The rainy season has begun. Finally, farmers can breathe easy as their crops receive sustenance. While annual yields are estimated, parched farmlands receive well-deserved hits of moisture. National food supplies can potentially climb out of the red. Blasted global warming. In the city, as floodwaters rise, motorists abandon their cars to escape the tide of filth and disease. Blasted substandard infrastructure. Especially severe cases require the bangka as the sole mode of transport/salvation. Floating transit becomes the obvious, and wiser, solution: remember, a single drop of floodwater could populate a hundred Petri dishes of agar jelly with bacteria. That might be exaggerating a bit. Maybe.

While indoors, unnoticed leaks make their presence known. Drippy roofs and weeping walls, incognito until it rains, once again say hello during this time of year. Buckets and basins are moved inside to catch ceiling precipitation. Floor rugs and trapo turgid with drain water need to be wrung constantly for maximum efficacy.

During the rainy season, the tinsmith discovers numerous job opportunities.

It was through Manong Roger, the latero, that I was able to catch a glimpse of the art of patching up a leak.

I picked up my copy of Smaller and Smaller Circles by F. H. Batacan, plopped down on the couch, and got a wet surprise.

One day early last week, I got out of bed past noon because the sound of raindrops kept me sedated. Furthermore, dark clouds in the sky made me believe it was much too early to do anything. Concluding that going to the office was useless at this point, I called in sick and put on the best impression I could of one suffering from diarrhea. Gas sounds and everything. I think my supervisor bought it. Nothing important was happening that day, anyway. Actually, nothing really earth-shattering ever does at that place.

After making the call from the bathroom—flushing a couple of times, and simulating flatulence with my mouth and the inside of my elbow—I made my way to the kitchen to fix a cup of tea. Another crisis in Mindanao bannered the newspaper headlines. Soaking wet, paranoid, and stationed in the middle of the jungle, the rains must be irksome for both the rebels and the military. They have at least that much in common.

On the way to the living room I couldn’t help but think about how I was going to enjoy the day. I picked up my copy of Smaller and Smaller Circles by F. H. Batacan, plopped down on the couch, and got a wet surprise.
All the throw pillows were waterlogged, and my shorts were soaked at the seat. I noticed a puddle collecting at my feet and felt water dribbling down the backs of my legs. Shifting positions, my weight pushed more liquid out of the already saturated chair. Looking up at the ceiling, I noticed a wet spot. In a moment, a droplet formed. Then it became a drop. Watching it grow, its weight, along with gravity, made the bead bob uncertainly off the painted surface. As it fell and made contact with a nearby pillow, I felt a bit of splatter against my thigh and forearm. Fuck.

Moving furniture, throwing wet things in the wash, mopping up a bit, and putting catch basins where they were needed took up what was left of the day. Changing into dry shorts took considerably less time. By the time I asked our security guard, Maynard, where I could find someone who could fix leaks, it was nearly evening. He said he knew a guy, and this is how I met Manong Roger. I planned on skipping work purposely again the next day so that the problem could be remedied.

It was 9 a.m. when he arrived, just like Maynard said he would, a man wearing an old cap, an old pair of shorts, and an old sando. I barely noticed his beat-up slippers and his toothless smile as he offered his hand. Cool, firm handshake. I could feel the calluses on his palms. He said he was 27 when we exchanged small talk; he seemed much older. Hard to believe he was only a few years my senior. He just looked tired. It was drizzling outside, and I noticed he didn’t have an umbrella.

Looking up at the ceiling, I noticed a wet spot. In a moment, a droplet formed. Watching it grow, its weight, along with gravity, made the bead bob uncertainly off the painted surface.

After I pointed out the leak, he went outside and set up his ladder. The rain was letting up a bit. Still, I couldn’t help but think of how slippery the roof was. That’s why you hire people to do this sort of thing for you, I told myself.  Returning a few minutes later, he explained where the leak was coming from. A broken gutter re-routed all the water towards the ceiling right above the living room. Hard rains for four consecutive nights? No surprise there. I gave him some money to go to the hardware store down the road for repair supplies.

When he got back, he went straight to work. It was overcast outside, but no rain, which was a relief. The last thing I’d have wanted would be to rush an injured man to the hospital. I went about that day doing things that I sorely missed. I caught up on some reading, played video games, and watched unopened DVDs from my last visit to Metrowalk. Just as I popped in another movie, I heard knocking on the door.

