FIXED

“A camera!” exclaimed Noy as he opened the large,

fancily wrapped box his parents gave him when the clock
struck midnight that Christmas. His father held his mother
close as they watched their youngest son take the gift
carefully into his hands. He held the camera and looked at
it, not quite believing it was real.
“Do you like it?” his father asked, certain what the
answer would be.
Noy grinned and said, “It’s beautiful! But... this must
have cost you a fortune!”
His father and mother looked at each other and
smiled. It was good to have Noy home from school for
24
the holidays—the house had been so quiet now that their
children were grown and away. His mother explained,
“Your Kuya Ben sent us a check last month—his holiday
gift to your father and myself—and, since we were able to
pay off all that we owed and still have a little left over...
well, we decided we would buy you something nice.”
“We knew you wanted one ever since you took that
special class in high school, and, since you’ve done so well
at the university…”
“And you’re an honor student!” his father said, giving
his son a pat on the back. “You’ve made us very proud, Noy.
You deserve a little reward.”
Noy smiled, thinking that the camera, formidable with
its weight in his hands, made his efforts at school worth it.
He was lucky to have parents who had done so much for
him and his brother. “You two must have used up what you
earned on the farm this year,” he said with concern.
His father sat him down and placed a reassuring
hand on his shoulder. “It was not all that expensive,” he
explained. “I got this camera at a very good price—it was
almost a giveaway! A business acquaintance in the city
told me about a little shop owned by a friend of his, and
the owner gave me the camera and these accessories”—he
pointed out the flash, a zoom lens, and a tripod—“with a
very generous discount.”
“Father!” said Noy. “You were in the city and I didn’t
even know!”
His father laughed. “Yes, son. And I really did want
to visit you and see how you were doing! But how could I
with this huge bundle?”

25
 “You went all that way…”
“Actually, I had an appointment with someone who
was interested in marketing some of our produce. The
meeting turned out quite well. We’ll be supplying their
grocery chain for the next year on a trial basis. Now, there
is really nothing for you to worry about. What you should
be concerned with is how this camera of yours works! Let’s
give it a try.”
Noy smiled and loaded the camera, securing its lock.
His father and mother watched with interest as their son
adjusted all the settings. What a smart boy, they thought.
“Okay,” said Noy as he prepared to shoot. “Smile for
the camera!” And this is just what his parents did, quite
cooperatively, until the first light of that Christmas dawn.

***

It was not long before the entire barrio knew of the

gift Noy’s parents had given him. He was out every day
taking photographs of neighbors and their children, farmer
friends in the field, women vendors in the market, and of
course, all of his relatives. Whenever someone ran into him
he was greeted with a smile—and a pose. It wasn’t long
before Noy had used up the two rolls of film that had come
with the camera.
Even when the film had run out, Noy always took his
camera with him. He brought it along wherever he went.
He would go off by himself, into the woods and near the
river, and practice reading the light meter and setting the
lens opening. He imagined the types of images the camera

26
would produce, capturing lines, shadows, or color at his
command. He drew great pleasure from the thought of so
many possibilities, and from the bright, shuffling sound of
the shutter.
One day, as he went walking about in search of new
subjects to shoot, Noy looked up and basked in the sun as
it shined through the trees. He said to himself, “That would
be beautiful on film! I wonder what the meter reading
would be if I tried this.” He raised the camera up to his
eye and focused, adjusting all the knobs for the shot. He
pushed the lever forward, and snapped. He pushed it once
more, and snapped again. He took half a dozen shots of
the sun and the sky, pretending there would be wondrous
results.
He then moved on and tried composing shots with
trees. He looked through the viewfinder, and pushed on
the lever. But to his surprise, the lever would not move. He
tried pushing a little harder, but it refused. Noy wondered
what was wrong with it. It only remained fixed in this
position when his film was used up. And he had spent the
entire morning practicing with an empty camera.
Noy sat himself down at the trunk of a nearby tree,
frowning as he thought of what to do. He wondered what
he had done wrong, when only a moment ago the camera
had been working just fine. Then it occurred to him that
he had probably used up his batteries—he had been using
the camera daily for over a week. He took the spare set of
batteries that were in his utility pouch and replaced the
ones that were in the camera.
He set the knobs on the camera once more, and tried
focusing again. He aimed at a large mango tree standing at
27
 the edge of the field, composed the shot and tried not to
anticipate the worst. He wanted to be nonchalant about it,
wanted to go about snapping imaginary photographs as he
did earlier. But as he had feared, the lever remained stuck.
His hands grew cold.
He had broken something in the camera, he knew.
He could not tell his parents about what had happened—
they had already spent so much, and had planned so long
to reward him with this gift. To tell them that he had
broken something so expensive, in so short a time, would
only have made them worry. It would have been such a
disappointment to them.
He sat and wondered how he would solve his problem,
with only a tree to counsel him, and the sun sinking slowly
into the horizon.

