Story for Musemuggers Challenge #431
musemuggers prompt here, option 1
This turned out to be more of a character study than a story. The prompt is also only tangentially referred to. ^^; Oh well.
Notes about Filipino terms and stuff come after the story.
The cards were often about death.
Mary Ann had nothing against death. When her Uncle Deo died and left the Practice to her she'd kept it up dutifully, as if nothing had changed. The cards kept coming, and she sorted them into piles before putting them in their designated boxes. Sometimes, when the work was slow and she was feeling lonely, she'd pick up a card at random and try to imagine what her Uncle would say.
The card she picked up that day had a funeral wreath in front, with the words "Our Condolences" in elegant black script. "Ah, a wreath," her Uncle would say, in his deep, sonorous voice. "A symbol of permanence, a never-ending cycle sacred since the dawn of time. Our Practice has been around for centuries, hija, and it is our responsibility to make sure the dead go to their rightful place. It is a duty that only we can perform." She longed to hear his voice again; the office was large and empty without his voice, his warmth. She hugged herself, then put the card back in its pile. She had work to do.
***
The streets of Las Naranjas were slick with the recent rains. It was a city of subdivisions and schools and malls; Mary Ann often took a jeepney, then a tricycle or two, to get to her destinations. In her jeans and cheap t-shirts, she looked like an average young woman, on her way to visit a friend. In a way, she considered her prospective clients as friends; they were the only friends she had left.
The day's client was a rich man, a middle manager who lived in BG Homes. He was throwing a party for his son's wedding at the subdivision's club house; the wide street swarmed with cars, each one bigger and flashier than the last. The tricycle Mary Ann rode had to drop her off a few houses away; she paid her fare, then made a sign with her fingers. The tricycle driver blinked a few times before heading back to the terminal.
Mary Ann had dressed for the occasion. She wore the conservative white dress her mother had made for her when she was accepted into the Practice; around her neck hung her mother's string of pearls, the most expensive thing she owned. She smiled at the personal drivers who stood waiting near the gates. They paid her no heed, as if they couldn't see her.
The party was in full swing: guests were drinking and laughing in the garden, and there was music from a string quartet. She picked up a few canapes and a glass of champagne from the buffet table. Members of the Practice were traditionally owed a small meal in exchange for their services, but Mary Ann was usually too shy to ask for it outright. She felt fortunate that she could sample some fancy things that night, before she performed her duty. Often she had to subsist on canned sardines; sometimes, when she was feeling extravagant, she'd go to the supermarket near her office and buy herself a large, juicy Fuji apple.
Her client was dancing with his son's new bride. He was a corpulent man, yet he danced with a grace that rivaled that of his partner. Mary Ann wished she had a phone with a camera, or better yet a video camera; she wanted to capture the dancing while it lasted. Soon her client would stop, complaining of chest pain, then he would wander towards the club house restrooms after asking for his medicine from his wife. It was all written in the card in the small handbag tucked under her arm.
She watched the new daughter-in-law find her way to her husband, who was drinking with his buddies near the string quartet. Mary Ann had been working in the Practice for ten years; she already had a sense for how the lives of people played out. Her Uncle Deo called it pakikiramdam, the art of feeling one's way around the threads that held individual fates together. She knew what the newlyweds' life would be like: the husband would spend his nights drinking and carousing with his buddies, while the wife would spend too many hours at work until she got pregnant, after which she would never work again. They would fight and reconcile over and over, until finally the wife would call it quits when she discovers that the husband has been having an affair for over a year. The husband would never be in another serious relationship, whereas the wife would remarry and move to Australia. Mary Ann expected the husband to be her client in thirty years' time, give or take. Liver failure.
Her client had already left the garden. She took another sip of champagne before putting the glass down on the buffet table. She hesitated for a moment, then picked up a little cup of fruit salad; she finished it in three heaped spoonfuls. She wished she had more time to savor the sugary flavor of condensed milk and fruit syrup. Then, feeling somewhat self-conscious, she picked up a paper napkin and dabbed it at the corners of her mouth. Once she'd had a turon vendor for a client; she'd bought a turon from him and eaten it in front of him - she hadn't eaten in two days - and he'd had a heart attack while she still had flecks of deep-fried turon wrapper around her mouth. The vendor had laughed at her as, blushing, she escorted him to the Next Life. She'd been scrupulous about her appearance in front of her clients since then.
She made her way amid the guests and entered the club house. Her heels clicked on the polished floor; she walked carefully, afraid that she'd slip and fall before she got to the restrooms. She knew that her client would die in the men's restroom, and that no one was around save for the two of them, yet she took a deep breath before going inside. There was a first time for everything.
