Another kind of census
by Gutierrez Mangansakan II

A treasure trove of autumn leaves in a Ziploc bag, an intriguing Ragamuffin, and God in a box of Cheerios — some mementos from Iowa City defy expectations.

“One hundred eighty-nine squirrels, eight brown rabbits, and four crazy people.”

I reveal an ongoing census to my date, Andrew, a UI graduate student, in between swigs of sake martini. We are seated in the middle of Formosa on a crowded Friday night.

“I never tried to learn using these,” he tells me, struggling with bamboo chopsticks. He picks up a piece of sushi, but loses his grip. The slice of salmon takes a dive into the dipping dish, forming an archipelago of black and green islets on the table.

“I’m sorry.” He smiles at me, half embarrassed.

“Just pick it up with your fingers,” I tell him. I throw him a furtive glance as he slides the pink flesh in his mouth. I decide to put down my chopsticks. I pick up a maguro with my left hand, dunk it into the soy sauce, and rest it on my tongue for a few seconds, savoring the explosion of wasabi and brine in my mouth.

“Oh, back to what you were saying.” Andrew returns to the earlier conversation. “Do you actually count?”

“Yeah, I have time for that in Iowa City. I’ve become the unofficial census guy of odd facts since I arrived in late August.”

I feel silly with my answer.

“That’s …”Andrew hesitates for a moment and, for lack of a better word, says, “perceptive of you.”

***

I come from a big city with a population of 1.3 million in southern Philippines. Everything is fast, hypnotic, and schizophrenic. Partying is the norm, not something you only look forward to on Fridays. So upon arriving in a small city where everything slows down, I couldn’t help but zoom into the smallest, seemingly unimportant details of life — like a chipmunk getting run over by a car on Evans Street. Poor little fellow.

My first Iowan visitor was actually a chipmunk. I had bad jetlag. To kick the sleepiness, I explored my neighborhood the morning after I arrived.

Right next to my new home was the Haunted Bookshop. I walked inside. Boxes of books were being sold for less than a dollar. But before I could check the titles, I spotted a grey and white cat, a Ragamuffin perhaps. I suddenly missed my two Persian cats back home. What could they be doing now? I checked my watch. Half past 9 in the morning in Iowa City, 10:30 in the evening in my country.

A few steps away sat New Pioneer Co-op. I bought a cup of coffee — the first of my daily six. Across the street a Yoga Center boasting instructors trained in India and Thailand occupied a grey house obscured by thick foliage. Two blocks away, I strolled to an open air mall next to the city library. Not bad. I’m going to be perfectly fine here, I whispered to myself.

Walking back to the house, there was a chipmunk sitting on the front porch. It was comfortable around me, even when I tapped my foot on the wooden floor. It sat there and stared at me with an expression of welcome and surprise. Soon after, they came in droves every morning. The squirrels and chipmunks. I started counting.

***

“Writers are supposed to be perceptive.” I tell Andrew, saving him from his loss for words.

“And what can you tell about me?” He laughs nervously. What a flirt.

“I don’t know,” I answer, blushing.

“Come on, be a good sport. I’m sure you can say something about me.”

“You’re cute, even with soy sauce on your face.” I flirt back. That will shut him up for a while. He wipes his face.

“Do you like it here?” He asks. I pause for a second. Did he ask about me liking the city or him? This is our first date. We met at a university lecture on Japanese tea ceremony a week before. At this point, it’s hard to judge whether I’m really into him or not.

“Sure. The city is quiet. It’s great considering I want to get writing done.”

“What are you writing about?”

“Anything. It’s a collection of essays on any possible subject.”

***

I sat next to the window of the Java House one windy afternoon. The sun, about to call it a day, gave the autumn leaves an iridescent glow. With delight and curiosity, I watched a girl — about five years old — in a black velvet and organza dress, strolling with her mother along Washington. She was holding a Ziploc bag. As her mother talked on the phone, the sweet little girl would bend and pick up golden leaves scattered across the sidewalk. She would inspect each leaf, and if they were not torn or folded, she would place them one by one inside her small transparent bag. The mother kept talking to an invisible person, oblivious of the ecstasy each leaf meant for the girl. A treasure trove.

