Fanon:For my little brother

= For my little brother =

My Promise
The ground was warm and unsettling, about as warm as the air that sat above it. The crunching of plastic was audible as I walked, stirring whatever was hiding underneath the surface. In the distance, I could see smoke rising, a weak breeze blowing some of it over at me. The strong, pungent smell of burning copper, plastics, toxicity, hovered over me like a cloud, filling my lungs. It was like waving a gigantic flag, signalling for Death to come and pay us an early visit.

I dug my hands into the earth, polluted dirt as they say, and groped around looking for anything worth extracting. Bottles. Containers. Milk jugs. Bubble wrap, even. Whatever that was thrown out and discarded by its original owner was a bounty, at best the ability to afford food for another day. Anything that wasn't too badly damaged or could be easily cleaned up and repaired was gathered and collected to be sold later on.

My hands came across something rough, its sides filled with grooves and patterns. I pulled, slowly at first, and then with a sharp yank, using my feet as support to keep myself upright as I leaned backwards to get at whatever I had found. Finally, it popped free, sending me tumbling down the hill. I fortunately had little to travel before I reached the bottom.

I looked at my hands. A plastic jug, otherwise intact except for a small tear near the spout. I placed it gently into a bag filled with my total finds for the day and resumed searching, digging, "scavenging".

It's a life nobody wants to live. Nobody came here because they loved the smell and sight of garbage. They came because they had a choice, a very simple one: They could sit in their homes and starve, or go to the mountains of litter and recycle whatever they can find, reselling them to provide for their empty stomachs. Many of these people had families, and only those who were sane would live here if it meant their children could at least be fed.

I looked up. The sun was beginning to set, staining the clouds in the sky with a dirty yellow. I gathered my findings into my arms and began to descend the hill. "Smokey Mountain", they called it, named for the smoke that frequently arose from the hill as tires, copper, wood, even coal, were burned by the locals. The air is toxic. Every minute I stand breathing it kills me a little bit inside. But I would die faster if I avoided the hill altogether, for the hill meant money. Money to buy food. The hill often provided us with food itself. Food, discarded food, from the various restaurants and food courts across the city. It is cleaned and cooked, and then eaten. We call it pagpag, and if it's cleaned and cooked properly, it is safe to eat.

The day begins early in the morning, when the garbage trucks come and unload their cargo onto the mountain, having collected it from around the city overnight. Scavengers, people who make their living picking from the scraps of Smokey Mountain, flock to the trucks like sheep to a shepherd, lost souls to Jesus, as the trucks brought them what they needed to survive. The early bird gets the best worms, while those who arrive late can only hope there is something valuable still buried deep beneath the filth. They had to work quickly as well, collecting as much as their arms could carry before workmen, seated in large digging machines, shovelled the garbage into barges docked nearby. They were hoping to prevent another Smokey Mountain from appearing, after the original dump was closed by the government several years ago. Trying to avoid another artificial hill that echoed the sounds of wasted, discarded souls, a shameful symbol of the poverty in the city.

I placed my loot beside a group of women, who were counting and sorting the heaps of garbage into different bags. Everything had to be carefully organized and measured for scavengers to receive a fair payment for their work. On a good, profitable day, a scavenger could hope to make up to 500 pesos. It was usually enough to feed themselves and their family for at least one more day. A woman began to go through the things I had found, examining everything closely for rejects. Some things she set aside, knowing that they were far too mangled and damaged to be reused. A number of others she tossed into the bags, ready to see life again. Finally, she reached into her pockets, counted 100 pesos, and handed it to me. "God bless your family," she said.

I took the money without argument. Any amount that one could hope to earn in this place was a luxury, a blessing, a gift. If you got angry and tried to debate with the women who paid you, they could simply close the discussion by sending you home empty-handed. It was easier to accept their judgement as fair than it was to try and entice them to give you more. Every little bit that I earned went to feeding my mother, my younger brother, and myself. It was just enough to get by, just enough to survive, but nothing more.

All over Smokey Mountain were huts, impromptu shelters, erected using whatever material was available nearby. Most of them were scrap metal, hammered and screwed together haphazardly, rusting at the edges. A few of them were solid, wooden structures that fared poorly when faced with an errant spark from a nearby fire. None of them had running water, no toilets or indoor plumbing, and most could only receive electricity at night, when the generator was running. The generator could not run 24 hours a day, and could not keep all the lights on, due to its age and condition. Most families used portable lamps and flashlights instead to save on electricity, a few daring to use candles in their flammable construction. The ground was slightly squishy, almost like sponges, due to the compacted layers of trash underneath, making for a very poor foundation. Landslides were not uncommon, burying houses and bodies underneath to later be excavated by hungry scavengers. There was no set system for handling the dead — people who died simply disappeared.

