Philippine Literature (Final Requirement)

PORTFOLIO
IN
PHILIPPINE LITERATURE

Submitted By: Markfil T. Baldomero

Submitted To: Mr. Peter Casumpang
 The Tomato Game
(Short Story)
DEAR GREG,
You must believe me when I say that I’ve tried again and again to write this story. The
man remains vivid in my memory, alone in his clapboard shack in the middle of a Sacramento
Valley tomato field. It is a particularly warm Sunday, in the height of summer. Also, it is the year
of my miserable lectureship at Transpacifica University, which caters to the needs of such an
industry. Well, it’s al because of the ethnic pot. A certain number of offerings oriented toward
the minorities, and the university becomes entitled to certain funds. You have read in the papers
how Transpacifica gave an bonoris causa to a certain personage—prestigious thing to do—
which is that, indeed. Look up the word in the dictionary; I do mean what I say. But to return to
that summer when, in a fit of nostalgia, I had agreed to go with Sopi (you must know him, of
course) to look up some country-men who might be into the national pastime of cockfighting. It
is illegal here, hence a San Francisco Chronicle headline “Transpacifica Lecturer in Bloody Bird
Type Raid” did not seem at all unlikely.
We risked it anyhow and got much more. As in myth, the signs were all over: the wooden
bridge; the fork of the road; the large track all around us which earlier had been a tomato field;
the harvesting machine to one side of the field, a men-acing hulk, indicating how rich the crop
had been. You can see how hard I try. Would that I could have it in me to put all this together.
I can tell you at this juncture that Alice and her young man must be somewhere here in
America. So is the old man, I’m positive. The likes of him endure. “To such a man, “Sopi said to
me afterwards, “pride is of the essence. He is the kind tells himself and his friends that as soon as
he is able in twenty, thirty years, say he will return to the islands to get himself a bride. How can
you begrudge him that?” But it’s the sort of talk that makes me angry, and at that time I certainly
was.
I am now embarrassed, though, over how we behaved at the shack. We could have
warned the old man. We could have told him what we felt. Instead, we teased him “Look, lolo,
“Sopi said. “Everything’s ready, eh?” For, true enough, he had furnished the clapboard shack
with a brand-new bed, a refrigerator, a washing machine an absurdity multiplied many times
over by the presence, Sopi had noticed earlier, of a blue Ford coupe in the yard. “That’s for her. .
.” Sopi had said. We enjoyed the old man immensely. He didn’t take offense--- no, the old man
didn’t. “I’ve been in this all along, since the start. Didn’t I make the best deal possible, lolo?
“Ya, Attorney,” the old man said. “And this taxi driver boy, is he coming over too?” Sopi, of
course knew that the boy was bag and bag gage, you might say. “That was the agreement,” the
old man said. “I send him to school like my son.” “You know, lolo, that will never do. He’s
young, he’s healthy. Handsome, too”. “You thinking of Alice?” the old man asked. “She’s
twenty-three,” Sopi reminded him. I figured the old man was easily forty or forty-five years her
‘senior. “Alice, she’s okay. Alice she is good girl,” said the old man. “That Tony boy . . . he’s
bright boy.”
 I saw Sopi in the mirror of may prejudices. He was thin but spry, and he affected rather
successfully the groovy appearance of a professional, accepted well enough in the community
and, at that, with deserved sympathy. Legal restrictions required that he pass the California Bar
before admission to the practice of law amongst his countrymen. Hence, the invention which he
called Montalba Import-Export. In the context of our mores he was the right person for the job
the old man wanted done. Alice was Sopi’s handiwork in a real sense, and at no cost whatsoever.
Enough, sopi explained to me, that you put yourself in the service of your fellows. I believed
him. He knew all the lines, all the clichés.
I could feel annoyance, then anger, welling up inside me. Then, suddenly, for an entire
minute at least, nothing on earth could have been more detestable than this creature I had known
by the tag “Sopi.” Sophio Arimuhanan, Attorney at law, importer-exporter (parenthetically) of
Brides and, double parenthesis please, of brides who cuckolded their husbands right from the
start. In this instance, the husband in question was actually a Social Security number, a monthly
check, an airline ticket.
And I was angry because I couldn’t say all this, because even if that were possible it
would be out of place. I didn’t have the right; I didn’t understand what the issues were. I was to
know about the matter of pride later. And Sopi had to explain. It was galling to have him do that.
But at that moment I didn’t realize he had been saying something else to me. “This Alice
she’s hairdresser. She’ll be a success here. Easily. You know where we found her? Remember?
Where did we find her, lolo?” The old man remembered, and his eyes were smiling.
“In Central Market. You know those stalls. If you happen to be of guard, you can get
pulled away from the sidewalk and dragged into some shop for a what do you call it here? A
blow jobs!
The old man smiled, as if to say, “I know, I know . . .” “We tried to look up her people
afterwards. Not that this was necessary. She’s of age. But we did look anyway. She had no
people any more to worry over, it turned out,” Sopi went on. “She did have somebody who
claimed to be aunt, o something sold tripe and liver at the meat section. She wanted some money,
didn’t she lolo?” “Ya, ya,” the old man said. “All they ask money. Everyone.” And there must
have been something exhausting about recalling all that. I saw a cloud of weariness pass over his
face. “But we fix that, didn’t we? “Ya ya.” Said the od man. “Then there was the young man. A
real obstacle, this taxi driver boy. Tony by name, “Sopi turned to me as if to suggest that I had
not truly appreciated the role he played. “We knew Tony only from the photograph Alice carried
around in her purse. But he was as good as present in the flesh all the time. The way Alice
insisted that the old man take him on as a nephew; and I had to get the papers through. Quite a
hassle, that part. It’s all over now; isn’t it, lolo?” “Ya, ya,” said the old man. “I owe nothing now
to nobody. A thousand dollars that was, no?” “A thousand three hundred,” said Sopi. “What
happened? You’ve forgotten!” “You short by three hundred? I get check book. You wait.” Said
the old man. “There’s where he keeps all his money” Sopi said to me.
He meant the old bureau, a Salvation Army piece against the clapboard wall obviously
Sopi knew the old man in and out. “No need for that, lolo. It’s all paid for,” he said.
The old man’s eyes brightened again. “I remember now!”
Plot:
The short story “The Tomato Game” is about how NVM Gonzales reminisce his
experience in Sacramento Valley – taking to the old man and Sopi. He then also puts an
emphasis on how the use of machinery in harvesting tomatoes differ from harvesting with the
use of manual labor. However, the old man’s dream of becoming a lawyer wasn’t able to be
attained for he doesn’t suit that profession. Hence, Sopi did.

Characters:
1. Old man – Sopi’s grandfather
2. Sopi – lawyer
3. Alice – Sopi’s handiwork, a twenty-three-year-old woman
4. Tony - a young boy sent to school by the old man
5. Greg Padua – the one whom NVM Gonzales wrote the letter for

Setting:
1. Summer
2. America
3. Sacramento valley
4. Transpacifica University

Theme (Moral Lesson):

“Technological advancements can never replace the man’s power.”

Summary: