by TAJ
Carlos couldn't sleep. He could feel the sheets, damp with perspiration, sticking to his skin. Shuttering the windows had served its purpose, keeping out street sounds and the midday sun, but it had also turned his second-floor apartment into a sweatbox. It was another terribly hot day in Manila.Rising from his bed, Carlos reluctantly unlatched the front window and slid open the metal storm cover. A wave of heat and traffic noise gusted in to greet him. As much as he hated wearing a blindfold and ear-plugs, he would just have to use them if he was going to get any rest before work. It was not particularly hard being a night watchman, but he did have to be alert. Walking the rounds of his assigned construction site took twenty minutes out of every hour. The rest of the time was spent sitting at the guard station, getting paid to read magazines and listen to the radio. It was actually quite easy compared to driving jeepneys or trucks, which had been his job for almost thirty years. But it was also quite boring. So the main problem was getting enough sleep on hot days such as this one. Although the head of security left the watchmen pretty much alone, he did conduct spot inspections from time to time. Carlos could not afford to be caught dozing.
With the bedding soiled, the couch in the main room was now the only place to sleep. Carlos went into the bathroom, relieved his bladder, and took two balls of cotton from the medicine cabinet. He also picked out two clean towels, one for an eye-mask and the other to cover the couch. On the way to the main room, he stopped by the foot of the bed and picked up the empty glass jar that he always kept there.
That jar had become an important companion to Carlos over the past year. An abdominal illness had weakened his sphincter, making it necessary for him to use the toilet frequently. Although he remained fit in most other ways, this incontinency had turned his life upside down, limited his movement outside the apartment, and forced him to give up driving. His muscles had gradually become so debilitated, he could no longer work without a toilet nearby. Nor could he trust himself to get to the bathroom fast enough upon waking.
"Not even fifty and already a feeble old man," Carlos mumbled to himself as he placed the empty jar on the floor near the couch. "Urinating in a jar. Unable to sleep. Gray hairs here and there. What a waste you have become, Carloy. How Emma would scold you if she were here."
Carlos spread one of the towels on the couch and smoothed it several times so there would be no irritating wrinkles atop the cushions. Before lying down, however, he put his palms together and paid homage to an icon hanging on the wall of the main room. It was a portrait of Jesus, with the eyes cut out and two tiny Christmas lights fitted in their place. The icon had been bought long ago by his wife Emma, and Carlos recalled how both eyes shined brightly while she was still alive, always watchful. She would never let him unplug the icon, even when they slept. One of the bulbs still glowed as it should. But when the other bulb burned out some time ago, he had never bothered to replace it. He had always relied on Emma to take care of such things.
"Dear Jesus," Carlos prayed in a whisper to the icon. "You suffered greatly during your own time here, so you know how much a man can bear. I'm not one to complain. I don't ask you for much. But the heat today is simply too much. Could you send me sleep quickly with a pleasant dream before work? That is all I ask. Just a little relief for your faithful Carlos. Amen."
With cotton stuffed in his ears and a towel pulled tightly over his eyes, Carlos settled down on the couch opposite the open window, his back to the wall and the icon, ready for sleep. He fixed his thoughts on the soiled sheets in the bedroom. Emma would have been removing them now, preparing to wash them, and making their bed anew. She had always cared for him so well. He was just about to drift off with Emma in his dreams, when all at once he felt a sharp blow to his bare chest, as if someone had punched him.
"What on Earth?" Carlos shouted, as he tore the towel from his eyes and scanned the room for his attacker. But he was completely alone. He looked down and touched his aching chest where a red whelt was beginning to appear. This was no dream. He had really been hit by someone or something.
Then he saw it. On the floor, inside his glass jar, was a bright yellow tennis ball. It must have flown in through the window and struck him in the chest before falling into the jar. That would explain what had happened, but it did not explain why. There were no tennis courts near his apartment.
