[ Note : Length warning : this is an extra long blog, belated happy birthday to kabatch Jenn Chan ! woo-hoo!]
IN THE END, I had to insist that he accept the shoes; that I had so many other pairs they gave me only marginal benefit per additional pair. He found it hard to believe that I was giving him hardly used, decent kicks just because.
Bottom line was, I couldn’t bear to see a fellow runner run in shoes that gave him blisters that would or wouldn’t have eventually bothered him, but given the frigid autumn nights, the roughly 7 km distance between the mill and his house, and the disturbing guilt-ridden reality that I had good shoes and was biking home, it only made me feel worse.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. The pic you see above is one of I think 15 pairs of Nikes i own, it’s probably fair to say I conceal a shoe fetish particularly of Nike runners, but I need to qualify that. To varying distances and degrees, I run whenever time and the weather allow, flat feet and awkward gait wear out a pair rather quickly, so I tend to alternate shoes the way a woman does, keep a sharp eye open for sales and outlet stores, and simply put, I like shoes.
[This was a remnant of our basketball days in good old St Jude Catholic, when every self-respecting basketball junkie wouldn’t be caught without adidas, Converse, Pumas or other Eighties icons of athletic wear. But the coolest and newest thing were the Nike swooshes that came out of nowhere and swept every would-be skywalker, no-look passer and behind-the-back dribbler off their collective feet. Wear those Nikes and you were THE MAN, oohs and aahs were paid as tribute even before the opening buzzer sounded. As only the most privileged and serious shoe enthusiasts could afford the Nikes, we could only admire from afar. They also doubled as effective distractions that kept defenders of Nike-adorned scorers focused on the neat swooshes until the latter scored unmolested under the goal.]
Back to 2012. Recently a Maori temp’s been doing the late afternoon to evening shift at the packing machines alongside our mill. You pack flour into 20kg bags, probably 20 pallets in 90 minutes between breaks, that’s around 20 tons passing through your hands, arms and shoulders four times a shift. You have to be strong and quick, not to mention durable. It’s an unenviable job I personally wouldn’t choose to do because I once had to fill in for someone calling sick, and I was sore for two days.
The temp was around my size but didn’t have an ounce of fat on him, I kid you not. It’s like he had no patience to waste on anything other than hard bone and toned muscle; every joule was going to be spent on expending useful activity. The trouble was he looked gaunt and underfed as well, of course I wasn’t gonna tell him that; Maoris are known to be as proud as they are self-effacing, in the same way Asians are self-deprecating and deferential almost to a fault.
Every teatime I would bring out my fruit, sandwich, rice meal and sometimes a chocolate bar that I swiped from Mahal’s stash. In contrast, he would have coffee, coffee and coffee. Did I mention that he would have coffee for lunch? I think I offered him some of my food once, the way Filipinos do to whoever they encounter in the smoku (breaktime) room as a common courtesy, only I really meant it, as he looked like he needed a little snack. Each time he would give me a curt shake of the head or a short but polite “no”, no shrug of the shoulders or forlorn look that would betray the involuntary fast from reinvigorating nourishment. For some obvious reason (that I certainly wasn’t gonna mention), he wasn’t bringing baon or food to work, and he wasn’t accepting charity, no matter what I said about Pinoy traditions about sharing.
If I may, let me get back to Maoris. One of the catchphrases I’ve heard about them is Maori, loud and proud. They don’t say this for nothing. They are very proud of their history and culture, sure some of them think they don’t need to pay taxes to government, and sure some of them prefer to stay unemployed and rely on the benefit, but on the whole Maoris live by a strong work ethic and place high value on families and love for country. My new workmate was no exception.
The fact that someone at work had a much harder job than mine, had a very humble food budget (none except for a dollar or two at the vending machine after payday), and didn’t look like he had much better at home evidently wasn’t reason enough for anyone, much less me, to be a crybaby. A job was a job was a job, if anything the hard work must’ve inspired him to transcend his relatively Spartan lot in life.