***

The man with the greasy face took the camera from
Noy’s hands and turned it about in a disturbing way. He
dismantled it, handling the fragile pieces rather carelessly.
A cigarette hung from his mouth, and flecks of ash drifted
into the open body. Noy reasoned with himself that this
man was an expert at dealing with such equipment. But
watching him handle this precious gift was almost too
much to bear.
“It wasn’t the batteries,” Noy explained to the man,
who was dressed in an old undershirt, black pants, and
tattered slippers. He hardly looked like he could be trusted
with expensive equipment, and looked even less like

28
someone who could repair it. “I tried using new ones,” Noy
continued, “but that didn’t work. The lever just refuses to
move.”
The repair shop Noy had come to was lodged in the
city’s commercial district, where fresh fruits and photo
equipment were sold on the same street. A classmate who
was an amateur photographer had given him instructions
on how to find the place, which was a considerable distance
from their school. Once he had found the street, Noy
wandered about for a while, trying to decide which shop
looked most reliable. Eventually, he chose the one with the
most impressive window display. He hoped his choice had
been a wise one.
Now, he was not so sure. The inside of the shop was
generally clean, but camera repairs were done in a back
room which seemed to have been neglected. In its darkness,
Noy could see the shelves on the wall, filled with cameras
of different makes. Though each had a job tag attached to
it, it did not seem like any of them had been inspected
recently. Noy wondered how the owners of these cameras
could have left them unclaimed for so long.
The man with the greasy face began to test the camera,
fidgeting with the settings, winding and snapping quickly.
The haphazard manner in which he handled the camera
made Noy uncomfortable and fearful that the man would
do even greater damage to it. Noy began to regret having
given the camera to this man, and thought that maybe he
should try taking it somewhere else. But after what seemed
an agonizingly long time, the man finally set the camera
down on the table.

29
 “Leave the camera here,” he said in a in a gruff voice.
Noy realized he was not given a say on this matter. The
man took a drag off of his cigarette and, without looking
at his client, returned to the outer room. The camera lay
mutilated and spread out miserably on the table.
Noy looked at the pieces of his camera and did not
know what to do. He followed the man into the outer
room and asked, incredulously, “You want me to leave the
camera... here?”
“Come back for it next week.” The man crouched
behind a counter, opened a cabinet and took what looked
like a tool kit from it.
“But,” Noy said hesitantly, “could you tell me... could
you tell me how much it will cost to repair it?”
“I’ll give you an estimate,” the man replied as he shut
the cabinet and flipped open a booklet on the counter. In it,
he wrote out the camera specifications, and the repair job
that was required. He tore out the top sheet and handed it
to Noy saying, “Here’s your claim slip. Call me tomorrow.”
The man took the kit and returned to the back room,
closing the door after him. Noy looked at his watch and
realized he had to return to school for his next class, so
he thought it best that he should just leave. He folded the
claim slip and put it into his wallet, looking hopelessly at
the door that had been shut on him.
In the dormitory that night, Noy lay awake in bed for
a long time. He listened to the ticking of his watch in the
darkness, wondering how many pieces it took to make time
run.

30
 ***

Susan was a bit on the heavy side and her pants were
severely tight. Noy stared at her backside as she took down
the order of a young couple seated at Table Eight. It was
dark and smokey in the pizza parlor where he was now
on his second week of working—he had been hired as a
waiter and was assigned the night shift. When he wasn’t
busy wiping up tables or handing out menus, he liked to
station himself near the end of the counter, and listen to
the folk singers play heartbreak songs.
After bringing another tray of empty beer bottles into
the kitchen, Noy stopped to look at the big calendar near
the door. On the calendar, the President of the Republic
smiled under the glitter of his official seal, immaculate in
his jusi barong and poised with pen in hand. Noy counted
the days that had passed since he visited the repair shop,
and thought about his camera lying helplessly on a back
room shelf. When he had called to inquire about the
estimate, the man had told him that the repair would cost
a thousand pesos, and that Noy would have to claim the
camera within sixty days. If he failed to do so, he would
forfeit his claim, and his treasured gift would be pawned or
auctioned off—depending on the shop owner’s wishes.
A month had already gone by and Noy had only
managed to save up three hundred pesos. He tried asking
Susan to loan him some money, but she said she had rent
to pay and was already late by two months. He didn’t have
anything of value that he could pawn for extra cash—his
watch was reliable, but it was made of plastic. All Noy had