I was fortunate not to have to live on the mountain. Surrounding the landfill were large towers, government housing projects built to house the dislocated when the original Smokey Mountain dump was shut down. Inside, units were so small and uncomfortable that residents only used them for sleeping, living their lives instead in the communal areas. At the base of the towers were a vast quantity of slums that housed those "fortunate" enough not to be in government housing. It was in one of these houses that I lived, dwarfed and sandwiched by the towers and the mountain. At times, the mountain seemed taller than the towers themselves, acting like its own addition, its own spot, in the city's skyline.

I turned down the street I lived on. The houses seemed small and dreary, as if they were shrubs and bushes on the forest floor, having their share of sunlight stolen by the bigger trees in the canopy above them. A few of them had their lights on, still others with smoke rising from their chimneys. The door to my house was open. I entered the house and placed my arms around my mother, who was seated in a chair, lost in her thoughts.

"Ma," I said, "I'm home."

She nodded slightly and pointed to a bowl of food. Pagpag, meat and vegetables salvaged from garbage, cleaned and then cooked. A few spoonfuls of rice as well. Looks like she was able to go and buy some today, I thought. I took the bowl and sat down on the couch, eating very slowly and carefully. Any wasted food is money wasted, and thus we hardly ever wasted food. Food dropped on the ground had to be eaten, as it was too precious to lose.

My brother, my younger brother, Evan, was beside me. He was four years junior to me, being only two months past his sixth birthday. He hugged me closely and laid his head on my shoulder, like he always did every day when I came home from the mountain. I put my right arm around his body and we sat there together, quietly eating, contemplating. I often thought about my monotonous life and how I wished, oh just wished, for something to turn the tide, something to create ripples in my life, something to make it interesting, and at the very end, something to free us from our own prison. As for him... I was never entirely sure what Evan thought of.

My older brother, Julio, was in the lounge chair, seated perpendicular to it, his head and his feet jutting out from the sides. He was seldom home, often being gone for weeks at a time. My mother was initially angry, then timid, then sad. Soon, she simply began ignoring him, looking past his shoulders and not cooking his meals. He was barely affected, as he always seemed to be able to find something for himself to eat, never sharing any of it with the family. He did little, if anything, to help us, like he was doing now, staring fixedly at the ceiling, lacking any purpose, any job, any role in the house.

About two years ago, my father left the family. He told us that he was moving to a different part of the city, where he heard there was lots of work and prosperity. I remember the night before he left, when I could hear my mother and my father arguing with each other. Mother was crying, father was determined to leave. "I will send you money, any amount that I make," my father said. "It is for our children, and for our sake; we cannot live our entire lives picking from the dump and eating pagpag!" But my mother would not approve. "No amount of money could console me knowing that you have become a criminal!"

Father was gone the next morning, leaving behind my brokenhearted mother to care for her three sons. Money became tight, and we barely had enough on the table to feed half of us. While a few local schools offered free classes, my mother felt that our education was less important than our very ability to survive, even if it meant working at Smokey Mountain for the rest of our lives. So we forwent school, and all three of us instead became scavengers, gathering recyclables from the mountain of garbage to be resold. Without our father's strength and guidance, we together were only able to provide just enough money to feed everyone. None of us had time to study or do anything else.

A year later, Julio became sick of scavenging. Early one morning, as we were leaving for the mountain, he turned in the opposite direction and, with a small, almost insignificant wave, walked away from us. He didn't come back that evening. My mother became distressed, wondering where her son went. She asked our neighbours, asking if they had seen him, but he had seemingly vanished. About a month later, he came back a completely different person, as if aliens had abducted him and altered his personality. My mother was relieved... and relief turned to anger as she questioned my brother. Julio gave her — and us — the cold shoulder for a few days. He did not explain to us where he got his gold necklace or the tattoos on his arm until one evening, when he finally broke his silence. He had joined a street gang, specialized in the production and transportation of weed. I later learned this to be a byword for marijuana. He claimed that he did it to try and bring home some money, something for the family to use, but my mother would not accept the money he produced from his pockets. "I won't lay a finger on that dirty money of yours!" He begged, pleaded, for mother to accept the cash, before he threw it in my direction, making it snow pesos all around me. "Take it, Garrett," he said before leaving the house.

I stared at the money before my feet. Money meant food, schooling, a future. I bent down to pick it up, but my mother slapped my hand away. "I will not use money from the Devil!" She swept the money into a big pile outside and, much to my surprise, set it on fire. All the neighbours came running, trying to beat out the flames, get their hands at the money, accusing my mother of "wasting what we could all use to eat!" My mother had no response. She retreated to her room, and from her closed door, I could hear her cry.

After that, he came back only intermittently. One day he's home, the next he isn't. When he did come home, he never ate with us, claiming that he had already eaten. My mother no longer prepared his portion of dinner, let alone acknowledged his presence. He never spoke to any of us unless he needed to, which was uncommon. He was about as foreign to me as a Martian, an extraterrestrial.

That's him, right now. If I burst into flames and burned to ashes right now, I don't think he would've raised an eyebrow.

Evening stretched into the night. I looked up at the clock and tapped my younger brother lightly on the shoulder. "It's time for bed, Evan."

