If anyone ever asked him what he did for a living, although no one ever would, he’d have said ‘Door man!’
It is a tough job, a demanding profession with no likelihood of advancement.
On the other hand in another life, or another universe, perhaps Jojo might rise to be the doorman at the local Hilton, discreetly tucking away folded US dollars for the same service that he performed at the 7Eleven for 5 pesos a pop on a good night.
But it would have to be a very different universe where people who look like Jojo are the norm. This isn’t that universe.
Here Jojo sticks out like the sociological sore thumb that he is: a shaven hairstyle that comes to an incandescent pink epiphany of gelled spike aimed forward like a rhinoceros horn; a perpetually startled, amazed look in his big brown eyes, as if captured at the peak moment of an overdose of glue fumes. Under this spectacular head is a thin, wiry body that balances on two large, bony feet that wear the latest in fluorescent orange thongs.
One of the downsides of an early adolescence, probably spent sniffing at the end of a tube of glue, or with his face buried in a rag soaked in petrol, was the loss of his verbal motor controls. Jojo always looks as if he has something astounding to say but never says it because apparently his tongue doesn’t sync with his thoughts and his mouth doesn’t close properly.
Next to the 7Eleven is a large hotel where people from all over the world stay as guests. These are Jojo’s public.
It is one of the anomalous features of his city that gleaming, shiny hotels throw their majestic shadows over slums built from cardboard boxes and cast off metal sheeting, and the busy flow of well-to-do people sometimes spills over into the 7Eleven – especially foreigners who haven’t figured out to hire maids to run their errands for them.
When one of these unwary prospects comes into range, Jojo drops whatever he is doing and leaps to stand at attention beside the 7Eleven door, his hand stuck out as if feeling for rain. This leap I suspect is often the cause of commercial failure: Jojo never really looks as if he belongs anywhere, which is another way of saying he looks like an alien, and to suddenly appear beside someone from Utah who is filled with apprehension and about to enter a dubious-looking 7Eleven is usually more than most marketing gurus would recommend.
The first time I walked past Jojo I flinched. There he was, suddenly beside me, hand outstretched, gaping at me with those big astonished eyes and open mouth and I’d passed him before I understood what he was doing.
The 7Eleven was an experience in itself: I’d never seen a 7Eleven used as a social venue before and the crowd of people who were standing or sitting around and chatting and not buying while the sound system blasted away surprised me so much I forgot about Jojo and even why I was there.
Later I realized that being airconditioned it offered one of the few spaces where people could meet and talk in relative comfort, but my first impression was of walking uninvited into someone’s party. I made my purchases and when I went out there was Jojo again, throwing me off balance because I’d already calculated the effort to move the heavy glass door and his sudden whipping motion sent me stumbling past him and onto the uneven pavement. By the time I’d regained my balance and aplomb I was already under the awning of the hotel and Jojo was a dim memory. But a persistent memory. You had to admire someone who had found a niche in an otherwise hostile world. Jojo stuck in my mind. On reflection the pink spike was probably a smart business move…
Three days later I went back to the 7Eleven for milk. Jojo was not there, maybe busy somewhere else.
The next night at about midnight I went back for more provisions and I saw him waiting for me. I have to admit I smiled. It was actually good to see him. He whipped open the door with practiced ease. I bought what I wanted and made sure I had 15 pesos in change in my hand. I paused at the heavy door and Jojo opened it. I could have said ‘I am capable of opening the door myself’ but I didn’t. I thanked him and put the 15 pesos in his hand. I don’t know what the going rate for his service might have been but he didn’t seem either disappointed or pleased. All I could detect when I looked into his eyes was satisfaction, as if he’d been trying to coach me to perform a rightness and I’d finally got the message.
I thought about that all the way up in the lift to my suite. Oddly enough I also felt as if I’d performed a rightness – not an act of charity, but an act of collusion with someone who had figured out an angle to beat the World Bank and was making it work for him.
What do you do with a perception like that? I wrote it down.
