Why do I have a different name and a numerical designation? If they wanted me to be “3,” why didn’t they name me like the others? Light Rail Transit, Line 3? LRT-3, you know, after 1 and 2? No? Alright. Metro Rail Transit, then. That’s fine. But both? Metro Rail Transit-3? The hell? It’s as absurd as Dwyane Wade’s horrible self-imposed nickname, “Three,” juxtaposed with his jersey number. Gross.
Oh, wait. I checked. Apparently, it’s Mass Rapid Transit, Line 3, and “Metro Rail Yellow Line” sounds more of a brand name. Why don’t we hear the other two trains referred to as MRT-1 and 2, though?
Sigh.
That’s all I can do nowadays. Ever since. Or, really, groan. The days have been longer and the nights colder. In the late nights, I shiver in the freezing cold just beyond Triangle North of Manila. What an atrocious name that is for a shopping mall. Were the handsomely-compensated guys behind that bored out of their wits? Nobody talks like that. Sa’n ka pupunta? Sa Triangle, North. No bleeping way. They may say North Triangle, sure. (I eavesdrop on you guys more than you can imagine, and I don’t think “North Triangle” is even as pervasive as this mall makes it out to be.) What does it say about creativity when the product you get out of “North Triangle” is botching up “North Triangle, Manila” into something like this? Has putting profit as the bottomline suffocated creativity?
Anyhow. That’s your problem. To hell with all of you, eh? じごく へ いけ! Jigoku e ike!, as I learned from my original patrons who deserted me and brought me straight to this fiery gateway. Sheesh. I’m tortured every single day.
I know, I know. I should get wear and tear. Nonetheless, this doesn’t stop my first-world patrons from waters above to not stretch me to the limit like you guys do. So I get going, sure, that’s my job. And I participate in the grind, I go through the motions. Like dead fish. Patay na isda lamang ang sumasabay sa agos. Nifty, that thing. I was made for this anyway; I was made for this.
But my God, goodness gracious, Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!
Let’s take this step-by-step, shall we? Since I still have my sanity to articulate my feelings, Saukerl and Saumensch. On off-hours, I don’t get filled up. That’s sweet. It leaves me some breathing room. There’s space for my patrons to lash out their phones and let their brain cells deteriorate over a Bejeweled made of candies. Every other person has a pair on their ears, listening to cheesy, senti, and catchy, sometimes all at the same time. Most of all, there’s healthy ventilation whenever the powers-that-be turn on the air conditioning. It’s cool. Literally. (Sometimes I wish they just emulate the street metallic art called the jeep and open some “windows,” though I have no idea why they didn’t install windows on me. Japan is not as humid, hot, and dry as this Philippines. I wonder if that went through their puny little heads.)
And then, rush hours are suddenly in shouting distance. Four in the afternoon. People come streaming in; crowds become droves. Whenever I stop by, the relaxed pose of waiting patrons with thinning patience transforms from lines neatly separated from one another like that of a dining fork to an egg-shaped gathering like that of a spoon. With my doors yet to open, they are already at war with one another, battling for position. I stop, finally, the rust-coated wheels wailing in screeches as it kisses the equally rusted rails. My stopping jolts my patrons; sweaty and pungent, anticipation on their throats. Their eyes drool, the milliseconds lengthened by such examination. May puwesto pa dun o! Every space reeking of meaty goodness to a starving beast.
I open the doors. In a flash, the pungency spreads exponentially, the excretion of air from both sides an unholy stench I am at a loss of words for. The outside is in bloody desire to get in; the inside in desperate need to get out. What happens when an unstoppable force meets an immovable object? At the end of the day, Filipino hospitality reigns supreme, albeit sprinkled with some frustration, and either force or object—we can’t really know which is which—gives way.
Rush hour, now. It’s pretty much the same, but worse. My patrons lying in wait don’t all get inside, and my insides always cause me to be near-nauseating volumes. Once in a while, one hapless dude—it’s usually a dude—jumps in front of me and forces the action, impelling me to vomit, halting all operations. I would if I could, but I don’t know how I can help these people. I’d be all ears if only I can let him talk.
But you know what? it’s not even that I’m the one being damaged. With my years, I can understand that full well.
What gets me is the escalation of frustration of my people, running along a J-curve when the intervals between stops lengthen by the minute. There are just not enough of me that can go around, and what’s sickening is that there’s a way to have more of me. Except that the resources for that goes into ill-advised SUVs and posh condominiums of officials of public service. Hmph. They should all try my shoes on for size to know what public service feels like.
This public service makes you see, in your face, the departing of common sense among the Filipino people. I am filled to the brim, my lights are barely hanging on, yet one or two daredevils push the crowd inside some more, just a little bit more, in order to get inside and get home. Who needs common sense when there are infinitely more important things like family, home, and rest from alienating labor?
Does such a public deserve such a service?
A heartfelt thank you to Iman Tagudiña for lending me her beautiful prose. Which ensures that I’ll never look at fish and “going with the tide” the same way ever again.
Writer’s Block 