For months following the death of his father, the boy did not sleep. Not a single wink for a single hour, every day, every week, every month for almost a year.
No doctor or hospital could help six-year-old Rico, and every time the doctors asked the boy what was bothering him, if he felt pain, tiredness or anything at all, he only stared at them. His big sleepless eyes shifted from person to person. Not a word, just a nod to indicate vague discomfort or mute approval. The tabloids and sensational TV news went wild. For weeks Rico was the talk of the town, or rather, he was on national TV, in newspapers, the topic of gossipy talk shows and public jokes. ‘’Rico, the Boy Who Cannot Sleep,’’ the headlines said. It was more spectacle than sympathy, and the media acted like circus barkers announcing the newest carnival attraction.
Rico lived in Kasipagan, a sprawling shanty town on the dusty margins of the asphalt jungle city of M. He lived with his brother June; two years older than him. Their aunt Myrna, their father’s younger sister, took the orphaned boys. Myrna was behind Rico’s unfortunate fame. She called a radio station for urgent help when the kid stayed wide awake for weeks. Out of desperation or calculated gain, Myrna sought the media’s intervention. With four kids of her own and a sickly husband, she had to find ways to feed two extra mouths.
Police officers killed Myrna’s brother Rogelio in a drug raid. He was only 29. A tricycle driver, Rogelio paid a daily ‘’boundary’’ fee or daily rent of four hundred pesos to the operator Chang Zhu. With the coding system that restricted tricycle drivers to work for only three days a week, Rogelio could barely feed his family. He would be lucky to bring home three hundred pesos at day’s end.
Gloria, Rogelio’s wife, did the laundry of students to augment the family’s income. For a few pesos per kilo of dirty laundry, she would work for 10 to 15 students every day. Water was scarce in Kasipagan, and Gloria would queue at a communal faucet as early as five in the morning, carrying water buckets back and forth. June helped his mother with the laundry. If the baranggay tanod or village overseers would allow it, Gloria would be lucky to do the laundry near the communal faucet. This rarely happened. The neighbor complained that others would follow suit and soon the narrow alley would be blocked by buckets of wet laundry and people taking their baths.
The family lived in a cardboard-and-lawanit (thin wood) construction, not very different from other houses in Kasipagan. But the family’s hut was smaller and flimsier. They were newcomers in Kasipagan. Invisible as it may seem to outsiders, there is an order to the ramshackle collection of shanty houses. It was an unspoken rule that newcomers could not tap from an existing electric outlet and build permanent structures. A cement post or wall is a no-go, a reminder that one’s status is temporary, and that one can be uprooted anytime depending on the whims of bureaucracy, weather, and fortune. Newcomers are the lowest in the pecking order, their roofs made of discarded metal, the walls a collection of thin wood, plastic, and cardboard. A small piece of rusty aluminum is a bonus, enough to shield one from pouring rain and the scorching sun, but not from the marauding mosquitoes and the hordes of rats and cockroaches that can move more freely than their human hosts.
Rogelio and Gloria migrated from the south, and for them, a one-room shelter all to themselves and their two boys was good enough. Their shanty was a luxury compared to the time when they, still childless, lived on the streets of M; those were the long difficult months when they sought shelter under bridges, on street corners, the dark back alleys, moving from corner to street corner, and the public parks and back to empty lots littered with construction dump
and assorted debris.
In their hometown, Rogelio had done all the back-breaking work since he was twelve when he dropped out of school. He toiled for far less in rice fields, and when that did not pay enough, he worked in the slaughterhouses, at the port, in construction, garages, and stores. He worked as a delivery boy, a kargador, a market vendor, and a tricycle driver. Since most of his earnings were siphoned back to his family, he would be fortunate to buy a pair of pants. He would not even have three full meals a day until he met Gloria, the lived-in housemaid of the owner of the tricycle he rented. She helped him in little ways. A meal, some extra cash, but his pride would get in the way. They also dreamt of going to the big city, leaving the misery in their island village, and perhaps, fulfill a grander dream, moving to M up north, the capital city where they, too, could experience the bright lights of urban life they often saw on TV.
Their first few weeks in the city of M was hell. After traveling for nearly two days by bus and ferry boat, they ended up at the bus station where they spent their first few nights. Never mind the diesel fumes, and the crowds, they were in the city. They had each other and their young hopeful love. At that time, whatever curved ball was thrown at them, it seemed it could be endured for a little more, perhaps a month or a year until some stroke of good luck would give them the break that they deserved.
Work to the bone, crush the knuckles was Rogelio’s dictum. In mindset and purpose, he was a fanatic. The Chinese who immigrated from more remote places reaped their rewards only after years of disciplined work. Wouldn’t people succeed if they persevered?
Rogelio plied the streets for passengers from five in the morning, took a thirty-minute nap at noon, and would start again at one in the afternoon until he could earn the four hundred pesos rent and pay a couple of hundred more for the fuel. If at five he would run short, he would continue beyond six in the evening, until around eleven at night, to earn an extra one-hundred and fifty or two hundred pesos. Each cent counted, which meant that every minute, every hour counted.
