizes the German. He waves, getting up from his table, to come over to us. “Oh, shit,” the German groans, waving back. Turns out the man’s an American journalist covering the film festival, a big fan of the German’s work. I get up from our table. Rainer looks alarmed. “Joey! Where are you going? Don’t leave me alone with this bore—”

  “Relax. I need cigarettes. Want some?”

  “Have the waiter get them. For godsake, Joey. I don’t even know the man’s name! He’ll bore me to tears—”

  “The shop in the lobby’s still closed. It’s too early,” I lie smoothly. “I have to go outside, find a street vendor…Don’t worry, Rainer. I’ll be right back—”

  The American journalist approache
s our table, grinning with pleasure and holding out his hand. I wait until Rainer gets up to greet him and his attention is diverted. While his back is turned, I quickly reach under the table for the bag. It happens very fast, the only way it could possibly happen. I walk out the door without looking back, sorry to have missed the fresh pineapple, which the waiter is just now bringing to our table.

  I’m fast, slippery, and calm. I’m out the door and in the lobby, walking quickly but not too quickly across the thick red carpet toward the hotel’s main entrance. I know better than to run and arouse suspicion, though it’s still so early in the morning that no one’s at the front desk, everyone else is yawning and sleepy, not paying much attention.

  It’s okay. I take out the packet of drugs and money and slip it into my jeans pocket, casually leaving the bag with Rainer’s passport and airline ticket on the couch facing the registration desk. Maybe Rainer gets his stuff back, maybe not. This way, he has a chance.

  It seems strange, there’s no one around and it’s so quiet. There are two exits on either side of the main entrance. I move toward the door on the left just as a car pulls up in front of the hotel. Long and dark and important-looking, the car’s navy blue or black. I’m not sure. I hesitate at the doorway, curious. Where’s the doorman? The driver steps out, walks over to the passenger side, and opens the door. I hold my breath—I instantly recognize Senator Domingo Avila. Dressed casual yet businesslike, he looks just like I once saw him on TV, being interviewed by that slimy Cora Camacho. She asked all the wrong questions and didn’t get any answers. Shit, Cora. Get to the point! A man like him would be fun to interview. I would’ve said: “So, Senator Avila—what makes you fearless? How come you’re still here? Everyone else is leaving town…”

  The bastard would’ve said what he always says. “Joey, the handwriting is on the wall.”

  Not bad for an old man, that Avila. Tall and trim, with a flat stomach, gray crew cut, horn-rimmed glasses. Unaware of my presence, he walks briskly toward the lobby, as if he was late for an appointment. It only takes a second for the noise, quick spurts of explosion I recognize immediately. I dive for the concrete sidewalk, hoping to be swallowed up by benevolent, unseen forces, hoping to come out of this alive. Something tells me I should’ve known better, I should’ve known all along, everything was too quiet and empty back there and now, I’m going to die. I’m going to die for something stupid, because I am a witness and I am a thief, I took the German’s fucking drugs and money and I don’t care about his loving me, I know the Senator’s dead like I know my own name, I want to look behind me into the lobby, see his blood—