Philippine Speculative Fiction by Andrew Drilon Page A

the electronics and communications engineer, to clamber to the roof and keep the transmission antenna working with duct tape and prayers. Roel
kept the sound system running. Cesar babied the aging chargen and editing machines. The cameramen took care of their cameras and cables, while the talents–the announcers–hunched over
their ‘Dazos and analyzed the races for the fans.
    The crew couldn’t afford to be distracted. They were fatigued enough as it was, working six days straight for a week, from six to eleven at night Tuesday to Friday, and two in the
afternoon till nine at night on weekends. The off weeks weren’t enough to rest–they still had to report to the office for duty from eight to five.
    So when the guys in traffic—the chargen operator and the switchers—and the cameramen returning from their eyries began talking about receiving eerie phone calls, Jane stepped in. It
wouldn’t do to have them spooking themselves.
    “What’s this all about?” she asked, putting in her voice as much authority as she could muster.
    The muttering died down and all eyes turned to Cesar, the chargen operator.
    “Ma’am Jane, it’s the dedicated phone from the stewards’ stand to here, the broadcast,” Cesar said. “The phone connects only between the two departments.
After the races, when’s everybody’s gone, sometimes the phone rings. And we hear a voice…”
    “That’s impossible,” said Jane. “If there’s no one up there, how can we get a call?”
    “That’s what we don’t understand, ma’am,” Niño said.
    Jane shook her head. “What kind of voice is it that you think you hear, anyway?”
    “A deep voice. Like nothing I’ve ever heard,” Cesar said. The others nodded in agreement.
    “
Nakakatakot.”
Roel.
    “
Garalgal.”
Ronnie.
    “Parang hindi tao.”
Wendell.
    “Now that’s enough,” Jane said. “
Over na ‘yan, ha.
The next time the phone rings after the last race, I’ll answer it myself.”
    The mood lifted. Smiles broke out among the crew. It was Jane’s job to deal with things, even the unexplained.
    MENDOZA SHIFTED IN his seat, his bulk making him uncomfortable. He thought of seeing his doctor again. For one thing, his breath seemed to be hitching in his chest. His heart
would speed up, then slow down, the fear of a stroke spiking his adrenalin until the episodes of palpitation passed.
    The quack kept warning him to quit smoking, eat more vegetables and less
lechon
, drink more water and no Johnny Walker, but what did he know about the stresses of being a steward? A man
needed his pleasures.
    Still, that
tonto
went through all those years of medical school and should know his business, as Mendoza knew his.
    What alarmed him most was that his eyesight seemed to be failing. He thought of getting a new pair of binoculars, but they were not as necessary as they used to be, now that the stewards had the
TV monitors in their room.
    His attention span seemed reduced, his concentration weak. The change from day to night racing felt too abrupt, the sunlight on the sand giving way to a track flooded with light from the
powerful arc lamps imported from abroad.
    And he still couldn’t find his reading glasses.
    The lack of respect from his colleagues galled him. They would not make eye contact as they went about their work. He spoke to them gruffly, but they refused him the courtesy of a reply,
mga
hijo de puta.
They simply went through the motions. They’d all worked together for years, and race day conduct and monitoring was as automatic to them as breathing. They didn’t
need his instructions to perform their duties, but still, rudeness would not be tolerated.
    Perhaps they were still angry at him for reporting their laziness to management.
Bahala silang magtampo.
He was still the boss around here.
    Mendoza massaged his neck. The interminable hours crawled by. Would this race day never end?
    Now look at that! The floodlights flickered, and died. The track was dark.