I do my walking exercise way past 5 pm. Just when the sun is about to set. I don my honda shirt with sleeves pulled up near the elbows, match this with rugged denim pants and put on my China-made Skecher's rubber shoes.
I take my own sweet time. No need to hurry. At my age, I can afford to plentifully waste the time. I grab my belt bag and strap it around the waist. What do I have there? A small bottle of amonia, Swiss knife, mineral water and a billiard ball. What is the billiard ball for? For my false sense of security. And, yes, I don't leave without my Canon digicam. I take shots along the way.
I initially take the paved walkway along the riverbanks. I move casually, but conscious of the force that presses each foot against the ground as I move forward. Bikers pass me by from time to time. I can see the mall across the river. It used to be Utex where Father was company doctor for 27 years.
I hasten my pace, and try to overtake the slow-moving ones. I see young couples embracing in sweet surrender and, in silent whispers, revealing the secrets of their souls. Not yet feeling tired, I sing some lines from Sinatra's September Song. "Oh the days dwindle down to a precious few...September, November....And these precious days, I'll spend with you....these precious days, I'll spend with you."
I take shots when I see a nice image, a good angle. Click, Click, Click. I turn right at a narrow street where a big ancestral house proudly stands. From there, i cross the main road, and after several minutes, I enter the covered public market, looking for dvds of old films. Then I move to a stall selling China made items. For 20 pesos, you can have a long screwdriver.
From afternoon, it is now dusk. I enter the big church and take a seat at the last row. I have personally arrogated that unto myself. I touch my arms and they are wet with perspirations. Same with my back and neck. I pray and the prayer I say is the same prayer I have been saying for the last 20 years. And a quick one with a quick sign of the cross.
After quenching my thirst with cold water, I continue my walking exercise. I take the narrow side streets on my way back. This time holding the billiard ball. I still see some shoe-making shops. They are part of the few ones left. Remnants of the dying shoe industry. American Golden, Jemelie, Jem Brothers, Rempson, Storck, Cardams, Borlani, Lobelle's etc are gone. They are now history.
I now feel tired. My muscles start to ache. I see and cross my self- imposed imaginary finish line. Upon calculating, I have walked for 1 hour and 20 minutes, covering a distance of 8 kilometers. I am perspiring profusely. Good for my body. I begin taking off my shoes, my Skecher's rubber shoes. Clearly embossed are the words "Made in China". And the longer I look at the pair, the more I realize why Marikina's shoe industry is dying. I throw the black rubber shoes under the long wooden bench. To be used again the next day.
- Konted
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