Alex Maskara
Thoughts, Stories, Imagination of Filipino American Alex Maskara
Welcome
~
A California Story
The morning sun was already stretching through the coastal fog when Mateo Santiago stepped onto the porch of his modest California home. It was July 4th, Independence Day—again. The wind carried the faint scent of jacarandas and distant barbecue smoke. Somewhere, children were already lighting firecrackers, their laughter echoing against the rolling hills of this sleepy town just outside Ventura.
Mateo was turning 63 this year. Today was quiet, unusually quiet. He stared out at the garden he tended every morning, now blooming with soft lavender, white sage, and a single blooming sunflower that tilted toward the morning light. The garden had become his temple. Today it felt like sanctuary.
Ten years ago to the day, July 4th, 2014, he had moved into a downtown condo—his first act of real independence. A new chapter, he’d called it then. He didn’t yet know that chapter would come with a litany of small battles: HOA conflicts, bad tenants, sewage breakdowns, a crumbling roof, threats from the mentally ill who lingered in the alley, and his own overly generous role as caretaker of a building that no longer felt like home.
Now, the decade had passed—and so had his younger sister, Ana.
Her death was still fresh, but strangely it had brought with it an odd sense of release. For thirty years, she’d been part of his American story—from the day he brought her over in hopes that she might thrive or perhaps help him shoulder the burden of immigration and aging alone. It never quite worked out that way.
She'd come with her own scars, including a failed marriage that left her afraid and uncertain. Mateo had been the wall she leaned on—financially, emotionally, spiritually. And although he never admitted it until now, he was always afraid to leave, afraid she'd crumble without him. That fear kept him tethered. It bent his plans, shaped his choices, and became the silent architect of many of his compromises.
But today, July 4, 2025, was another kind of Independence Day.
The living room inside was quiet. His roommate, Jim — a retired electrician and a kind of makeshift brother — was still asleep in the other room. They’d lived under the same roof for over twelve years now. Nothing special about their relationship, they were brought together by necessity, which matured into family, brothers. Each of them as far away from their families. Jim couldn’t afford a place on his own in Southern California’s punishing rental market. Mateo didn’t mind him so long as he contributes what he can for the utilities. Jim was respectful, handy, and loyal in a world where loyalty had grown rare.
Mateo sat down with his morning coffee, gazing at Psalm 23 opened on his tablet.
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
It hit differently today. Less like a poetic promise and more like a quiet truth.
He reflected on the freedom he now had. Not just freedom from responsibility, but freedom from the constant dread—of emergencies, of hospital calls, of guilt. For decades, he had walked with a boulder on his back, one he mistook for duty. Ana’s departure, while tragic, had loosened something in his chest. He could breathe again. “She’s with God now,” he whispered, and meant it.
In the late morning, he went for his walk along the canyon trail. The city had recently cleaned up the area, and the usual chaos of homelessness and noise had given way to peaceful silence. He greeted other walkers—mostly older folk like himself—and exchanged nods with a few familiar faces. Some days, he’d chat with a homeless man named Rafael about books and philosophy. Other days, he kept to himself.
Today, he walked alone.
By noon, fireworks had begun to sound in the distance. He thought about the family messages he received earlier that morning. His nieces and nephews asking about Ana’s arrangements. His eldest sister texting from Manila. He had responded briefly, then turned off his phone. His body still needed rest. The minor stroke three months ago had been a warning, not just from his doctor, but from God: “Slow down, Mateo. Your heart cannot carry everything.”
Back home, he danced alone in his room. Not out of joy, but habit. A little movement to stir the blood, stretch the hips, protect his back. He’d stopped filming his exercise videos since Ana entered hospice. They felt performative now, hollow. Maybe he would start again next month. Maybe not.
He thought about the men he had let into his life over the years—some kind, others careless. Joey, James, Jason. Mistakes that started small, grew big, and left him reeling. The worst was Steve, who’d taken advantage of his loneliness. But those days felt like echoes now. The one bright outcome of those tangled chapters was Jim, who had stayed. That was enough.
