QUICK LIT: Peanuts

Dearest,

They come in great numbers, early in the morning as if waking the city up from its slumber. I watch the vehicles come right at us, vendors cradling our wares in anticipation of the daily wave of commuters, drivers, and conductors that we feed — literally: the weary and hungry backbone of Manila reaching out to buy packs of peanuts, bottles of water, and some candies to calm their grumbling stomachs. If you do this for a long time, every one would seem almost inhuman from a distance, with the buzzed look in their eyes that hint at their dread of the day ahead. They ride the hulking buses dressed in their best work clothes, pressed and primed in the morning but by the end of the day, worn down like their souls. Is this what work does to us; shaving off a little portion of our sanity every single day?

I’d like to say I have to know a little something about it; a lonely vendor trudging along EDSA 12 hours a day. Braving the smothering cloud of buses, the sweltering heat or the unrepentant rain, I can’t help but feel a part of me drift away as I jump from one bus to another. Despite the small spaces and the big crowds, I feel lonelier every day, alienated by their cushy office jobs, steady pay, and benefits, while I play patintero in the expanse of EDSA. Heck, even within the workforce, there’s a class strata being implemented as we eye one another; who cuts the bigger check, who has the best job, and who goes home less exhausted and drained. I mostly keep to myself, focused on the job, and at times, I talk to my fellow vendors, warriors of the road, discussing how this country seems to be getting worse each year.

Things are worse when there’s a storm battering things around. Tree branches fly around with the occasional roof overhead, floodwaters rising up per minute — and getting deeper every year. I can’t help but see it as a stark contrast to the “economic development” that the newspapers banner; these towering condominiums the antithesis to us laymen sinking lower into debt as prices go up, even my lowly mani is forced to dwindle as I hand them out per small, greasy paper bag, the customer looking at me as if I’m robbing him.

Coming home to our rickety shack, I can’t help but yearn for you — a vision of you hunkered down the stove, preparing for the meal we’ll share together. It’s idyllic and typical, but it’s more than I could ask for, a loving wife to come home to after a day on the road. Maybe we’ll watch a telenovela or two, along with the rest of the neighborhood all tuned in and excited. As I wash off the grime and the dirt, I imagine the anticipation of sleeping next to you in our bed, as uncomfortable as it may be in the small space that we share, but it will only bring us closer to each other, the warmth giving me strength to face another day.

But these are just mere wishes. It has been years since I’ve lost you. I leave these letters by your grave, hoping that the wind will take them and read these words to you.

All my love,

F

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