My brother rose and made his way to the bedroom. He half-walked, half-sulked. I knew how much he wanted to go to school, to not go to the mountain, to not have to rummage through people's garbage to eat. I hated seeing him like that, seeing his childhood spoiled, wasted, discarded. I close my eyes and tried to imagine happier days... days when the mountain was our playground. Days when, after school, we would climb to the top and come bounding back down as fast as our legs could carry us, leaping over heads and obstacles as we went. We were still poor, still had to eat pagpag, still had to live in a cramped house on a miserable street. But what we lacked in physical possessions, we had an abundance of love and energy to share, to go around.

Looks like we ran out.

I looked to my left. My mother had busied herself with housework, cleaning the floor, the table, the furniture. With so little space in the house, she'll be done in no time. I looked at my older brother and shrugged. Who cares about him? I thought. He's doing just fine on his own. I got up, splashed my face, and then my hair, with water. Water was such a precious commodity that even a shower was far too wasteful. We supposedly had running water, but service was erratic and whatever came out of the sink was often murky and filthy. Some say that those in the government housing buildings used all of the water, leaving none for us. All of our water had to be bought from reservoirs and hauled by hand in large jerrycans, which didn't come cheap. And without our father, water was our gold. The most we could do to keep clean was a sponge bath, which left the washcloth black from all the grime. Eventually, I forwent the cloth and scrubbed myself the best I could with my bare hands. I looked somewhat clean after that, at least.

The bedroom was dark. My brother had already gone to sleep, or at least, I thought he was. I removed my shirt and, trying to keep quiet, tiptoed to the spot where I slept and lay there. We had no beds; all of us slept on the floor which, despite the fact that it was cold and hard, offered some relief from the heat and sweat of the day. I closed my eyes and tried to sleep. A few minutes later the door opened, and my older brother entered, not bothering to keep quiet. He shut the door loudly behind him, headed straight for his spot on the floor, and in the blink of an eye, was out like a light.

I slept on the left side of the room, my older brother the right. My younger brother, being the baby, naturally slept between us. I didn't mind; ever since my father left home, Julio was often cold and dark, and seemed to prefer sleeping on his own. Evan, on the other hand, never minded company, and with Julio being gone for extended periods of time, he must have felt quite naked and exposed on one side.

For a few minutes, the room was silent, save for the slow and steady breathing of its three occupants. I could hear my mother shuffling as she retired to her own bedroom, the sighing of relief at the conclusion of another busy day, the lights being turned off. The figure beside me shifted as it tried to get into a more comfortable position. The breathing became steady, consisting of deep, lengthy breaths. More movement, accompanied with a small sigh. I felt sleep coming to me, about to end the day, finding it harder to open my eyes with every passing second. I was about to go out when a voice asked, "When will I be able to go to school again?"

Julio never responded to my brother's "midnight questions", even in the best of times. It was always me who answered. "Someday," I said. "Someday, when this is all over and we can all forget about this. Maybe, if dad comes home... if he's still alive."

"What if he isn't?"

I rolled over and looked at my brother. His eyes were open, wide open, a clear indication that he was a long ways off from sleep. "Then we make do with what we have," I said. "We'll keep living our lives. We pray, hoping for something to happen."

My brother shifted uncomfortably, and I could tell my answer did not satisfy him. "That might mean I will be a scavenger for the rest of my life. I don't want to be a scavenger. I just want to go back to school, want to learn, laugh, play..."

Julio let out an audible sigh, as if to say, "Oh, shut up!" But I couldn't say that to Evan, not in a million years would I dare myself to do so. I loved him too much for that. "Why did dad have to leave us?" he wondered aloud. "If he stayed, I'd be in school right now. We wouldn't have to be on that dump the entire day."

I remained silent for a little while, not knowing what to say. Even I wished that he would be able to go to school. I hated the sight of him on the mountain of garbage, digging through heaps of refuse, looking for anything recoverable. He looked so young, so innocent... someone who shouldn't have to live like this. He deserved, no, needed to go to school.

But how?

Finally, I spoke, in a voice that almost lacked strength, confidence, courage: "I... I'll make sure you go to school."

My brother gave me a funny look. "How?"

Good question. I'll crawl through broken glass, under barbed wire, walk over fire, swim across an ocean, even get kicked and beaten, if somehow it would mean you could get the education, the opportunities, you desired. I'd travel the ends of the world, take a bullet between my eyes, bleed till I dropped dead, if it made your dreams come true. But all that came out was, "I'll find a way. I promise, I will."

"You do?"

Julio's dim figure in the background turned his back towards us. I could sense him wanting to say, "Garrett, you and your childish fantasies..."

But it's not a childish fantasy!

I extended my pinky out to him. "Yes, I do."

He was hesitant, at first, as if he was afraid of causing me unnecessary grief and burden, but he offered his own pinky and cemented my promise. He wanted to say something, but tears had already begun to form in his eyes. I leaned over and kissed him gently on the forehead, like his father used to do, like his mother always did. I saw two droplets of water stealing stealthily down his face. "What will you do?" he asked quietly.