Despite his best efforts, especially when traffic was bad, he often ran short of cash. He would work up to midnight or up to two in the morning. Competition was tough. He would ask Chang to rent him another tricycle for other coded days. But in no time his debts to Chang piled up. Gloria helped and coughed up the needed cash. With two boys to feed, and with almost nothing saved by week’s end, Rogelio worked on Saturdays and Sundays. Most days he worked more than sixteen hours with only five hours of sleep or less. And yet all his labors were not enough. He felt he was feeding a monster whose hunger was fierce and limitless; the odds were against him and his family. The curved balls rained on, hitting hard and fast not only him and Gloria but also the boys. June was old enough to begin school, but Gloria needed the boy to help with the laundry.
Not long after, Rogelio, with the prodding from other tricycle drivers, started to use cheap shabu. He needed to stay wide awake. At first, he got the stuff for “free:” from one of the more enterprising tricycle boys. Eventually, he was asked to “donate” for his supply. It made him alert and confident and convinced him that he could go beyond the limits of his own body. At least he could extend a few more hours, enabling him to begin at four in the morning until way past midnight. Gloria complained that he didn’t have time for his two boys and no longer paid any attention to them. And don’t you tell me you’re not using that — For Christ’s sake, don’t fuck up our family!
Gloria had a point, Rogelio admitted to himself. But what choice did he have? The habit persisted for weeks and months. A year later, he could no longer take himself off the stuff; it was like a rope coiled tight around his neck. He craved for the drug as much as he craved for the dream to provide for his family and succeed. The streets grew tougher and more hostile. The war on drugs escalated, a war that sent chills to everyone in Kasipagan, including those who had nothing to do with drugs.
Word spread fast. The tricycle boys were called “Night Addicts” and were the first to feel the heat. The label stuck to all tricycle drivers, guilty or not. What was once an open secret, and a necessary habit became a badge of notoriety. Everyone was suspect, man, woman, and child. The police and their barangay accomplices became more resourceful and aggressive and detained anyone who could help pinpoint the guilty. People were rounded up, jailed, gunned down.
Those who wanted to avoid suspicion connived with the police. In the narrow alleys of Kasipagan where you could hear neighbors behind thin walls, and where every move was whispered about, Rogelio felt the livid breath of the anti-drug warriors on his neck. He tried to stop the habit but failed; it made his work more difficult. Without the drug, he was unfocused, and he felt sleepy when driving. Passengers complained he was slow and reckless. He was prone to accidents. A heavy load bore down on him, but he could not reach out to Gloria. She became more remote and angry by the day. In his mind, he only remembered her long list of complaints. What to do? Rogelio had run out of answers.
It was after a long day when he came home, exhausted, at four in the morning. He slept for five hours and woke up with only Rico by his side. Gloria and June were already out for the day’s laundry. A headache pounded his head as if billiard balls were exploding in his brain. He tried to stand. The floor swayed under his feet like a Ferris wheel. He stared at Rico. The boy grew a head bigger than a basketball. He heard noises outside, frantic shouts. People were running. Precisely at the exact moment that he tried to sit up, the door opened, and two men barged in and shouted at him while pulling something from their hips— TAK! TAK! TAK!
Rico saw the guns. Loud bangs and shouts entered the boy’s ears, and a series of short explosions that boomed inside the child’s guts ran through his lungs, his heart, and raced into his veins, popped into the spaces behind his eyes, and filled his retinas with static noise. His father lay prostrate on the bloodied mat, a limp arm flung to one side, his face a twisted mess of blood, torn flesh, and exposed bone.
The boy froze. He stared first at his father, then at the two men who towered above him, the barrels of their guns pitch-black like unseeing eyes. They searched Rogelio’s empty pockets, grunted vague words, and made noises with their boots, clicked their guns. They fixed their gaze on Rico. He clutched a pillow, not a squeak escaped his tiny body. Except for his shallow breathing. Without Rico’s measured breath, the boy could have been a stone dwarf who stared at burly men, their faces partially covered by camouflage khaki masks.
The men left the shanty and joined their companions outside who shouted more indignities to anyone who could hear. Not a single soul loitered in the narrow alley. No one dared to come out. All the cardboard houses were shuttered.
High above, a jet plane hummed and made its way across a clear cobalt sky, leaving diesel fumes behind, its tail bleeding a thick trail of woolly cotton.
WHEN NEWS REACHED Gloria that four people were gunned down in Kasipagan, she and June rushed back home. They found Rico alone, sitting on the bloodied mat, the seat of his pants soaked with urine. The boy did not show any trace of restlessness. He stared, wordless, and nodded at his mother and June.