Tomorrow, he and Carlos — Ana’s quiet husband, now widower, would meet with the funeral director. Mateo felt no urgency. Ana’s story was closed. She had made her choices. He had done his part.
Still, the loneliness lingered. He wrestled daily with the primitive ache for company—sometimes sexual, sometimes merely the warmth of a voice in the kitchen. That craving always came in the morning, before prayer realigned his soul. Prayer had become his anchor. The Holy Spirit, his quiet visitor.
Mateo understood something now: the world of the body was full of illusions. The real kingdom was not of this world. He’d seen enough friends who returned home with grand dreams—big mansions, fancy retirements—only to die within months. The body failed quickly. The soul needed preparation.
So he prayed. He wrote. He gardened. He walked. He danced alone.
“Perhaps this,” he thought, “is what freedom really means. The long-awaited space to become one’s true self—without obligation, without guilt.”
The sun dipped behind the trees as fireworks cracked overhead. Mateo stood by his window, watching the sky pulse in reds and golds, then fade.
Tomorrow would bring funeral plans. Next week, perhaps a few more messages from relatives, some silence, a few dreams.
But tonight, he was free.
And in that quiet freedom, he lacked nothing.
2025-07-05 01:07:35
shortstories
The Art of Hustling
They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.
Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”
I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.
That’s when he stepped away.
"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"
“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.
“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”
He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”
“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”
He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.
“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.
“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”
“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”
I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”
He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”
“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”
When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.
“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”
Antonio was listening now.
“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”
He nodded slightly.
“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”
I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.
“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”
He grinned. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”
I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”
I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.
“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”
Antonio yawned.
I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”
“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”
“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”
I stood up and mimed the stance.
“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”
I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.
“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”
Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”
“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”
He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”
“I lived it,” I replied.
We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.
But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
masquerade
July 4 Psalm 24
A California Story
The morning sun was already stretching through the coastal fog when Mateo Santiago stepped onto the porch of his modest California home. It was July 4th, Independence Day—again. The wind carried the faint scent of jacarandas and distant barbecue smoke. Somewhere, children were already lighting firecrackers, their laughter echoing against the rolling hills of this sleepy town just outside Ventura.
Mateo was turning 63 this year. Today was quiet, unusually quiet. He stared out at the garden he tended every morning, now blooming with soft lavender, white sage, and a single blooming sunflower that tilted toward the morning light. The garden had become his temple. Today it felt like sanctuary.
Ten years ago to the day, July 4th, 2014, he had moved into a downtown condo—his first act of real independence. A new chapter, he’d called it then. He didn’t yet know that chapter would come with a litany of small battles: HOA conflicts, bad tenants, sewage breakdowns, a crumbling roof, threats from the mentally ill who lingered in the alley, and his own overly generous role as caretaker of a building that no longer felt like home.
Now, the decade had passed—and so had his younger sister, Ana.
Her death was still fresh, but strangely it had brought with it an odd sense of release. For thirty years, she’d been part of his American story—from the day he brought her over in hopes that she might thrive or perhaps help him shoulder the burden of immigration and aging alone. It never quite worked out that way.
She'd come with her own scars, including a failed marriage that left her afraid and uncertain. Mateo had been the wall she leaned on—financially, emotionally, spiritually. And although he never admitted it until now, he was always afraid to leave, afraid she'd crumble without him. That fear kept him tethered. It bent his plans, shaped his choices, and became the silent architect of many of his compromises.
But today, July 4, 2025, was another kind of Independence Day.
The living room inside was quiet. His roommate, Jim — a retired electrician and a kind of makeshift brother — was still asleep in the other room. They’d lived under the same roof for over twelve years now. Nothing special about their relationship, they were brought together by necessity, which matured into family, brothers. Each of them as far away from their families. Jim couldn’t afford a place on his own in Southern California’s punishing rental market. Mateo didn’t mind him so long as he contributes what he can for the utilities. Jim was respectful, handy, and loyal in a world where loyalty had grown rare.
Mateo sat down with his morning coffee, gazing at Psalm 23 opened on his tablet.
The Lord is my shepherd, I lack nothing.
It hit differently today. Less like a poetic promise and more like a quiet truth.
