Learning About the Death of a Former Acquaintance From Getting Caught in an Early Morning Traffic
On my way to my part time weekend job this early morning, I was caught in traffic while in my bus on the way to the ferry terminal. The bus driver won't back up to take another route after finding his bus stuck in place and right in front of another bus that was parked in a manner that gave not much space for big vehicles like our bus to get through. We, the passengers, soon found out we had to get out quick and run for the next bus available, which we found at leat a block away.
Cursing, I was just so angry about having to run at that early part of the day. I was soon chatting with one of the passengers who would turn out to be the wife of Bill, one of the numerous acquaintances I've met here in NYC the past few years. He's a drunk, and I would soon get confirmation from his wife, who is also from the Philippines like myself, that Bill died at least 7 months ago as of this writing and from complications brought about by his fondness for drinking.
Bill's wife, Elena is from the Bicol Region, where my Mom hails from, and we share a common language (Bicol) as I used to speak it during the first few years when I was growing up back in the Philippines. Elena and I would soon find ourselves in tears after being overtaken by our emotions that were easily expressed and poured out than being described in words. But we were soon laughing as well, which was prompted by myself doing it first. I would see from my seat one of those passengers in the same bus earlier who was gazing at both of us drying up our eyes.
Elena's regarded highly by her late husband, as well as my landlord. She used to work for at least 20 years in a convent in Manhattan, until she got a weekly job taking care of an old couple of husband and wife based also in Manhattan. Bill used to do carpentry works in my landlord's house until he was asked not to report again for work because he had been doing so bad with his work. My landlord and Bill had many common traits that they share, one of which is having excellent skills in doing construction works. Elena would remark during our conversation that she thinks Mike would suffer most probably from smoking; that's not for me to talk about because I'm not an expert on such health concerns.
Bill reminded me a lot about my late Father's alcoholic disease. And he's one of those guys who married a Philippine lady whose family he would eventually meet when he came for a visit with his wife. He would relate to me fondly his memories of that long trip to the Philippines, and would bring samples of his wife's cooking (including lumpia and pancit) to our house, which is just a block away from his own house.
Elena and I continued with our brief conversation while being on the Staten Island Ferry Boat to Manhattan Island. She would later tell me that she recognized I'm from the Philippines, and that she had an inkling that I was the one her husband would talk about and who lives at my landlord's house. Diminutive, with short hair, and looking like a typical Chinese woman, she appeared friendly to me, and she showed me how she still misses Bill; she would tell me she still cries over her grief for Bill's passing. I can only shake my head while I recall in mind what my landlord and Bill have told me about their ideas about Elena, being the 'perfect wife.' On the surface, she could very well be the stereotyped long-suffering wife but she really is being given less credit as a strong and wise woman than she deserves outright.
Cursing, I was just so angry about having to run at that early part of the day. I was soon chatting with one of the passengers who would turn out to be the wife of Bill, one of the numerous acquaintances I've met here in NYC the past few years. He's a drunk, and I would soon get confirmation from his wife, who is also from the Philippines like myself, that Bill died at least 7 months ago as of this writing and from complications brought about by his fondness for drinking.
Bill's wife, Elena is from the Bicol Region, where my Mom hails from, and we share a common language (Bicol) as I used to speak it during the first few years when I was growing up back in the Philippines. Elena and I would soon find ourselves in tears after being overtaken by our emotions that were easily expressed and poured out than being described in words. But we were soon laughing as well, which was prompted by myself doing it first. I would see from my seat one of those passengers in the same bus earlier who was gazing at both of us drying up our eyes.
Elena's regarded highly by her late husband, as well as my landlord. She used to work for at least 20 years in a convent in Manhattan, until she got a weekly job taking care of an old couple of husband and wife based also in Manhattan. Bill used to do carpentry works in my landlord's house until he was asked not to report again for work because he had been doing so bad with his work. My landlord and Bill had many common traits that they share, one of which is having excellent skills in doing construction works. Elena would remark during our conversation that she thinks Mike would suffer most probably from smoking; that's not for me to talk about because I'm not an expert on such health concerns.
Bill reminded me a lot about my late Father's alcoholic disease. And he's one of those guys who married a Philippine lady whose family he would eventually meet when he came for a visit with his wife. He would relate to me fondly his memories of that long trip to the Philippines, and would bring samples of his wife's cooking (including lumpia and pancit) to our house, which is just a block away from his own house.
Elena and I continued with our brief conversation while being on the Staten Island Ferry Boat to Manhattan Island. She would later tell me that she recognized I'm from the Philippines, and that she had an inkling that I was the one her husband would talk about and who lives at my landlord's house. Diminutive, with short hair, and looking like a typical Chinese woman, she appeared friendly to me, and she showed me how she still misses Bill; she would tell me she still cries over her grief for Bill's passing. I can only shake my head while I recall in mind what my landlord and Bill have told me about their ideas about Elena, being the 'perfect wife.' On the surface, she could very well be the stereotyped long-suffering wife but she really is being given less credit as a strong and wise woman than she deserves outright.
Comments