1 Way Ticket

“Ty!”

It’s too early for this.

“Ty! Breakfast, Ty!”

I know what this means, what "breakfast" means. It means the same thing I’d choked back at 6 am for the past half year—dinuguan, pig blood and bowel stew.

I expected challenges in Peace Corps Philippines, just not in detail.

“Ty! You eat breakfast now!”

Maybe if I don’t respond it will all just stop.

“Tyler!”

“WHAT!”

“Dinuguan! You eat now!”

I peer out the hut’s bamboo lattice. Ajax is out there somewhere with his rutted scars, bulky canine musculature and aggressive distaste for strangers. To him, I’m still a stranger.

#

At first, my site was perfect—a small coastal town with calm coves and coral gardens. Sea turtles bobbed. Dolphins played at twilight. Locals welcomed me.

Maybe too much.

At a welcome ceremony, the mayor introduced me: “The most handsome Tyler! You will improve our race!”

I intended to set up marine protected areas, not contribute DNA. Yet I was coerced to stay with my supervisor. She was a municipal counselor at 28…and the mayor’s tubby niece. I secretly called her Godzilla.

The family was well known on the island. A dynasty. From local to provincial to national government, they traded titles each election.

“I could never have an American boyfriend,” Godzilla used to say coyly. I ignored it. It didn’t fully register to me that I was being groomed as her designated suitor.

I was more worried about my work. I discovered malfeasance—bribes allowed commercial fishing to deplete food resources. Hungry locals looked to rebels to combat a corrupt government.

To my chagrin, the rebel commander was Godzilla’s estranged uncle. One night, he and his toadies emerged from the mountains to recruit me with beer and karaoke.

“We will use bullets! Will you join us?”

“I don’t think I’m allowed.”

Godzilla sucker-punched him a week later in a public setting. Guns were drawn, threats were made.

#

As my best Filipino friend put it, “You’re a shit magnet.”
I accept it. Expect it even. I no longer underestimate its volatility. How I ended up here doesn’t matter. Of more immediacy, what next?

#

I dart from hut to dining area to elude Ajax. Everyone’s gone. At the table where they reload hollow points into clips, there’s a plate of rice, a brimming bowl of dinuguan.

I sigh.

Ajax glares in the doorway. A low rumble pitches into a snarl. His scars made him this way.

I don’t pity him. I just want to cohabit. I pick up the bowl, leave the rice, and meet fate under the mango tree.