The police took the bodies of Rogelio and three other tricycle drivers to the morgue. Without the money to pay for her husband’s burial, Gloria borrowed money from Chang. To pay back her debts, she worked hard in the following weeks and doubled the load of her daily laundry. She worked late nights and took odd jobs. She never spoke about the murder. It was as if Rogelio never existed.
The two boys were often on their own. At night, they could hear their mother’s soft moaning, and they would crawl to her, sleep beside her, absorbing the heat of her bent body. Gloria barely spoke and once when Myrna visited to check on them, Gloria refused to say anything. She only complained that she slept poorly and often had headaches, and pains that she could not explain. She had no appetite and lost a lot of weight.
But she continued her daily labor, more intense than ever, dragging her haggard body from morning to late nights. Barely a month after Rogelio’s death, the neighbors found Gloria’s lifeless body beside a big pile of laundry. Apparently, according to the neighbors, she died of extreme exhaustion. She was twenty-four.
Myrna cared for the boys, but with her own family to feed, there was hardly enough money. Food was always scarce despite her eldest son, ten-year-old Danilo, who roamed the streets to collect plastic bottles.
The boys got along well with Myrna’s children but at night she noticed that Rico would sit up, not saying a word. While everyone was fast asleep, the boy sat and stared for hours. Motionless like a shadow, the boy stared deep into the night as if daring the darkness to talk back. It sent chills to Myrna’s bones, the way Rico fixed his eyes on something unseen, far away.
The neighbors prodded Myrna to bring the boy to a faith healer, but the old man who gave relief to the sick and dying could not find anything wrong with Rico. His potions and incense stones did not help, nor his prayers to the dead to forgive the living. It was after many sessions with the faith healer that Myrna finally sought the help of the radio station. After the broadcast the station was inundated with calls. There were countless media interviews with Myrna and her family, and more importantly, the consultations and physical exams with doctors and specialists.
Rico was moved to a clinic for observation, and poked by health experts, his case analyzed by academics. He was cuddled in photo-ops by politicians and queried by psychologists and psychiatrists. With little results. The boy and his body did not reveal his secret. He spoke a few words, nodded a polite yes to a question, or refused to talk at times like any normal kid when bored or puzzled by all the fussy attention. His weight, growth, and health were examined in detail. Blood counts were normal, and no tumors or alarming symptoms were detected. The doctors found his physical condition satisfactory, although he was undernourished. The more the experts queried, the more Rico seemed to withdraw.
Above all, the doctors were baffled as to why Rico did not show signs of exhaustion after months without sleep. They attached detectors to his head, scanned his body, X-rayed his bones, and subjected his mental capacities to numerous tests. A social worker suggested that they bring the boy back to his environment. Perhaps, familiar surroundings would unlock the trauma. But the experts were equally divided on this point. Already left-leaning politicians have picked up the case of Rico as a prime example of the sordidness of the President’s drug war.
‘’What would you like, Rico? Go back to your home?’’ the social worker said.
The boy nodded.
The next day, Myrna and the social worker brought Rico and June back to their home. The first night was uneventful. The boys went to bed. As Myrna expected, Rico sat up and stared into the night. It was the 12th month, a week before the day Rogelio was gunned down. The following morning, June woke up and found his brother sitting atop the metal roof of their house.
Rico stared beyond the roofs of the shanty houses, the rays of the early morning sun lit up his young face. June sat beside him and tousled the hair of his brother. He pulled Rico closer, rubbing Rico’s back and shoulder. They looked up at a clear sky. Not far down below, people started their day, and doors, and windows were opened. Someone sneezed, a man picked up his garbage can, and an elderly woman carrying a wicker basket limped down the narrow alleys. Kasipagan stirred into life.
June heard it above the distant hum of passing cars. First, a soft giggle. Then a longer, looser chuckle. Rico was laughing, his eyes soft and wet, squinting at the sun. He was almost tearful— uncontrolled mirth seized the boy and shook his body. Hehehehehe, heeheeheeeheehee, hahahahahahahahaha…
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHaaaaHHHH.
On and on it went and it seemed to come from deep within the small body of his brother. A long spasm of pure laughter, golden in the first rays of the day.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAHAHAHA…. Long and sustained, a delight that flowed and sparkled, a river of sound, waves of HAHAHAHAHA that rolled into wide ripples, unfolding each time into fatter gales of glee, defying even the wind that brushed against their warm bodies. June joined his brother and together the two boys laughed without a care.
Hahahahahahahahahahahhaaaaa. People took notice. They looked up and saw the brothers, arm in arm atop the metal roof. Hahahahahahahahaha– a single, unbroken cord of sound that stopped people in their tracks, and made them catch their breath for a second. Even the thieving doves halted in mid-flight and returned to roost. The clear and robust laughter flowed on, tumbled, cascaded and looped high above the boys’ heads, circled the derelict shanty town of Kasipagan, and swooped and echoed through the dust and smog in the city of M.
Later that day, for the first time in three hundred and sixty days, Rico slept the sleep of kings.