He lay slumped on the floor, one arm stretched out towards a bottle of pills lying on its side. His eyes were trained on her as she pushed open the door; there was no fear or surprise in them at all. Mary Ann felt embarrassed.
"I've been waiting for you," he said, then added, "You look rather young, hija."
Mary Ann blushed. No one had called her hija since her Uncle Deo died. She stumbled over the words of her prepared script. "Um. Thank you. Mr. Tuazon. I'm your escort. It's time to go."
"Going to a club in the sky, are we?" said Mr. Tuazon. He winked at her as he took her arm and stepped over his body. "Can we stay and watch? I want to see my wife's face when she sees me." There were echoes of strong feeling in his voice. Mary Ann knew they wouldn't last; before long he'd forget his own name.
"No, Mr. Tuazon." She led him past the guests - no one looked at them, though Mr. Tuazon stared at them all - and out the gates, into the street. The evening air was brisk, and Mary Ann's skin broke out in goosebumps. She always felt cold whenever she did her duty.
A black tricycle appeared on one end of the street; it sped towards them with a subdued purring noise instead of the usual raucous bursts from normal tricycle engines. When it pulled up in front of them, Mary Ann ushered Mr. Tuazon into the passenger's sidecar, then sat side-saddle behind the driver. She handed him two pesos. The driver, an impossibly old man with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, accepted the fare with a bony hand and nodded.
"Let's go, Ka Matayan," she said.
They sped off without another word.
---
Notes:
hija - In the Philippines older people (usually older relatives, or family friends) sometimes address a girl they're talking to as hija. It means "daughter" in Spanish.
jeepney - Jeepneys are the main mode of transportation within a city in the Philippines.
tricycle - Tricycles are basically small motorcycles with sidecars welded onto the right side. They often serve as a means of transportation from a main road to the less accessible roads of a subdivision.
pakikiramdam - Literally means "to feel one's way around." In my usage, it means that Mary Ann is able to "feel" the way a person's life will unfold, all the way until he or she dies.
turon - A popular street snack. Consists of slices of saba bananas wrapped in lumpia (spring roll) wrapper, coated in brown sugar and deep fried.
Ka Matayan - A pun on kamatayan (death), and the custom of prepending "Ka" to the name of an elder out of respect.
This turned out to be more of a character study than a story. The prompt is also only tangentially referred to. ^^; Oh well.
Notes about Filipino terms and stuff come after the story.
The cards were often about death.
Mary Ann had nothing against death. When her Uncle Deo died and left the Practice to her she'd kept it up dutifully, as if nothing had changed. The cards kept coming, and she sorted them into piles before putting them in their designated boxes. Sometimes, when the work was slow and she was feeling lonely, she'd pick up a card at random and try to imagine what her Uncle would say.
The card she picked up that day had a funeral wreath in front, with the words "Our Condolences" in elegant black script. "Ah, a wreath," her Uncle would say, in his deep, sonorous voice. "A symbol of permanence, a never-ending cycle sacred since the dawn of time. Our Practice has been around for centuries, hija, and it is our responsibility to make sure the dead go to their rightful place. It is a duty that only we can perform." She longed to hear his voice again; the office was large and empty without his voice, his warmth. She hugged herself, then put the card back in its pile. She had work to do.
***
The streets of Las Naranjas were slick with the recent rains. It was a city of subdivisions and schools and malls; Mary Ann often took a jeepney, then a tricycle or two, to get to her destinations. In her jeans and cheap t-shirts, she looked like an average young woman, on her way to visit a friend. In a way, she considered her prospective clients as friends; they were the only friends she had left.
The day's client was a rich man, a middle manager who lived in BG Homes. He was throwing a party for his son's wedding at the subdivision's club house; the wide street swarmed with cars, each one bigger and flashier than the last. The tricycle Mary Ann rode had to drop her off a few houses away; she paid her fare, then made a sign with her fingers. The tricycle driver blinked a few times before heading back to the terminal.
Mary Ann had dressed for the occasion. She wore the conservative white dress her mother had made for her when she was accepted into the Practice; around her neck hung her mother's string of pearls, the most expensive thing she owned. She smiled at the personal drivers who stood waiting near the gates. They paid her no heed, as if they couldn't see her.
The party was in full swing: guests were drinking and laughing in the garden, and there was music from a string quartet. She picked up a few canapes and a glass of champagne from the buffet table. Members of the Practice were traditionally owed a small meal in exchange for their services, but Mary Ann was usually too shy to ask for it outright. She felt fortunate that she could sample some fancy things that night, before she performed her duty. Often she had to subsist on canned sardines; sometimes, when she was feeling extravagant, she'd go to the supermarket near her office and buy herself a large, juicy Fuji apple.
