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WEEK NO. 5 6 - Six From Downtown by Dean Alfar
WEEK NO. 5 6 - Six From Downtown by Dean Alfar
At a precise position whose exact oceanic location was known only to him, my
grandfather would drop the makeshift anchor overboard and organize the fishing lines,
stretching across the span of his arms the very fine filaments he purchased from
American soldiers before they fled the Japanese. When all the preparations were done,
he’d ask me to attach the bait. This was one of the best parts for me because I got to
open the large biscuit tin with the end of a spoon and select a piece of jewelry. I would
scoop out a handful of shiny trinkets and fuss over them, showing off to my grandfather
how seriously I took the task. My favorite bait was a gold scapular embossed with the
image of the Virgin Mary. After I had carefully attached the bait to the line, my
grandfather would always tell me to sit still, watch the sea quietly and be ready with the
net. Then he’d slowly lower the filament into the water, one hand unrolling calculated
measures of length. Sometimes, it took forever for a mermaid to bite, and I remember
thinking that perhaps they had all the jewelry they’d ever need. While waiting, my
grandfather would smoke a thin cigarette between his teeth, flipping it into his mouth
when only the smouldering filter remained, checking once in a while if I had a firm grip
on the wooden handle of the net that was my part in things.
“Be ready at any time,” he’d intone, exhaling smoke into the air laden with salt.
The mermaids we’d catch ranged from two and half to three feet in length. Their
tails, excellent steamed, grilled or boiled with tamarinds, were an iridescent green
flecked with blue points of lights. Halfway up was the bony flesh that was always cast
away after cutting: the torsos were mottled pink and grey, with protruding nubs where
nipples would be; the thin arms ended in four fingers, a filmy web of flesh between each
one. The egg-shaped heads were crowned with pale stringy hair, like the ghosts of
seaweed, covering much of the face that was punctured thrice by tortoise-colored eyes
and a gasping mouth lined with sharp tiny teeth.
“Here’s one,” my grandfather would whisper upon sensing the line grow taut,
before exploding into action, standing up and reining in the filament, hand over hand,
until the mermaid broke the surface of the sea, unwilling to let go of the shiny bait. At
his signal I’d quickly extend the net, making certain to trap the glistening tail, and
together we’d haul the mermaid into the boat, where my grandfather would exchange
the string in one hand for a fire-hardened club and strike at the mermaid’s head until it
stopped moving.
One was usually enough for our large family, but I remember during the times of
fiesta how the sea would be dotted by little boats similar to my grandfather’s, and how
they’d return hours later, pitching low in the water, each with several mermaids.
I stood by the sirena stall and looked over what was offered, fighting the rising
disappointment fueled by the memories of my childhood years. The mermaids lay side
by side and almost haphazardly on top of each other, eyes closed and mouths agape, on
a bed of crushed ice, most of them barely a foot long, some even smaller, and their tails
had only the barest hint of green. Sensing my disquiet, the vendor, a middle-aged man
with a red bandanna and a bulging belly, explained in a lugubrious tone that it was the
lean season, and that all mermaids were that size nowadays.
I purchased the freshest looking one, astounded at the price per kilo, and asked if there
was a place nearby that could grill it for me. The vendor winked and, for one hundred
pesos, offered to cook it himself. I suspected he was overcharging me but gave in when
he agreed to throw in a handful of sea snails for free.
“Finally he says, he says to her, ‘I’m sorry I can’t help you, ma’am”, takes off his
headset, stands up, leaves the call center, drives home, calls his wife’s cell phone and
tells her to come home from school – she was taking her master’s in something, and, get
this, she pregnant with their first child. But I’ll get to that, in a bit. Anyway, when she
arrives, well, when she arrives, he stabs her seventeen times with a kitchen knife.
Seventeen times. I mean, oh my god, right? Then he sits down next to her on the floor
and waits for someone to find them. He just sits there, looking at her, looking at what
he’s done, I guess. Just sits there. That’s when he notices fingers slowly poking out of the
wounds on her stomach. I know, I know. He sits there transfixed or whatever and just
watches his child pull open the wounds and crawl to his dead wife’s tits. Imagine that. I
don’t know what happened next, supposedly the call center helped keep the thing hush-
hush to protect their image, but I don’t know. Obviously, word got out. But it’s not in the
papers though. And you’d think that something like that would make the tabloids at the
very least. I don’t know.”
As I listened to Marie recount the story in her own inimitable way, her eyes
punctuating every detail, every digression, widening, squinting, liquid with the
excitement of sensational tragedy, I felt slightly dizzy. When her hands grasped an
invisible knife and punctured the air between us, repeating the actions of the call center
man, I felt myself bleed, inwardly reeling from the assault as if I were his doomed wife,
coming home to the unexpected violence of kitchen steel. By the time Marie was
finished, I was exhausted, and there was really nothing more to say or do, apart from
picking up my fork and eating the remnants of the turtle pie.
“So, Tom,” Marie asks, checking her watch. “What’s up with you?”
When I hear my music play, I make my way to the darkened stage and take my
position, my back to the audience, hands and legs spread apart, leaning against the wall.
As the vocals rise, the lightshow begins and I start to move, grinding to the thumping
bass line. I turn and move around the stage, working the space to the beat, posing,
strutting, slowly here, faster there. My hands touch my chest, trailing down my abs and
over between my legs.
My face is impassive – I was taught to show nothing, to let the audience imbue
my face with whatever they want – except for my eyes. I look at them, the ones closest to
the stage. I catch the eye of a young woman in the company of friends. I feel the heat of
her gaze, consuming every inch of my body. I dance for her alone, timing my next
motion to a downbeat, suddenly kneeling so close to the woman that she involuntarily
flinches. I raise my hips and seduce the air, running a hand over my chest while
supporting myself with the other.
It uncoils quickly, swollen and pulsing, and I urge it up. The applause that follows
is deafening and I hear my name shouted above the music. I flex my tail down and
sideways, letting it trail down the cold stage floor before twirling it around, slowly at
first, then faster, double beat rhythm, slashing through both the hot air and the
deafening music. Then as I am abruptly trapped in a spotlight, I grab my thickness and
caress the hard muscle, bringing it close to my face and look for the woman I chose to
dance for.
In the darkness that follows, I return to the dressing room, making way for the
next dancer. I cut the rubber bands around my tail with a pair of scissors all the guys
share and feel immediate relief as the blood drains away from the hard muscle.