ED, HIS DOG, AND THE BALETE TREE

It seems only yesterday when Ed was as big as the world, as wonderful as life. Now, all I see is a shadow of the man he used to be. Gone was the light in his eyes, the vibrant life he used to live. Gone is Whitey now. He is walking with his cane, his gait slow. As I look at him from a distance, I remember the twists of events.

It was 1991 when I started teaching. I left Buguey after a stint in Northeastern Academy. I experienced work in radio and a tabloid during Agui’s time, after which I was hired to teach in college. I have already heard about Ed Mangog since that time. We were renting an apartment in Lecaros. His story cannot match that of Che Guevarra, but enough to arouse my curiosity. They told me he can fight three matons, that he is good with knives, that he is a drunk. Tricycle drivers would veer away when he is in a brawl. He is a local legend, so it seems. Such stories aroused my curiosity. I love goons, maybe because a part of me is also gooney. It was not until 1996 when we transferred to our newly built house (our home now) in Saint Louis Gillage (Gilid ng Village), that we became friends, and glass mates.

 At last, I met him personally. It was fiesta in Cataggaman Nuevo, an Ybanag stronghold, where our village was situated, and he was presiding and lording over a drinking spree. He was big, muscular, a wee bit tall. He has a sense of humor. Rugged in character, he has a tattoo on his left arm, Asero, it reads. He welcomed me with much fanfare. He must have heard of the infamous exploits of this teacher –maton, for he seemed to know some of my escapades. We toasted and drank. We became instantly close. That time, I believed then that he is a good person, only his vices made him crazy at times. He drinks, smokes weed, and visits places only addicts dare to visit. But he is a good welder. He designs steel windows with care. He is also a bolo smith, shaping knives with arabesque designs. Saturday afternoons found me talking to him, and Alling, a mechanic. Ed and Alling are close. We cook insarabasab and we drink gin. He had many stories to tell, much more if Insan Junior would join us. Insan Junior is not really my cousin. It so happened that we share the same middle initial, so, we started calling each other Insan. He is a barangay tanod and a full time tricycle driver. In those colloquia, my wife would smirk. She would tell me Ed is not the type a teacher in college would get acquainted with. But I believe it would be worth it, to know the story of a man, until I shall have written. Never mind the saying, tell me who your friends are, and I will tell you who you are. It’s friendship that matters, to me.

I found out that both of us are fond of dogs. I had Tofen, still a puppy then, and he had a big askal named Jake. He has five puppies. From those five, he loved Whitey the most.

Ed’s kid brother lives in Germany, and in due time, their sisters married German nationals. If they come for vacation, they treat us beer. Ed preferred gin, though, much to the dismay of his brothers in law. They said Ed is drinking fire. But Ed would laugh, and answers back in Ybanag: Porriammun. Ari da ammu uminum. (Never mind. They don’t know how to drink.) That’s what friends are for, I told myself, gulping the fiery concoction. Our friendship was cemented when I got him as ninong during the baptism of Katkat, my second daughter.

As more settlers built their houses in the village, Ed’s welding shop began to grow. He prospered. He started accepting contracts from government offices, even as far as Kalinga. During these stints, we only have our colloquium once a month. He continued living like there’s no tomorrow.

One evening, when my wife was in Manila for a seminar, I had palpitations. I panicked, and ran to Ed’s house, seeing them drinking with Alling. I was surprised when they offered me a drink, instead! I was thinking I could rely on them to rush me to the hospital, thinking we are friends. But that time, Ed was high, from alcohol or weed, or both.

He laughed instead, saying real men don’t suffer from hypertension. I had to hire a tricycle to bring me to the hospital.

When my blood pressure settled to 120/70, same tricycle driver brought me home. We became instant friends. His name is Inte. In my disgust, I told Inte that I sought Ed’s help first, but I was dismayed. Inte said, that Ed is really drunk. In my mind, I refused to accept, for my character would always say friends never leave each other. However, with this incident, I distanced myself with Ed. Inte instead became my sidekick, dropping by the house Friday nights and we guzzle beer for awhile. He became the patient sundo of Celine, my eldest, in West Central, and when Celine graduated, Inte still volunteered to be the sundo of Katkat. I was just amazed when one day, Ed came at home, with many medicines for hypertension and garlic pills. He was sober, and told me to watch my diet. Our friendship bloomed anew.

One afternoon, while we had our usual Friday beer with Inte, we heard a commotion near the street. Somebody was shouting. It was Ed. He was holding a long, glistening bolo. Our neighbors were running. From the looks of it, I noticed he was so drunk. Cars of policemen arrived. They tried to arrest him, but he refused to budge.

