Rainbows in the Gasoline
Zita
The metal handle of the shopping cart felt cool and smooth under her clammy palms, and her footsteps were in sync with the rise and fall of its wheels. A strange, yet comforting rhythm in her ears. She fingered the slight bulge in her pocket, the wad of peso bills that her Inay had given to her early in the morning.
Zita was grocery shopping today, and her young, oriental face brightened at the thought of it. She looked around at the familiar sights of the supermarket; the stark overhead lights, the pristine white floor, and rows and rows of shelves stacked high with various commercial products. And there was the sound too; the chattering of the people going about their own daily routines, the beeping and monotone printing of the counter machines, the squeaks of rubber rolling against the tiles, and the bouncy pop song playing in the background. And how could she forget the smells? Most overpowering was that of food, most of it packaged and preserved yet prompting her stomach to protest in hunger because of the wonderful aroma; the scent was sharpened further by the coldness of the air condition and flowery smell of the detergent used to clean its façade.
She took in all of these little details, and had to stop in her stride, close her eyes, and smile softly. She couldn’t help it; this bustling place was like home to her, for in nowhere else does she feel so content (useful), so happy (like she was doing something productive in her life).
Trying to snap out of the serene moment, she opened her eyes, her lips still curved at the edges from barely contained delight, and checked her mental list of things to buy. Her only assignment came up: dinner!
What should she purchase for supper tonight? How about doing a full-course meal? Okay then, better start with… oh yes, appetizer.
She browsed the selections: lumpiang shanghai, filled with herbs and meat, seasoned, to be dipped in sweet and sour; onion rings, the crispy starch gleaming with oil tasting of marvelous fattiness; or perhaps a salad, with leafy greens and slices of egg and cucumber, topped with croutons, with a vinegar dressing?
How about the soup? Would it be mushroom, crab and corn, chicken noodle, asparagus…?
Oh, and the main dish! Steamed tilapia fish stuffed with tomatoes and garlic; grilled chicken with gravy sauce; or a delectable meal of dinuguan, also known as blood curry?
And who could forget about the dessert? The flavors of ice cream (mango or rocky road or avocado or ube or just plain old vanilla), what kind of cake (chocolate mousse, black forest supreme, peanut butter cream) or just some halo-halo?
By the time she finished going through her choices, her cart was already full to the brim with all kinds of food, and she realized that maybe the money she brought wouldn’t be enough to pay for all of it. She reached into her pocket and unfolded the bills, and then…
The bills were wet.
So was her hand.
And so was the rest of her.
And the bills… they’ve disappeared!
Or maybe they were never there in the first place.
The store dematerialized before her, washed away by the splash of water when a passing car drove over a puddle in the gray and polluted streets of Manila.
All that was left now was a Filipino street child nicknamed Zita by the doctors who took her from her mother, who died right after giving birth, her ratty clothes soaked to the bone and frail body reeking of a thousand days spent without bathing, her hands grasping at the old wooden cart containing the leftover food she salvaged from the large community garbage cans and the remnants of her fantasy.
And right on cue, a well-known hollow, aching feeling settled in the pits of her stomach as hot, salty streams descended her gaunt and dirty face.
Zita was grocery shopping today, and her young, oriental face brightened at the thought of it. She looked around at the familiar sights of the supermarket; the stark overhead lights, the pristine white floor, and rows and rows of shelves stacked high with various commercial products. And there was the sound too; the chattering of the people going about their own daily routines, the beeping and monotone printing of the counter machines, the squeaks of rubber rolling against the tiles, and the bouncy pop song playing in the background. And how could she forget the smells? Most overpowering was that of food, most of it packaged and preserved yet prompting her stomach to protest in hunger because of the wonderful aroma; the scent was sharpened further by the coldness of the air condition and flowery smell of the detergent used to clean its façade.
She took in all of these little details, and had to stop in her stride, close her eyes, and smile softly. She couldn’t help it; this bustling place was like home to her, for in nowhere else does she feel so content (useful), so happy (like she was doing something productive in her life).
Trying to snap out of the serene moment, she opened her eyes, her lips still curved at the edges from barely contained delight, and checked her mental list of things to buy. Her only assignment came up: dinner!
What should she purchase for supper tonight? How about doing a full-course meal? Okay then, better start with… oh yes, appetizer.
She browsed the selections: lumpiang shanghai, filled with herbs and meat, seasoned, to be dipped in sweet and sour; onion rings, the crispy starch gleaming with oil tasting of marvelous fattiness; or perhaps a salad, with leafy greens and slices of egg and cucumber, topped with croutons, with a vinegar dressing?
How about the soup? Would it be mushroom, crab and corn, chicken noodle, asparagus…?
Oh, and the main dish! Steamed tilapia fish stuffed with tomatoes and garlic; grilled chicken with gravy sauce; or a delectable meal of dinuguan, also known as blood curry?
And who could forget about the dessert? The flavors of ice cream (mango or rocky road or avocado or ube or just plain old vanilla), what kind of cake (chocolate mousse, black forest supreme, peanut butter cream) or just some halo-halo?
By the time she finished going through her choices, her cart was already full to the brim with all kinds of food, and she realized that maybe the money she brought wouldn’t be enough to pay for all of it. She reached into her pocket and unfolded the bills, and then…
The bills were wet.
So was her hand.
And so was the rest of her.
And the bills… they’ve disappeared!
Or maybe they were never there in the first place.
The store dematerialized before her, washed away by the splash of water when a passing car drove over a puddle in the gray and polluted streets of Manila.
All that was left now was a Filipino street child nicknamed Zita by the doctors who took her from her mother, who died right after giving birth, her ratty clothes soaked to the bone and frail body reeking of a thousand days spent without bathing, her hands grasping at the old wooden cart containing the leftover food she salvaged from the large community garbage cans and the remnants of her fantasy.
And right on cue, a well-known hollow, aching feeling settled in the pits of her stomach as hot, salty streams descended her gaunt and dirty face.