MANG BEN
Home: 87 Gentle Street

His name was Ben.

He always smelled of cigarettes and wintergreen.

And Green Cross Rubbing Alcohol.

He was a former boxer, I was told, and a good one too. But all that was left when I met him was a man who walked with a slight limp and looked too old for his age. He was also poor, but he carried his poverty with a certain dignity which commanded my respect.

I always referred to him as Mang Ben, even though my younger sisters and the maids sometimes called him "Ben-tot".

This was because he had a speech impediment. Mang Ben was what was known as "ngo-ngo" in Filipino parlance. It was very difficult to understand what he was saying, so most of the time we would just let him talk and pretend to understand.

He also developed the habit of laughing at his own jokes, probably because he was the only one who could understand the punch lines.

Mang Ben was way into his forties when I first met him as a little girl in my grandparents' house. He was my Lolo Maning's masseur, or masahista as we called it back home. He came regularly at a certain day of the week, I now forget which, but I always knew when he was there from the unmistakeable odor of alcohol and wintergreen emanating from upstairs.

And then I knew my Lolo would be laying in the massage cot in his room and I would make myself scarce, knowing he was just in his karsonsilyo, as boxer shorts were known in his generation.

When they were done, Lolo Maning would invite Mang Ben to stay for some "cafe", and the two would proceed to my grandmother's cozy kitchen and make themselves a cup of Blend 45 and sandwiches out of "tasty" bread and a jar of Lady's Choice Sandwich Spread, talking about the latest gossip from the radio or Johnny Midnight's "toning" session the night before.

And then Mang Ben would leave, catching a tricycle to take him to Philcoa, where he would catch a jeepney to his next massage appointment, or to his humble home.

During these weekly sessions Mang Ben would sometimes service my grandmother too, and even my Mom, I think, but he was devoted to my Lolo, whom he called "Atoni", his own version of the word "Attorney".

And when my Lolo died, he walked all the way from our house in Quezon City to the funeral parlor in Araneta Avenue, because he didn't have money for transportation.

I still remember him, in the elegant confines of Arlington Funeral Homes, tired and dirty from his long walk under early March's scorching sun, his sad face a sorry sight amidst the well-dressed guests during the wake.

I greeted him at the door, touched at this final gesture. His humble tribute to a man he had known and respected for over a decade, and who treated him with the same fondness and respect.

And then he was gone.

I never saw him again after that.

I don't know if Mang Ben is still alive today. In all probability, he has already succumbed to the hard life fate had chosen for him to live. But even if he hasn't, I have no doubt that when the time comes, he will be reunited with his old friend and mentor, his old "Atoni", my Lolo Maning, who will welcome him through the Pearly Gates with open arms...

This time as equals.


(PLUGGING: "Funtastic Four", an account of Troy's fourth birthday party, in The Prada Mama Chronicles.)