Since I am his kumpare, I went to his rescue. I persuaded him to hand me his bolo, which he did. The policemen flocked around him. I asked about the charges. One said destruction of property. Another said assault. As they placed him inside the patrol car, he said: Pare, ilabas mo ako.

After the ruckus was over, I was informed he wrecked all appliances in their ancestral house. Television, refrigerator and chairs were not spared. Eventually, cases were filed against him. I referred the matter to my lawyer-friend. He agreed to represent him. Ed had already spent one week in the city prison.

En route the police station, we agreed that we will raise the bond. Reaching the police station, we saw several men talking to the station commander. One police officer told us a certain colonel was there to help him. This explains the presence of big, sturdy men, their guns hidden by their polo shirt. I learned that Ed is a civilian asset of an intelligence agency, which recruited me later. Unlike him, I was recruited to lecture on report writing and clandestine drop points. These people had been protecting Ed.

I went to Universiti Utara Malaysia for a professorial visit. I was awed at the sight of KL, and I was given a villa and an Audi during my stay there. Unfortunately, I can’t bear the food. It is so spicy. I decided to cook. Well, pork is as rare as gold there, and in my first week, I ran out of cigarette. I haven’t seen any bottle of wine. My driver, Samsudin, has an Israeli friend who smokes, Ghassan. When I met Ghassan in his flat, I was comforted to see he has a ref filled with beer, and boxes of Salem. We became friends. Soon, other international students joined our group. I saw an opportunity to have sideline, teaching English. Nasseer, from Iraq, recruited students. From time to time, I called the kids and my wife. In those calls, they always inform me about Ed. Brawls, I guess, got a share in his life. They also informed me Alling is very sick. From time to time, Naseer and Ghassan would accompany me in the villa. They also organized a send off party after my contract at UUM. Before my flight, I received many gifts, from University professors and international students.

Coming home, I went back to full time teaching, and lecturing around the region. Once in a while, if Ed came after some projects in Kalinga, we find time exchanging stories.

Then one day, while I was in class, I was informed that Ed had a stroke. They have to get him from Kalinga. He was rushed to the hospital. The next day, I had a seminar in Baguio. After a week, I went home and found Ed in serious condition. He cannot talk. He was paralyzed waist down. I brought him some doughnuts and refreshments. His son told me they have to sell Jake, so they can buy medicines. They sold also Ed’s welding machine and acetylene tanks. His fellow civilian agents visited him only once, then one by one they were gone.

Alling died the next month, followed by Insan Junior and still, Ed can’t walk. I persuaded Ed’s brother to help in the therapy sessions. He agreed to shoulder the bill. The therapy did well, for after a month, Ed can now move around, but he can hardly walk. He stammers when talking, and his right arm is limp. His constant companion is Whitey, now a big dog. Whitey would walk slowly, in sync with Ed’s slow gait. Every afternoon, they stay at the deserted waiting shed near the ancient balete tree, watching the passers-by. Master and dog seated on the fading cement, looking at cars and tricycles passing by lanced me through the heart. I became used to the sight, morning and afternoon. I saw to it that I also spare some of my cigarettes for Ed. He has lost weight, and sometimes I see him getting wild kamote tops near the provincial road. With no job, I learned from the neighbors that Ed is close to begging. My wife would give him leftovers from our table. During Christmases, Ed would have his share from Noche Buena and media noche. It became a routine.

There was one time I invited Ed, when Inte and I was having beer. He sat down, and I handed him a cold bottle of beer. Whitey stayed close behind him. We recalled the happier times, as we were amazed how fast days had gone by. When we had three bottles, suddenly, Ed bowed. All I thought he was tipsy.

He was crying. He was sobbing. His shoulders moving and he covered his face with his arms. I could see his tattoo: asero. For what seemed to be an eternity, we were quiet. We can hear the whispers of the breeze. Inte and I can’t speak a word. My dog Tofen was also looking at him.

The gathering dusk became darker. Ed bid us goodbye and said he has yet to cook. He stood leaning on his cane. He slowly stepped, left foot, then right. Whitey followed, as Inte and I looked at them. My dog, Tofen, seemed to understand. He went at the back of the house.

Two weeks after that, we learned from Ifan, our neighbor that some riders stole Whitey. I was angry. I could feel Ed’s loneliness. When I was driving going to school, I saw Ed walking, alone, without the dog. I stopped, pulled over and gave him the pack of cigarette I bought from a nearby store. Without a word, I drove again. 

From the rearview mirror, I could see Ed limping, alone, going to the deserted waiting shed near the ancient balete tree. I know Ed missed Whitey, as I miss the sight of them walking together. True, when all had swayed away from Ed, Whitey remained.

It seems only yesterday when Ed was as big as the world, as wonderful as life. Now, all I see is a shadow of the man he used to be. I breathed deeply. I stepped on the accelerator. I have a lecture in ten minutes.