"Whatever it takes," I responded.

"Such as...?"

"If I had to drown in a flood to save your life, don't you think I'd do it?" I gently wiped the tears off his face with my hand. "If I had to die in order to give you the future you wanted, I'll do it. I'll do it because you're my brother."

He clung onto my arm. "B-B-But... But I don't want you to die..." I saw the tears coming back to him, saw him choking on his own tears, and I knew I had just made it a difficult night for him.

Maybe I was a little too extreme...

"Alright, maybe I won't die. Maybe I won't take my life for your schooling. But I promise you, Evan: I'll find a way. I don't care how long it takes, how much pain I have to go through, how many mountains I have to scale. I'll do it — I'll do it for you."

He nodded, and I felt his nervousness receding. He turned to lie on his back again, and I could see his eyes beginning to close. ''Good night... I'm right here if you need me...''

''But what about me? I don't have anybody to lean on, do I?''

''Where do I go from here? Can I keep this promise I made with my brother even if my own future seems bleak?''

Is this promise even feasible?

I stared silently at the ceiling and wondered what I had put myself through.

Departure
Julio was gone the next morning, long before the rest of us woke up. He never told anyone where he went, or why. I'm not even sure why he comes home in the first place; if he's so well-off wherever he goes, why come back?

We ate a small breakfast. We had to be quick, in order to get to the mountain before the first garbage trucks arrived. Smart, successful scavengers fleeced the trucks as they approached the dump, many even climbing aboard to get their hands at the bounty while it was still fresh. We get a lot of pagpag this way, before it gets a chance to spoil in the heat of the day.

We're running now, getting there before it's too late. My brother holds my hand, like mother had ordered him to, looking to me for security, safety, leadership. I did not mind, even though it slowed me down a bit.

The garbage trucks had just arrived, in them the city's garbage that they had collected overnight. People were already scaling the sides of the truck, trying to get into the hopper, trying to get at the loot first.

My brother was too young to climb up a moving truck. "You be careful, alright?" I said to him before running towards the vehicle. He followed, keeping a healthy distance away. He knew the drill — we did it every day. I ran alongside the truck and grabbed the handle, pulling myself up on board, taking great care not to allow my limbs to get caught on anything. Some ill-mannered scavengers often used other bodies as leverage to help themselves up to the hopper. My small size and strength made that very unlikely, but my mother wanted me to stay on the safe side. "Just come home alive is all I'm asking," she often said.

I reached the hopper, where the pile of trash was rapidly disappearing as the scavengers attacked it with full force. I filled my arms quickly with Styrofoam food containers, all of them packed with uneaten food from the night before. My brother was beside the truck, his arms ready to catch. I threw the containers down at him before scrounging the hopper for more. Having his help was a luxury many did not have, for I could simply toss him all the valuables rather than having to carry everything by myself. A few brought bags with them onto the truck, which became bulky and heavy as they filled. Many of them gave out under the pressure, spilling their contents back into the hopper. Occasionally he would miss, and someone else would come and swipe the dropped objects before he had a chance to pick them up. I made sure he didn't get into any fights, willing accepted having his cargo heisted before him. It was cheaper to lose profits than it was to deal with the drama of having a brawl.

Soon, the truck was empty. Well, at least, devoid of all the smaller, portable materials, leaving behind only the larger, bulkier items that were too heavy to be thrown out of the truck by hand. I looked down at my brother, who had his arms full. I scrambled out of the truck and jumped down to the ground.

"How're you doing?" I asked.

I thought he smiled. "Tired," he responded.

I opened a bag and filled it with all the non-foods we had collected. Plenty of plastic bottles, jugs, cartons, cups, spoons. Many shopping bags, all of them punctured with holes like Swiss cheese. Today, we had some luck: entire spools of copper, electrical wires, all undamaged. They were worth more than common plastic, which was everywhere. I tied up the bag and slung it over my shoulder, my brother carrying the unprocessed pagpag. It had to be cleaned and cooked soon, before they spoiled and became permanently inedible.

"You did good today, Evan," I said. "Someday, you'll be a good scavenger."

He did not respond. I wonder if I had just stabbed him with my words, left a hole in his chest, letting him bleed.

The sun had just disappeared below the horizon when me and Evan returned home. Together, we managed to earn about 300 pesos — every little bit of our earnings counted towards the family, though. The heat of the day and the relentless sun beating down on our heads left me with a slight headache and an unquenchable thirst.

"Ma," I said, walking through the doorway. "We're home."

My mother had large bags under her eyes. I could tell she had been working all day as well, scrounging the mountain, trying to make the money needed to keep the family going. "Help me get dinner set up," she said.

All our meat was purchased pre-cooked. Our vegetables tonight were a mix of fresh and pagpag, evident slightly in their colouring. Even the rice tonight didn't smell or taste as good as it did yesterday; hopefully that will change tomorrow.

