‘Call me Joey’

His name is Joey. He came to me in the middle of the night as I approached home. Though he was a familiar face, he startled me when out of nowhere he sprung to ask for a cigarette. “Yosi, yosi,” he said, hurrying me. “Lighter, lighter.” And a thick smoke billowed in mid-air.

Everybody in Gulod knows Joey. He roams the street shirtless many times. He has his own world. I don’t know where he spends the night, where he eats, who his family is. But I occasionally see him or bump into him every weekend that I am in Cabuyao. He is a “personality” in our sleepy barrio. Many people brush him off or just let him be. Kids avoid him even if he means no harm.

There is always a smile on his face when he squints his eyes. There is an almost military cadence in his gait every time he walks. He walks fast. He darts from nowhere. He’s lanky and in the dark he appears taller. It must be his shadow, the shadow of a man perhaps in his thirties.

That night I saw him, he started to speak to me in tongues, sort of. Though audible, his words were indiscernible. But there were times when I could understand him. I heard him say, “Yung paru-paro. Huhuli ako ng paru-paro. Ibibigay ko sa kanya. Sa kanya lang.” I wanted to interrupt him with a question but I reminded myself that on that night, way past midnight, I was a lone spectator.

Joey walked away from me, maintaining a comfortable distance. With just a lamppost to illuminate the scene, I sat by the pavement, by the road, observing Joey. That moment, I was interested in what Joey was about to say or do.

His curly hair was wet, almost dripping. He continued to talk — to the wind. He smiled as he stopped on the side of the street. “May Diyos. Kaibigan ko ang Diyos. Pati si Voltes Five kaibigan ko. Masarap ang dahon. Busog na ako.” Then he laughed. He was impish in his laughter.

He talked to himself. He laughed at himself. Big smokes hovered above him, like phantoms guarding his every move, every word, every smile. He took a big puff. Coughed. Cleared his throat. And from a close distance he looked at me — with a smile.

Joey’s smile was convivial. His teeth were white, they became whiter as his big smile was bordered by his black moustache that was long, untended, unruly. In his eyes lounged emotions of longing for someone to talk to, someone to take him seriously, someone to listen to him.

I listened to Joey’s gibberish. From a distance he was showing off some antics. I just threw him a smile. He continued to talk, most of his speech I did not understand. The floor was all his. I was his captive audience albeit I was laconic in that stance. He made circles of smoke in the air and continued his soliloquy. Then he shouted for a name, as if someone ran past him. Then he laughed. “Sorry, sorry,” he told me. “Sorry, sorry,” he whispered to the wind.

He apologized for disturbing the quiescence of the night. The night remained still as it was wrapped in chills. I opened the gate of our home. Joey did not leave until he lost me in his sight — from a comfortable distance. In silence, I told myself, I earned a new friend.

“Ingat. Good night. Ako si Joey. Tawagin mo akong Joey,” he said. Then, like a bullet, he sped away. I craned my neck to spot even his shadow but Joey was gone.

“God, please bless Joey,” I prayed that night. “And make this one a good night for him.”

* * *

(E-mail me at bumbaki@yahoo.com. I am also on Twitter @bum_tenorio and Instagram @bumtenorio. Have a blessed Sunday!)