He reflected on the freedom he now had. Not just freedom from responsibility, but freedom from the constant dread—of emergencies, of hospital calls, of guilt. For decades, he had walked with a boulder on his back, one he mistook for duty. Ana’s departure, while tragic, had loosened something in his chest. He could breathe again. “She’s with God now,” he whispered, and meant it.
In the late morning, he went for his walk along the canyon trail. The city had recently cleaned up the area, and the usual chaos of homelessness and noise had given way to peaceful silence. He greeted other walkers—mostly older folk like himself—and exchanged nods with a few familiar faces. Some days, he’d chat with a homeless man named Rafael about books and philosophy. Other days, he kept to himself.
Today, he walked alone.
By noon, fireworks had begun to sound in the distance. He thought about the family messages he received earlier that morning. His nieces and nephews asking about Ana’s arrangements. His eldest sister texting from Manila. He had responded briefly, then turned off his phone. His body still needed rest. The minor stroke three months ago had been a warning, not just from his doctor, but from God: “Slow down, Mateo. Your heart cannot carry everything.”
Back home, he danced alone in his room. Not out of joy, but habit. A little movement to stir the blood, stretch the hips, protect his back. He’d stopped filming his exercise videos since Ana entered hospice. They felt performative now, hollow. Maybe he would start again next month. Maybe not.
He thought about the men he had let into his life over the years—some kind, others careless. Joey, James, Jason. Mistakes that started small, grew big, and left him reeling. The worst was Steve, who’d taken advantage of his loneliness. But those days felt like echoes now. The one bright outcome of those tangled chapters was Jim, who had stayed. That was enough.
Tomorrow, he and Carlos — Ana’s quiet husband, now widower, would meet with the funeral director. Mateo felt no urgency. Ana’s story was closed. She had made her choices. He had done his part.
Still, the loneliness lingered. He wrestled daily with the primitive ache for company—sometimes sexual, sometimes merely the warmth of a voice in the kitchen. That craving always came in the morning, before prayer realigned his soul. Prayer had become his anchor. The Holy Spirit, his quiet visitor.
Mateo understood something now: the world of the body was full of illusions. The real kingdom was not of this world. He’d seen enough friends who returned home with grand dreams—big mansions, fancy retirements—only to die within months. The body failed quickly. The soul needed preparation.
So he prayed. He wrote. He gardened. He walked. He danced alone.
“Perhaps this,” he thought, “is what freedom really means. The long-awaited space to become one’s true self—without obligation, without guilt.”
The sun dipped behind the trees as fireworks cracked overhead. Mateo stood by his window, watching the sky pulse in reds and golds, then fade.
Tomorrow would bring funeral plans. Next week, perhaps a few more messages from relatives, some silence, a few dreams.
But tonight, he was free.
And in that quiet freedom, he lacked nothing.
2025-07-05 01:07:35
shortstories
Diary of a Masquerade 5
The Art of Hustling
They were walking along the seawall that curved behind Roxas Boulevard, the infamous stretch near Manila Bay that lovers claimed as their own. By day, the promenade offered lazy views of the harbor and the silhouettes of ships vanishing into horizon fog. But by night, it transformed. The salt air turned heavier. Lamplight flickered on the rippling water. And in the quiet shadows between palm trees and weeping willows, passion bloomed discreetly under the veil of darkness.
Antonio grinned wickedly and nudged me. “Nothing’s changed,” he whispered. “Same spot. Same swaying palms. Same desperate moans. Lovers on top of lovers—taking turns like it’s a cheap motel that never closes.”
I bent low, letting my gaze follow his pointing finger toward a pair tangled near the rocks. My ears tuned in. For a second, I almost felt complicit in their secret.
That’s when he stepped away.
"Hey!" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "Someone's watching you two! There’s a voyeur behind the coconut trees!"
“Dammit!” I froze, then bolted after him, rage bubbling. I caught up with him in front of the U.S. Embassy gates, grabbed his collar, and yanked him close.
“Don’t you ever pull that kind of crap on me again!”
He was laughing uncontrollably, barely able to stand. “Relax, man! It was a joke!”
“Joke my ass. What if someone thought I really was a perv?”