My temporary bisor didn’t help matters. Subbing a few weeks for SuperBisor who was giddy with his newfound love in our very own homeland, he studiously avoided not only the new guys but anyone who didn’t share his accent and pay grade. I didn’t want to make him look worse so I made it a point to stay friendly enough with the temps, but respected their space otherwise.
Getting home however was another kettle of fish. SupeBisor offered rides in his papogi Mazda (but not for long, twas probably gonna be a family car) to anyone who was caught on the wrong end of the shift roster without hesitation, and it was a few awkward moments every night before the carless guys, Maori temp almost always included, accepted his generous offer, generous especially when the nippy winds were encouraging upturned collars and stretched hoodies.
But SuperBisor was gone for the next four weeks, there were no cars on the parking lot after 4 pm, and the bus stop was empty except for scowling owls and indifferent lizards after the clock struck eleven, which depressingly was just minutes before our shift ended.
except for the fact that he was wearing shorts, this was how Maori Temp looked, somewhat
I had my ever-reliable bike, and I had hoped everyone had their rides organized, but Maori Temp was methodically strapping on his combat boots and backpack, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I was afraid to ask and had an inkling of how he was going home, but asked anyway.
Am running home bro, it’s good exercise and I’ll be home within an hour.
I knew where home was, a good two hours’ walk as the crow flies. But in the middle of 12 degree weather? And at night? Even makunat Pinoys like me loved to pinch a penny and stay fit in one swing, but I wasn’t pushing it.
Don’t you have a ride? Are you sure it’s safe?
Been doing it every day since (SuperBisor) left, no way I’m stopping now. Besides, how else can I go home, he said not in a way to elicit pity but as a matter of fact, like how the sun was gonna rise tomorrow and set 12 hours later.
So that was how it was gonna be. Which philosophically I had no truck with, save for the combat shoes. It was murder to be walking in them, never mind running in them, and my jogger’s sensitivities were offended by the realities that Maori temp was contending with.
Your day is gonna be full tending to those blisters and calluses bro, I tried to tell him without exclaiming, cuz my mind was preoccupied with the thought of running in combat boots nightly for at least 45 minutes, which was the time he proudly said would take him to negotiate the roughly 5 to 10 km distance.
I’m used to it friend, and before either of us embarrassed ourselves further, he hit the road without further comment. Awkward!
* * * * *
Which brings me to the Nike Prestos. They’re not my favorite pair, as I divide the Nike platoon between battle-ready and pamporma. The first squad is good to go for any fun run, half-marathon or theoretical cross-country adventure that comes my way. The next group is for walking, malling with the missus, or any all-purpose lakad that I might fancy. (But when you’re a good dad you love all your kids right? Not that I’m comparing shoes to kids, heh heh 🙂 )
The Prestos belong somewhere in the middle of the groups, having been veterans of many a workout, hike or trot on a mildly warm (no such thing as hot) summer day in Welly. They also look cool with maong or Bermuda shorts.
But in the overall cosmic scheme of things they belonged to Maori temp’s feet. Deep down it was the right thing to do, my nagging insides told me. To get feedback, I told esposa hermosa a short version of my story the previous night, and without hesitating a beat she said andami mong sapatos, di mo naman nagagamit yung iba. Bigyan mo na sya ng isang pares, kawawa naman, without inquiring further.
Loosely translated, she took the words right out of my mouth, clearly implying that anyone in my position (and in my shoes, literally) would do the same.
* * * * *
Maori Temp returned the pair to me three times during the shift, good thing I thought of giving them to him at log-in. He didn’t understand why I was doing it, even considered that I was selling the same, and might have accepted if they were battered and scruffy, but they were far from unwanted (by me). Getting rid of them wasn’t the case, wanting him to use it was. Setting aside eyebrow-raising awkwardness any further, I had to pretend I hated the pair.
I have so many shoes I don’t know what to do with them (only partly true), I insisted. They would be wasted on me, and you’re doing me a favor by accepting them (wink, wink), OK ?
If you put it that way bro, I’m happy to help, the outlines of a broad broad smile forming on his bony face.
* * * * *
Feet, toes and I slept a little better that night.
Thanks for reading !
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