He couldn’t be finished already; he was still under my employ for a couple of hours. At the door, Manong Roger was beaming, looking like he had completed a job well done. I asked him if he was sure it was all good and done properly, and he assured me it was. I wasn’t convinced. Just to make sure, I asked him to show me. Outside, he looked a bit disappointed, like I didn’t trust him and the work he had done. He was no longer smiling. But we climbed to the roof anyway.

The sheet metal was dry, so my footing was pretty solid. He pointed out the repaired section, so I inched my way there. Everything was neatly patched up: a new gutter was fashioned, secured by epoxy and steel nails. Great work.
Pouring some water from a small bucket, Manong Roger showed me how he angled the gutter so that the water would flow properly towards the drain. He could be the Gaugin of the Gutter, the Leonardo of Leaks. He said he had tested it earlier, but since I wanted to see for myself how it worked, he brought up some water. I didn’t even notice him lugging the bucket up the ladder with him. The sky was cloudy, but the roof was somewhere I had never been, so
I felt good. The new gutter made me feel good, too. Proceeding to light a victory cigarette, I offered him one. He politely declined and said that he didn’t smoke. I smoked, looked around and at the sky, and felt a bit guilty. After killing the smoke, I pocketed it and made my way down the ladder.

Everything was neatly patched up: a new gutter was fashioned, secured by epoxy and steel nails. He could be the Gaugin of the Gutter, the Leonardo of Leaks.

Back at ground level, I gave him his salary for the day. I offered to give him some more for the bang-up job he had done, but he said no. He wasn’t in the mood for coffee or merienda, either. I should have just said “good job” the second he said he was done instead of being so skeptical and insisting to go see it for myself. After running out of things to offer him, he finally said that he should go home.

Home was in a nearby project not too far from the house. It was getting dark and definitely looked like rain. Manong Roger was already out the door when I called to him and said that he should take a ride with me. I told him that I was going to pass that area, anyway. Of course, I wasn’t. At first he hesitated and said that he could manage. Of course, he could. But one look at the sky must have convinced him otherwise. We put his tools in the trunk and got into the car.

In the 20 minutes that we were driving, Manong Roger told me about his family. His wife, Erlinda, takes care of his sister-in-law’s sari-sari store while doing laundry jobs on the side. He has one child, a girl, who is at the top of her grade school class. He has so much hope for her, and all that he and his wife are doing is for her future. Wow, this guy has the future in mind. And he only has one kid. I was expecting a figure between five and seven. He and his wife’s dream was to come to Manila and to start a family. They got to fulfill that dream. His daughter’s dream is to be a teacher, and they are doing all that they can to make her dream come true. The struggle, its all for her.

Looking out the passenger seat window, the rain cascading down the glass, I saw Manong Roger’s blurry figure walking towards an equally blurry door.

I told him that I noticed he had no umbrella when he came to work. He said that the family only had one, and that his daughter brought it to school because he didn’t want her to get wet and sick. “Bawal magkasakit sa ganitong panahon,” he said.

By the time we got to his house, it was pouring. He thanked me, and I returned the gesture by shaking his hand. I popped the trunk and reminded him not to forget his tools. There was an umbrella in the trunk and I told him to get it so that he and his daughter wouldn’t have to share the one they already have. At this he didn’t think twice and thanked me again. His eyes lit up once again. Looking out the passenger seat window, the rain cascading down the glass, I saw Manong Roger’s blurry figure walking towards an equally blurry door.

While indoors, unnoticed leaks make their presence known. Drippy roofs and weeping walls, incognito until it rains, once again say hello during this time of year.

It took me about five minutes to reach under the seat and change the CDs in the changer. It takes me a while to decide what I want to listen to. Back in my driving position, before I disengaged the hand brake, I could see three figures in the doorway Manong Roger entered. The other two must have been his wife and daughter. I could see that Manong Roger and his wife were waving. His daughter was holding what looked like my green umbrella. I replied and honked twice. On the way home, I was pumping Michael Franti’s “Every Single Soul” on my stereo.

The funny thing about leaks is that when you fix one, a new one shows up. Torrential rains definitely aggravate the situation. Today, another one made itself known, dribbling water down the side of my kitchen wall. But I know who to call. Maybe this time he’ll accept one of my extra plastic raincoats.