I bit into the meat, which had a nice, pleasant aroma and taste. "KFC", they called it, a wildly popular fast food chain in America, a face familiar to Westerners in the city. "The Americans may or may not like our food," my father once said, "so they turn to the things they know and love back home." They ate it with their hands, licking their fingers afterwards to get all the grease and salt; it tasted too good to refrain from doing so. I would have done so, tried to be an American for a day, but I was wiser not to, for one: my mother was watching me, and two: my hands had been digging through garbage all day, and without good soap it was difficult to clean.

I remembered a day when I went into the city, to the places where all the tourists and the wealthier people mingled. Remembered going into a mall, where every inch smelled of money. Money, money, and more money. Everyone had money, everyone was happy, everyone was well fed. Nobody had to sleep in a slum, eat pagpag, scavenge on Smokey Mountain. Everyone except me. I had to do the things nobody else in there had to do.

I looked at my brother, who was eating silently, again lost in his own thoughtful world. I wondered if he ever thought the same way. He sat quietly, his eyes fixed on a spot in the wall. Finally, he looked up at mother and said, "Will I ever be able to go back to school?"

My mother didn't reply immediately. "I wish I could say yes."

"Garrett said I could if dad came home."

There was another pause. "God forbid," she said, "unless he promises to abandon his foolish ways forever."

Evan opened his mouth to speak. I feared that he would tell mother about what I had promised him the night before, and quickly interrupted: "Maybe Julio will come back and help us. Evan can go back to school again."

My mother waved my opinion away. "I refuse to touch his filthy money. I'll only look at him again if he burns all of it, removes his tattoos, his gold necklace."

I shot my brother a look, begging him not to tell mother about our conversation last night. He got the message, and thankfully ended the conversation there.

Mother grew suspicious. "I hope you two aren't plotting anything..." she began.

"No, we're not," we said simultaneously.

Later that night, as I lay on the floor waiting for sleep to come, my brother asked, "Why won't you tell mother what you're planning on doing?"

I had no answer. I regretted making that promise to my brother, a promise that keeping would make my stomach turn. Several ideas came to mind, but none seemed very sound. My father and my older brother had all left home, looking for a way to bring the family a secure income, but both were deemed by my mother to be "corrupted." At first, I felt that way too. After all, how dare my father leave home! How dare Julio ignore us in our state of poverty! Speaking of Julio, his money almost certainly meant that he was able to eat like a king every night, putting no thought towards his family, made no effort to reintegrate himself, no effort to lift a finger to help any of us. He didn't even talk to any of us. He could've just come home, become a scavenger again, help take the work off our shoulders so that we could have enough to afford to allow Evan to go to school. He's a demon, a monster, a thug.

Or is he?

I swallowed. I knew doing this was wrong, what my father and my older brother did was wrong. But how wrong was it? Is something justifiable if it was done for good intentions, meant to benefit others, meant to help someone in need?

Now, don't get too over yourself, Garrett...

But what if my brother got cut, needed to be cleaned up and have his wound treated, needed bandages to stop the bleeding? If I take a first-aid kit and use it, aren't I taking supplies that someone else who's also bleeding needed as well?

''He's my brother... why would I just sit there and watch him bleed? Of course I would do something to help him!''

And every day, whenever I eat something, I'm eating food that some other hungry soul needs as well.

''But I can't just starve myself! To help someone, another must pay for it.''

Right?

"I don't want you to do anything that makes mother unhappy," Evan said. "I know you mean well, but..."

I sat up. "I promised you, Evan, I told you I'd find a way."

"I don't want mother to throw you out like she did Julio!"

"Then let her throw me out. I won't let her stop me — or you." I got up and, carefully stepping over my brother, made my way over to the dresser.

"What... What are you doing?"

I dug my hands through drawer after drawer, looking for what I wanted. My hands closed around a small knapsack, in good condition except for a tiny, insignificant hole. We last used this for school, I thought. Now I'm going to use it for my brother to...

Evan's eyes widened. He knew exactly what I was planning to do. "You can't do this!" he protested, running up and grabbing the bag from my hands.

I wrestled with him. "You don't understand, Evan," I said, struggling with his monstrous little grip. For someone so young, he sure had a lot of determination and wit to stop someone four years older than himself.

"Yes, I very well understand!" His eyes began to give way to tears, but his grip did not falter. "You're going down the path our father and Julio went down. They never came back! Mother won't accept them, and now I've lost them forever! I won't let you go down there! I won't lose you, I won't let that happen!"

"Evan!" I snapped, picking him up. He squirmed, tried to break free, but I held on, carrying him back to his bed. "You need to calm down."

"Not when you're about to jump into a ravine!"

I made him sit, placing my hands on his shoulders, looking at him directly into the eyes. He fidgeted, trying to avoid me, but I shook him firmly. "Listen carefully, Evan. I just need you to listen to me, listen to what I have to say."

He stopped moving, but continued to avoid eye contact, looking around me, looking away from me, looking at anything that wasn't a part of me.