I guess there’s no single encounter that can be described as “the ultimate Iowa City experience.” You collect little pieces of anything that’s possible. Like the golden leaves. You have to surrender to the city’s natural rhythm. What joy a fountain of water brings as it lands on a boy’s hand on the Ped Mall. Freshly picked produce at the Farmers’ Market can offer such vast possibilities to a kitchen. A feast of verses and lines waits at Prairie Lights. You must even laugh at the absurdity of redundantly referring to this Midwestern sanctuary as the city of Iowa City …

That doesn’t mean you have to bore yourself into a catatonic state. Despite the unhurried lifestyle, there are chances for crazy adventures and occasional mishaps in this city. There’s something for everybody. Frisbee afternoon at College Green. A century-old statue of a black angel, standing guard in the cemetery, which is supposed to be cursed. They say you die within 48 hours if you touch it. A visiting Persian poet once hugged it. She contracted herpes. I’m not sure though if there’s a relation.

And spending a night in jail for public intox is crazy — something that has less to do with an actual misdemeanor than the police’s need to reach a quota. I’ve never been arrested in my life, not even when I was a young communist shouting anti-government slogans in the streets of Manila. A night in the slammer was big. It was hard swallowing the fact that my budget for the Gucci sneakers I’m dying to buy would go to fines. Not to mention I have a criminal record in the United States, something the judge played down by telling us, “If you don’t get arrested in the next two years, this will be expunged from the record.” Yeah, tell that to the consul who would surely deny my next visa application. I don’t think I would call it a badge of honor, either. I’d rather get arrested for throwing a rotten tomato at George W’s motorcade.

***

Andrew recounts his first day in Iowa City six years ago, when he was a freshman. He is originally from Des Moines. He admits he was a “troubled” kid, a result of his parents’ divorce in fifth grade. He and his sister grew up with their mom, a secretary, who filled the void left by her husband by hosting Bible study sessions after work.

“It was sickening,” Andrew confesses, “as strangers came and went. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” Stuck with an unbearable situation, Andrew realized that he had two options. He could run away. “But I love my sister so much. If I ran away, I might never see her again,” he reveals.

So he decided on another option — get good grades in high school and go to a decent university.

“That’s how I got here.”

“Do you still see your sister?” I ask.

“Once in a while. She’s in college. We call each other from time to time.”

Andrew looks away. There is a long silence. I suddenly think of my sister. We don’t get along lately. And my mom — I need to send her a postcard. “No presents when you come back,” she told me before I left. “I want you to send postcards from each city you visit.”

“There’s little distraction in Iowa,” Andrew resumes.

“Yeah …” I can’t think of anything to say. I wouldn’t necessarily call news choppers hovering above the city distracting. Where I come from, military helicopters drop bombs on villages.

I wave at the waiter. “Could we have another glass of martini?”

***

It’s easy to navigate around Iowa City. People can walk the quiet streets in their sleep and still manage their way back to bed without getting mugged or molested. I want to think Cody Kiroff, the law student beaten on Clinton Street, was an exception. It’s not hard to lose faith here with all the churches on almost every street corner. One can find God even in a box of Cheerios. The silence, though, could be unsettling. And so is free balling. When boys walk the city streets in basketball shorts with no underwear and Foucault’s pendulum is swinging underneath thin cloth, it’s distracting. I’ve already choked on my saliva before I could even tell myself, “Look away.” They’re family jewels, for Chrissakes. Unless you have jock itch, they’re supposed to be kept safe. Not necessarily in lacquered boxes. But in something that wouldn’t cause so much of a traffic jam.

***

“Do you want to go out again on Thursday? There’s a nice band playing at the Picador.” Andrew wants to date again. This is going perfectly well.

“Let me check my schedule.” I reach for my bag and take out my notebook. I flip it open to an empty page. “Sure, I’m free.”

There are things that I still need to discover in this city. I guess I still have time for this.

“I’ve always wanted to be a music journalist.”

“That’s cool.”

Andrew begins telling me all the gigs he has been to — the ones he likes and those that need to put their acts to rest. I listen raptly. I can hear the strumming of a guitar in his voice, gentle at first, then forceful. I swim in his words, liquid and flowing like the Iowa River.

About the writer Gutierrez Mangansakan II, a writer from the Philippines, is a narcissistic blogger who loves to look at his page from a variety of computers just to see how different it appears. His collection of essays, Archipelago of Stars, will be out this summer. He is a 2008 International Writing Program participant.