31
 to his name was his good grades, but now, with his job
eating into his study time, even his GPA had suffered.
Noy worried about whether he would be able to
retrieve his camera on time. The thought only made him
more sad. He seemed to be so alone in this congested pizza
parlor, where everyone else laughed with such abandon. He
missed his parents. He missed having his camera. And he
missed conjuring up visions of the world as he saw it.
“Noy!” he heard Susan call as she rumbled into the
kitchen. She was about as demure as a steamroller. She was
perspiring under her visor, fanning herself with a menu, as
she shouted above the din. “There’s a mess waiting for you
on Table Three! Make sure you bring a lot of rags with you!
And make it fast—there’s a party of twelve waiting at the
door!”
Taking up his tray and an armful of rags, Noy turned
and decided it was as good a time as any to tell her. “You
know,” he said as he brushed past, “you really should wear
skirts more often.”
“Really?” Susan said, surprised at what seemed to be a
well-placed compliment.
“Yeah!” Noy called out, then mumbled, “... they’re not
as likely to burst wide open.”

***

Noy brought the camera up to the light and checked

the meter—the pointer went up and down, just as it should.
He held his breath and then pushed on the lever—and

32
breathed easy when it turned and snapped back. The man
had done as he promised. The camera was working again.
“Okay?” asked the greasy-faced man as he started
making out the receipt.
“Yes,” Noy replied. A sigh broke in his chest. He asked,
“How much do I owe you?” hoping he could perhaps get a
discount on the repair, but also dreading the possibility that
the fee had been jacked up in the two months the camera
had taken up space on the shelf.
“One thousand,” the man replied, tugging on the slip.
Noy took out his wallet, counted the bills he had
sacrificed so much to save, and put them down on the
counter. The transaction had been completed. The camera
felt good in Noy’s hands.
He was about to step out of the shop when the greasy-
faced man asked him, “You work in a pizza parlor, huh?”
Noy turned, surprised that the man had known about
his job. He had never seen him at the parlor during any of
his shifts. “Yes—well, I used to work at one near my school.
Part-time. Have you... eaten there?”
The man nodded as he put the booklet away. “I saw
your picture on the ‘Best Employee’ display. Do they pay
you good money?”
Noy laughed when he thought of the sorry amount he
got in exchange for the exhausting nights he had worked
there. “Well,” he replied, “they pay me enough. I mean,
enough to pay for a broken camera, at least!”
The man did not smile, but continued to nod as though
he understood. The boy was surely a diligent worker, he

33
 thought. The boy would not have a difficult time earning
money.
Noy wondered for a while why the greasy-faced man
was interested in the job he kept. He didn’t strike him as
the type to make small talk. But there were things Noy had
to do, and pictures he had to take. He didn’t have the time
to stay around to chat. He said “thank you” to the man,
took his precious camera, and went gratefully on his way.
The world would be his in a snap.

***

The greasy-faced man stood over his working table, on

which were scattered cogs and springs left over from the
repairs he had made.
“Did that boy come for his camera today?” asked his
wife, coming into the back room later that afternoon.
“Yes,” the man answered. He held one of the miniscule
parts up to the light and squinted at it.
“How much did you charge him for fixing it?” his wife
asked.
“A thousand,” he replied. He turned the piece with his
thumb and forefinger, observing it as though it were a gem
to be admired.
His wife raised an eyebrow. “Only a thousand!” she said
angrily. “You should’ve asked him for at least twice that
much! How will we pay off the debt we owe to the boss?
The interest alone has gotten so big. . .”

34
 “Sshhh,” the man consoled her. “Don’t worry.” He took
the little jagged piece and put it gently into the palm of her
hand, closing her fingers around it so that it would not fall.
He led her out of the room, and turned off the light.
“The boy will be back,” he said, gently shutting the
door behind him. “He will be back, very soon.”

(1989)

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