"I know why dad and Julio left. They did it for us, for the family. They wanted us to have a future, a future better than being a scavenger for our entire lives. But they fell off the edge because they got distracted. They thought of themselves, and themselves only. They stopped thinking about us, became indifferent to us. That's why Julio's seldom home, dad never. They're only answering to their own needs, their own desires."

Tears came streaming out of his eyes. I bit my tongue, trying hard not to cry, trying not to lose myself, let myself fall apart. "It won't happen to me, though. I won't let it happen to me. I'm not doing this for myself. I'm doing it for you. I don't know where I'll go, don't know where the road might take me. But I won't go over the edge. You're my lifeline — you will keep me on the right track. I need you to do that for me. I need your support; otherwise, I cannot make it. Remember that I'm not looking for wealth, for fame, for glory. All I want is to see you go back to school, and I'll do anything to make that happen."

My brother fell silent, except for the sniffling as his tears dwelled within him. He reached up and tried to brush away the waterworks with his hand. His next words came out as a quavery stammer: "Will you p-p-promise.... promise me that y-y-you'll c-c-come h-h-home?"

My pinky was up. "I promise," I said. "No matter what happens, even if I can't find what I'm looking for, I'll still come home to you alive. I will not break this promise; God take my life if I do."

He threw his arms over me and emptied his tears into my chest. I patted him comfortingly on the back, gritting and gnashing my teeth as I fought to suppress my own tears. I needed to appear strong to my brother, let him know that I could do it, that I was tough enough to make this difficult decision. ''I'll come home... I'll come home to you alive... I will not break this promise, God take my life if I do...''

"W-W-When are you l-leaving?" he asked.

I had originally hoped to slip away in the darkness of the night, before my mother noticed. But my brother's sudden outburst made me guilty, even after explaining myself. Part of me wanted to go, embark on such a dangerous journey if it meant he could have the opportunity to leave poverty. The other part wanted me to just stay, stay safe and call this all off, let this all just be a bad dream and an infeasible thought.

"Early, tomorrow morning," I said finally. "But I'm going, no matter what."

"You'll stay here for one more night?" he said, choking on his tears slightly.

"Yes."

So that's that, I thought. ''One more night, just one more night. I hope it's not our last night together. And if it is, at least he knew about it.''

There was no sleep for me. I tossed and turned, unable to shut my brain down. It kept me up all night, pleading, arguing, debating with me. I wanted to stay, I wanted to leave. I wanted to cry, I wanted to scream. I felt like this was all just a bad dream, and at the same time knew I was living in the grim reality of life, my life, his life. My mother's life. I wonder if she'll let me back into the house after this.

My brother fared poorly as well. He slept on-and-off, evidenced by short moments of silence, followed by muffled sobbing. I felt like I had poisoned him and sat with him in the same room, watching, listening to him die slowly, painfully. He knew that, soon, he would have the entire room to himself at night, all alone. While I didn't know how he felt when Julio left, I was almost certain that he would not appreciate my absence. Nights would become hell for him, with nobody to answer his questions, or even to listen to him.

''Several nights on your own is better than a lifetime of scavenging, Evan! Remember that!''

The night felt long, but passed by far too quickly. Soon, the night sky began to give way to a faint, reddish hue that grew stronger and richer with every passing minute. I looked at the clock. 5:30 AM. My mother woke up at 6. I had half-an-hour to leave.

Immediately I got up and hurriedly finished packing the few belongings I wanted to bring with me. My father and Julio both left the house with relatively light loads; I did the same. Soon, the knapsack was over my shoulders, though it was so light I wondered if it would've made a difference at all if I had just left it behind.

My brief frenzy woke my brother up from his light, dreamless slumber. He was watching me now, not knowing what to say. He knew this was the moment where we had to say goodbye...

I grasped his hand. "I'll come home, I promise," I said.

He hugged me again, one I feared might be the last. "I hope you do," he said simply.

"Remember Evan: you're my lifeline. I'll always think about you, and that will keep me going. Don't forget about me... and I won't forget about you."

"I won't forget."

He reluctantly released me. I ruffled his hair playfully, trying to get some positivity into my blood. "Take care of mom for me."

I got up and left the room, closing the door softly behind me. Not long after I had done so, I heard loud, audible crying from behind the door.

The morning air felt uncannily cool, despite the fact that nights in the city were almost always warm. The air had a funny taste to it, like a mix of sulphur and vehicular exhaust, combined with the faint odour of Smokey Mountain. I looked back at my house, which now seemed like the best place in the world for me to be in. Goodbye, home, I thought. I wonder if I'll ever see you again.

Memories came flooding back, all the happy ones that took place right here, right outside the house. Times when we would sit outside with the other kids in the neighbourhood and play card games. Times when we would find an old, discarded ball and play football, passing the ball to anyone who wanted to join. Times when we would make a makeshift basketball net and take turns dunking and shooting, right up until the time when the ball went sailing through someone's window. Times when the neighbours all got together and enjoyed a barbeque on the street, where everyone brought their own food to roast on the open fire; my father chatting and snacking with his friends; my mother laughing exuberantly; me, Evan, and Julio having our own little party with everyone else our age.