He kept cackling like it was the best punchline in the world. We finally sank onto a stone bench under the long shadows of a weeping willow, waiting for my pulse to settle.
After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So, what’s the secret of good hustling?”
The question caught me off guard. It felt too calculated, too cold to be casual. But also… inevitable.
“What, thinking of trying it yourself?” I teased.
“Nah. I’m just curious. You said you’d teach me everything you know.”
“Did I?” I muttered, raising an eyebrow.
“You did. And I’m holding you to it.”
I sighed. “Fine. But no double-crossing. I’m serious.”
He blinked. “Double-cross you? Man, this isn’t a mafia movie.”
“I’m just saying,” I replied flatly. “Let’s be clear from the start.”
When he nodded, I leaned back and let the lesson begin.
“The art of hustling,” I said slowly, “isn’t just about lying on some mattress waiting to be used. That’s amateur stuff. A real hustler is part therapist, part actor, part spy.”
Antonio was listening now.
“You start with observation. From the moment a guy opens his mouth, your radar better be on. Is he lonely? Is he manic? Is he drunk, high, delusional? You adjust your energy to match his—but don’t ever let your words exceed his. Silence is power. Too much talking makes you look desperate.”
He nodded slightly.
“Scan him. Check for physical signs: posture, breathing, bags under the eyes. Look for weapons. See if he’s carrying something strange—bags, bumps, bulges. You don't want to be alone with someone who might pull a gun... or die mid-act. Do this while you're answering questions—short and sharp. Yes or no. Always be in control of the charge. Adjust price depending on his wallet, but make it clear: the less he pays, the less you give.”
I paused, studying Antonio’s face. Still with me.
“Now here’s where it gets anatomical,” I smirked. “There are five body zones clients notice: butt, thighs, chest, shoulders, and eyes. In that order.”
He grinned. “You serious?”
“Dead serious. Don’t get fooled by thinking the crotch is the star—it isn’t. The butt? Should be square, not round. Round is for women. For us, it’s got to be solid, masculine, defined. The thighs? Full and muscular, rubbing slightly when you walk. That makes them imagine the rest.”
I stretched slightly on the bench as I continued. “The stomach doesn’t need to be ripped. Flat is enough—as long as it’s in proportion to your chest. The chest? Needs to be open, nipples forward, never slouching. Shoulders? Wide, arched like an eagle’s wings, the kind that own a room. And the eyes… ah, the eyes…”
I lit a cigarette, let the smoke drift between us.
“They’re the hook. The unspoken proposition. Eyes carry everything—desire, danger, defiance, or submission. If you mess up eye contact, it’s over.”
Antonio yawned.
I narrowed my eyes. “You bored?”
“Everyone knows this stuff,” he muttered. “You just described every fitness model on Instagram.”
“But not everyone knows how to use these parts. Hustling is performance. You don’t just walk into the night; you become the night.”
I stood up and mimed the stance.
“You wear black. Always. Clothes should hug the body. And if your body isn’t great? Fake it. Pads. Compression. Doubling up on underwear. You lean against a post—vacant lots, abandoned buildings, forgotten parks. These are your stage. You wait—not with eagerness, but with mystery. You don’t hunt. You lure.”
I took another drag, then exhaled toward an imaginary client.
“You shift weight. You cross arms. Tilt your head just right—not too eager. Tilt the chin, narrow the gaze. Let him initiate the smile. Otherwise? Game over.”
Antonio rolled his eyes playfully. “You sound like a priest preaching sin.”
“I’m a realist preaching survival,” I said coolly. “And once a deal is struck, be honest. Set boundaries—no rough stuff, no unsafe play. Be respectful. Polite. Clean. And never forget: it’s a business of loyalty. You screw up once, word spreads like wildfire.”
He finally gave a low whistle. “Damn, you’ve really thought this through.”
“I lived it,” I replied.
We fell silent, watching the tide roll back against the seawall where earlier shadows of lovers were now gone—replaced by waves, whispering secrets.
But on the street, he wore no name—only the eyes of a man who had seen too much, yet lived to pass it on.
2025-07-03 02:12:39
masquerade