The Last Kapre of Manila
It was night. I was eating at a tapsilogan near my dormitory when a huge man in a suit seated beside me. He beckoned the ale working at the counter and asked in a deep voice, “One spamsilog po.”
The ale nodded and went inside a door, probably to the kitchen. The man and I were alone.
In between chomps of rice and chewy tapa, I looked at my companion and saw that his face was partly (a loose word now that I think about it) covered by long locks of hair and a beard that my teenage ass could only be envious of. He was wearing spectacles with gold rims, and on the other side of the bench, where he and I were sitting, was a briefcase. It was small but professional enough.
“Got anything on my face, kid?”
I looked at the man beside me and tried to smile. “No, sir. Sorry for staring.”
The huge man laughed. “Not at all. What’s your name?”
I told the man my name. He nodded as he placed his hand inside his suit jacket and produced a cigar. It was one of those big, hand-rolled cigars that my Lola used to smoke back in the province.
“You mind if I smoke?” he asked.
I lift my palms. “Be my guest, sir.”
“Heh,” he chuckled. “How’s your food, kid?”
“It’s good, sir.”
“Good, good you say.” Without me noticing it, he had already lit his cigar and was puffing it. I noticed that the ale had not returned yet. Weirdly, I also noticed the distinct lack of sound around us. No marites were talking to other marites, no soft cries of stray cats, no revving cars or motorcycles. Odd for Pandacan, one of the noisiest barangays in the Metro. Smoke from the man’s cigar enveloped us, forming a thin but hazy fog.
Nervous but not wanting to show it to the huge man, I asked him, “Sir, looks like your order is taking long. I’m already done with mine.”
The huge man ignored me. “I’m the last kapre of Manila, you know?”
“Sir?”
“I’m the last one. There used to be one or two kapre for every forest. Now I’m alone. The duwendes have fled, The fairies have gone. There are still babaylan, but they are few. The world was stagnant for a thousand years. And now it quickly became… this.” The man spread his arms around, smoke trailing from the cigar and falling to the ground where it remained, moving slightly with the soft wind but not dispersing.
I studied the man’s face and saw that he was shaking. “Sir, I don’t know…”
“I played a trick on you once, you know? You were crossing Nagtahan, and it took you an hour to reach the other side. It was a hoot. You were so confused but too busy thinking about… things.”
“Holy shit, that was you?” I remembered the moment years ago and chalked the incident to delusion. “I thought I was going mad!”
The man let out a big smoke. “You were being mad. You have undiagnosed schizophrenia. But I am here – as you are here.”
“What do you mean I have undiagnosed schizophrenia?”
“Only people with schizophrenia can see us, touch us, feel our effects. It has something to do with how your brain intercepts paranormal signals.”
“But you – you just ordered from the ale…”
“I didn’t. I made you order, and then you thought it was me.”
“What do you want from me?” I checked my phone. No signal.
“Nothing,” the man said. “A little prank, a little reminiscing, a bit of both. I just resigned from my job. It’s hard being in IT. There is money, sure, but the bosses… let’s just say there are a lot of micromanaging pricks.”
“You’re kidding me. You work in IT?”
The man took the suitcase from his side. "What else is there to do, kid? Hang from trees? Anyway, IT's a bust. But, look.”
He took his suitcase from the side, opened it, and I saw in it documents, folders, and business cards neatly organized into piles. He took one document out and handed it to me. I looked at it. It was a resume for a certain “Mark Cruz,” 45 years old, single, living in Quezon City, with a decade of experience in aeronautic engineering.
“I’ve always been cozy in high places.”
I handed the paper back. Somehow, I believed him. How else can you explain this?
“Well, good luck.”
“Thanks, kid. And you’ll be okay, too. Entities like us… we seek negative energy. You’re producing it a lot tonight, just like you produced it a lot back with the bridge. I don’t know what happened with you, kid, but your negative aura made me really sick on top of my office in G- Building. One of the reasons I quit.”
Huh.
“Thanks, and I’m sorry, I guess?”
“You’re welcome, kid. And I’m sorry. Here.”
The man threw the cigar behind us into the street. He rummaged the inside of his suit jacket again and produced a hundred peso bill.
“My treat for the spamsilog I made you order. Eat. Take it as small amends for the Nagtahan incident.”
And then – that was it. The smoke dissipated, and the noises returned. The man was gone. On his place was the ale, slightly shaking my shoulder with a concerned look on her face. “You okay, son? You look like you passed out.”
I looked down. I was still grasping the hundred peso bill.
That was my odd encounter with the last kapre of Manila.
Note: Tried to freehand some short story less than 1000 words in an hour. This is the result. There’s some potential for a proper story in the future. Always wanted to write modern iterations of Filipino folklore and heroes.