''Those days are gone. Now, it's nothing but nostalgia.''

I took a deep breath, pushing those memories aside. All that mattered now was the task at hand. I picked up my feet and began walking, away from my childhood home, my safe haven, my castle.

It would be many, many months before I would even be able to see the street I lived on again.

The Road Away from Home
The highway was busy. Car after car drove past me, kicking dirt, dust, and exhaust into my face and eyes. The air was hot and sticky, and as the sun crept over the horizon, I knew it would only get hotter.

Behind me was the dump. It looked strangely beautiful in the morning, almost civil and tame from a distance. In front of me lay the heart of the city, its jewels — rows and rows of skyscrapers — within sight of a place where human lives were less valuable than the garbage they lived on. It was where all the money in the city lived, where those who had money and jobs and schools and rules enjoyed air conditioning in the country's blazing heat, running water and working toilets, an opportunity to enjoy life and freely take its many paths.

Something I — we — don't have.

I kept walking, off the highway, through rough neighbourhoods where the buildings all seemed to contain dark and unsettling secrets, nestled close and tightly to each other. The streets were filled with potholes, filled with vehicles, filled with children. Thousands of them, some working, some sleeping, some playing with whatever they could get their hands on. For many of them, the streets were their home. I knew about them, felt their pain, their life, their good and bad days. A child runs in front of me, pushing a discarded tire alongside him. He reminded me of Evan, so young and carefree, living in a tight, restrictive world. It made me determined to keep going. The world was the foliage, I was the machete. He needed me to get through, needed me to create a path that he could use to get out. He was fortunate to have me, someone who was willing to give up their own lives so he could enjoy his. I looked at the boy and wondered if anyone in his life was willing to do the same for him.

My stomach ended the moment for me as I came to the realization that I hadn't eaten anything that morning. No pagpag. No rice. No dried fish. Nothing. I only experienced my brother's love, which was incompatible with my stomach. I had been hungry before, had stolen before a couple of times in the past for food, but on all those occasions I had a home to retreat to, had a family that I lived with and looked to for support.

''Now I'm on my own... for now at least.''

There was a street stall up ahead, selling fried meats and vegetables, among other things. I had no money with me, so I was going to have to steal. The stallkeeper was no fool either; judging by his appearance and how he monitored his surroundings like a hawk, it was pretty clear that he was trained to catch — almost expecting to find — a thieving little child.

I have to get around him somehow...

I approached the stall, trying to walk, look, and act normal. The stallkeeper noticed me, but didn't think very much of it. Street children were everywhere, and try as he might, he couldn't keep an eye on everyone. I eyed the contents of his stall. Spring rolls. Fish balls. Breadfruit. The rest was pagpag. Beef pagpag. Bean sprout pagpag. Chicken pagpag. Chicken pagpag... Julio sometimes brought them home as a "treat" when he was in a good mood and we had a good day. It went down well with rice, the chicken adding its own unique flavours to an otherwise plain meal.

''Well, at least you did something, Julio. Used to.''

Then, the shopkeeper made a mistake: He paused to take a swig of rice wine.

As soon as he did so, my hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of the chicken pagpag. Didn't have time to put it in a bag, could only snatch and run, getting grease all over my hands. The hot oil began to sear my skin; the chicken was still hot.

The bottle was dropped, landing on the ground with a smash. The shopkeeper yelled something at me. I couldn't hear it, for I was already running away, the wind whistling past my ears, but I didn't need to stop and think to know that he was anything but pleased.

The heat was starting to become unbearable. Without thinking, I stuffed the mass into my mouth. Now my mouth was on fire, the hot grease clinging to my tongue, cheek, and teeth. I almost choked. I turned around to see whether or not the stallkeeper was after me. No, he wasn't... no wait, no wait — actually, don't wait! There he was, running and shouting at me! "Stop, thief! Stop and get back over here!"

I knew better than to listen to him, however. I turned down an alley and fled, dodging and slipping past bodies and objects as I went, the food I had stolen still stuck in my throat. I coughed. I gagged. I could not breathe, and as I choked, I began to lose speed. The tears that welled up in front of my eyes obstructed my vision, and I stumbled and fell to the ground.

I tried to crawl, but my body was much too focused on trying to get the piece of chicken in my throat out. I coughed, convulsed, and retched, and for a moment, I thought it was over. Finally, after much effort, I managed to swallow whatever had tried to kill me. I was exhausted from the ordeal, tears still blocking my eyesight, making everything swim and wash around like an oil painting. I brushed a hand roughly against my eyes, trying to see. There was a tall, male figure standing over me. I looked up.

It was the stallkeeper.

"Stupid boy!" he barked. "Hand it back, whatever you stole." When he noticed that my hands were empty, save for the oil from frying, he became even more irate. "You ***hole! Take and eat what you did not pay for!" He kicked me in the chest. "You damned kids! No wonder I see so many of you lying dead on the streets. Hell's just around the corner for you, I swear to God!" And with that, he turned around and strode off, muttering something inaudible to himself.