Her client was dancing with his son's new bride. He was a corpulent man, yet he danced with a grace that rivaled that of his partner. Mary Ann wished she had a phone with a camera, or better yet a video camera; she wanted to capture the dancing while it lasted. Soon her client would stop, complaining of chest pain, then he would wander towards the club house restrooms after asking for his medicine from his wife. It was all written in the card in the small handbag tucked under her arm.
She watched the new daughter-in-law find her way to her husband, who was drinking with his buddies near the string quartet. Mary Ann had been working in the Practice for ten years; she already had a sense for how the lives of people played out. Her Uncle Deo called it pakikiramdam, the art of feeling one's way around the threads that held individual fates together. She knew what the newlyweds' life would be like: the husband would spend his nights drinking and carousing with his buddies, while the wife would spend too many hours at work until she got pregnant, after which she would never work again. They would fight and reconcile over and over, until finally the wife would call it quits when she discovers that the husband has been having an affair for over a year. The husband would never be in another serious relationship, whereas the wife would remarry and move to Australia. Mary Ann expected the husband to be her client in thirty years' time, give or take. Liver failure.
Her client had already left the garden. She took another sip of champagne before putting the glass down on the buffet table. She hesitated for a moment, then picked up a little cup of fruit salad; she finished it in three heaped spoonfuls. She wished she had more time to savor the sugary flavor of condensed milk and fruit syrup. Then, feeling somewhat self-conscious, she picked up a paper napkin and dabbed it at the corners of her mouth. Once she'd had a turon vendor for a client; she'd bought a turon from him and eaten it in front of him - she hadn't eaten in two days - and he'd had a heart attack while she still had flecks of deep-fried turon wrapper around her mouth. The vendor had laughed at her as, blushing, she escorted him to the Next Life. She'd been scrupulous about her appearance in front of her clients since then.
She made her way amid the guests and entered the club house. Her heels clicked on the polished floor; she walked carefully, afraid that she'd slip and fall before she got to the restrooms. She knew that her client would die in the men's restroom, and that no one was around save for the two of them, yet she took a deep breath before going inside. There was a first time for everything.
He lay slumped on the floor, one arm stretched out towards a bottle of pills lying on its side. His eyes were trained on her as she pushed open the door; there was no fear or surprise in them at all. Mary Ann felt embarrassed.
"I've been waiting for you," he said, then added, "You look rather young, hija."
Mary Ann blushed. No one had called her hija since her Uncle Deo died. She stumbled over the words of her prepared script. "Um. Thank you. Mr. Tuazon. I'm your escort. It's time to go."
"Going to a club in the sky, are we?" said Mr. Tuazon. He winked at her as he took her arm and stepped over his body. "Can we stay and watch? I want to see my wife's face when she sees me." There were echoes of strong feeling in his voice. Mary Ann knew they wouldn't last; before long he'd forget his own name.
"No, Mr. Tuazon." She led him past the guests - no one looked at them, though Mr. Tuazon stared at them all - and out the gates, into the street. The evening air was brisk, and Mary Ann's skin broke out in goosebumps. She always felt cold whenever she did her duty.
A black tricycle appeared on one end of the street; it sped towards them with a subdued purring noise instead of the usual raucous bursts from normal tricycle engines. When it pulled up in front of them, Mary Ann ushered Mr. Tuazon into the passenger's sidecar, then sat side-saddle behind the driver. She handed him two pesos. The driver, an impossibly old man with sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, accepted the fare with a bony hand and nodded.
"Let's go, Ka Matayan," she said.
They sped off without another word.
---
Notes:
hija - In the Philippines older people (usually older relatives, or family friends) sometimes address a girl they're talking to as hija. It means "daughter" in Spanish.
jeepney - Jeepneys are the main mode of transportation within a city in the Philippines.
tricycle - Tricycles are basically small motorcycles with sidecars welded onto the right side. They often serve as a means of transportation from a main road to the less accessible roads of a subdivision.
pakikiramdam - Literally means "to feel one's way around." In my usage, it means that Mary Ann is able to "feel" the way a person's life will unfold, all the way until he or she dies.
turon - A popular street snack. Consists of slices of saba bananas wrapped in lumpia (spring roll) wrapper, coated in brown sugar and deep fried.
Ka Matayan - A pun on kamatayan (death), and the custom of prepending "Ka" to the name of an elder out of respect.