I knew a man. He died with a whistle in his lips.
He was a street sweeper who greeted me every morning on my way to school – always with a smile on his face he offered anyone – whether or not they were willing reciprocate with another smile.
I will tell you about this because I have found it quite difficult to sleep some nights, because of that whistle, and because of what it means.
He didn’t have a family, or at least not his own. He had brothers and sisters, wealthy ones, I believe, who looked like they didn’t care enough for him. He worked for the barangay hall, and among everyone he would be the first to arrive (to start sweeping the street when it wasn't his job), and he will be the last one to leave – the one to check the lights and lock the door. We called him Mang Bebyo.
Mang Bebyo had been a budding basketball star – he was the star of his college team; he was to be drafted into the PBA when he got sick – of something which I do not remember. Since then, he worked in the barangay hall as a security officer. He had numerous jobs, or more precisely, his job was undefined. He was supposed to be a security officer but he had to do a lot more than that. He was the man answering the phone when anyone called, he was the coffee-maker; he was tasked to go around the barangay for solicitations, the one who checks on almost every house for the garbage collection. He was very slow, his legs were swollen because of diabetes, and almost everyone made fun of that. His co-employees would take the time to go to the other office to call the barangay hall and make fun of him, people would make up stories just to see him react almost violently – almost, I say, because his reaction was never beyond his words – he would never hold any grudge, was always easy to laugh and smile.
One day he wasn’t able to get to work and everyone was worried. They found him lying almost unconscious in his house, lying on a pool of his feces. It turned out he slipped sometime that morning, and since then was unable to stand up. The co-workers called my father for his help. They had him checked in the hospital. Thank goodness, it was only diarrhea, not very serious, we said. His family was silent, it almost seemed like they didn’t care. It was his poor co-workers who sought to help him. They gave him a whistle, for he was too weak to speak, so he could call anyone if he needed help. We thought he only needed a few nights of rest.
Then two nights after that, he died. I heard it as I was on my way to the kitchen for another cup of coffee, it was funny that I was combating sleep that night. A man was shouting, asking for anyone’s help, saying Mang Bebyo had lost his breath. His family was non-reactive, their doors were closed, lights turned off. When people came it was too late.
They said he gave a final blow at the whistle when he was about to die, and it haunted me since then.
I wonder how one measures life. A song says to measure a year is to measure love. This, however, raised more question than answers. Now I wonder if my good morning every day meant anything for him, if my refusal to join the mockery was noticeable enough to show I didn’t look down at him like the others did. I wonder if he thanked him enough for coaching our basketball games for free. I wonder if he appreciated my courtesy, if my family’s help had been any good for him – or if the small efforts of the people around him actually worked to offset the sorrows in his life.
I don’t know why I’m saying all these now. Partly it’s because of guilt. I was able to attend neither his wake nor his funeral, see. They closed the chapel one time because no one came – not even his family, so the workers from the barangay (who gathered enough money to rent a vehicle for everyone) had to go back some other time. Partly, also, it’s because here is another confrontation with death, and losing, one of those things I don’t understand. Still, also, it might be because of fear, for my own life, shall it be meaningful enough to be remembered?
Mostly, it is because of the whistle, because it haunts me to this day. I wonder what that last sound was for: a cry for help, a thankful salute to the world, a desperate attempt to communicate, or was that a goodbye? I still don’t know the answer, and that’s partly why I find it hard to smile back to the new street sweeper these days.