When he had turned around a corner, I crawled over to the wall and sat down, leaning my back against it. I was exhausted, my body was still throbbing from where I got my share of bruises. When I had caught up with my breathing, I looked around. The alley was empty, with nothing other than litter keeping me company.

What was I doing here?

I closed my eyes and asked myself the question again. What am I doing here?

My mother's face appeared before me. I could feel her presence, her personality, her love. Even after all that had happened, she had never stopped loving her two remaining sons, always continuing to fight for them to stay alive.

''Thank you, mother. You were so good to me.''

My father was next. I thought of him before he left home, when he looked forward to every day, every morning when he woke up. He would see past all the detestable sights around us and looked forward to seeing his three sons grow up hale and healthy despite the environment they lived in. "Grow up strong," he said to all three of us one day when I was younger. "The strongest people come from the poorest places."

''Thank you, father. Alas, you should have stayed home...''

My older brother, Julio. Well, who knows where he was right now. When he was still in his right mind, though, he said to me: "You know, Garrett, even though you're not the oldest around here, you're still pretty awesome.

''Thank you, Julio... Now why did you throw it all away?''

And finally, Evan. My younger brother. Out of my entire family, I had the most thoughts and feelings for him. They were numerous, flashing by me in a blur, so quickly I didn't have time to closely examine them. But one image stood out from the rest.

My brother. Knee-deep in trash. All around him, more trash. His whole life, grounded in trash. His home, a garbage dump. I was there with him; he sees me and he smiles. He always smiled whenever he saw me. But I knew he couldn't hide what he truly felt, no matter how much he tried to smile it all away.

I opened my eyes.

That's why I'm here.

I got up and began to leave. As I did, I felt like calling to the heavens: "Hang in there, my dearest brother! I'll come home for you, I promise I will!"

I stopped briefly. I looked back and fancied one more thought.

Thank you, Evan.

My hand came up with a fistful of plastic bag. No, the remnants of one, one shredded beyond usefulness.

Useless.

I shoved the plastic aside and dug further into the bin, hoping to find something. Not all scavengers lived in garbage dumps like I did. Many simply dug through dumpsters and garbage cans at night, after the restaurants and food courts disposed of whatever scraps they had and before the garbage trucks collected the refuse. It was late in the day, too late for last night's dinner to still be edible, but I was hoping I'd get lucky. Just this time. Just this once.

A woman emerged from the store adjacent to the bin. "Hey!" she protested, and I turned around, startled. "Get your filthy head outta there!" She rushed up and brushed me aside by the ears. "Quit playing in the trash."

When I did not move, she shoved me again. "Out, you flea-bitten fungus! You're a rotten scum, digging around in garbage. Get your life together or don't get a life at all. Get out or I'll call the police on you! Shoo! Shoo!"

I scrambled. What else could I do? I ran down the busy street, away from the woman. She did not pursue. At least that was no repeat of this morning's debacle. The sun was setting quickly, and soon I realized I was in another debacle of my own: I had no place to spend the night in.

''First I had no food. Now I have nothing to rest my head against. Maybe I should just go back...''

A four letter word popped into my mind. Started with E, ended with an N. E-V-A... No, I thought, shaking my head. ''No, I'm not going back. Not now. Not yet.''

I was tired, exhausted after having spent an entire day on my feet. I did not know where to go or where I might go, only that I had to somehow find a way. Right now, the only path I knew for sure I could take was towards home, and I was not going there. I won't accept defeat when the pain had just begun, when the journey had just started, when the train had just begun to pick up speed. I had farther to go, more earth to dig, more mountain to climb.

I hope you're thinking about me, Evan, because I'm thinking about you.

There was a small recess in the building just ahead of me. The walls were fringed with discarded cigarette stubs, one of them still smoldering slightly. The roof hung over just slightly enough to provide some shelter from the rain like an overhang. Somewhat.

It would do.

I crawled into the recess and lay down. The concrete, despite still being warm, was nevertheless a welcome relief from the heat of the day. The heat reminded me of my immense thirst, for I had very little to drink that day, and I was bathed in my own perspiration. My mouth felt like fur, my skin and clothes were soaked, and I had a headache that was pounding away at my skull with the force of a million sledgehammers.

Good God...

The door opened. For a second, I braced for a rough impact, expecting some ill-mannered man to chase me out. I heard a cough, a belch, and then the dull thud of a thrown object landing in a garbage can. I looked up. It sounded like a bottle... a glass bottle.

As soon as the door was closed, I headed towards the garbage can. Funny, I had climbed mountains of trash all my life, hiked alongside miles of road having car exhaust being blown into my face all day, been chased by angry storekeepers for stealing their merchandise and raiding their trash, and yet this short trip of barely five feet seemed harder than any of the journeys I had made up to this point.

I finally reached the can, stuck my hand in, and came across something hard and smooth. I pulled out a bottle, still a little bit of beer at the bottom.

Dinner.

To be continued...