Joseph was jolted awake by the street carolers singing, at the top of their lungs, “Pasko na Naman” as they struck their makeshift tin can drums and shook their bottle cap tambourines. The scrawny young man turned to his side and shouted toward the open window, “Patawad (Sorry)!” before he reached for his phone, whose cracked screen showed it was past two o’clock.
Wide-eyed and frantic, Joseph jumped off his banig, almost tripping to the floor that had a small crack. He regained his footing and went straight to his roughed up denim pants hanging at a flimsy wooden door. Joseph went through the pockets to find a whole ₱50 paper bill, a five peso coin, a disposable face mask, and a receipt for spaghetti, tomato sauce, salad, bread, cheese, ground pork, and hamon, which totaled ₱488. Written in red ink at the back of the paper was “Bayaran (Pay).”
Hurriedly, Joseph changed into his work clothes, the tattered denim pants and a gray, long sleeve shirt that was once white. He grabbed his knapsack and scurried outside, dashing past his neighbor, who was setting up a karaoke machine, and past the carolers, who were moments ago just by his doorstep, to a sign that said Sampaloc Street.
After a good 10-minute sprint, Joseph arrived at a footbridge, where he stopped to catch his breath. At the top of the bridge was an old lady holding up a Styrofoam cup and a piece of carton with “konting tulong lang po (a little help, please)” scribbled on it. Joseph dropped five pesos into the cup before he darted away.
Under the footbridge, Joseph was met by a sea of commuters trying to hail a ride. An hour had passed before a bus arrived. People fought their way to enter the vehicle and Joseph, by some stroke of luck, was swept inside. He stood at the aisle, like a Spartan in the Hot Gates waging war against the Persians, bumping one stranger after another.
His usual one-hour bus ride doubled with roads clogged with more cars as the number coding was temporarily lifted for the holidays. Joseph kept himself entertained by listening to the AM radio using his phone. “Our headline for today, Mr. President greets everyone a Merry Christmas!” said the host.
A woman holding a Bible entered the bus. “Ako po ay kumakatok sa inyong butihing puso upang manghingi ng tulong… (I’m knocking on your kind hearts to ask for aid),” said the preacher, who handed an empty envelope to Joseph while looking him straight in the eye. With nothing left but ₱20, the exact fare for his next ride, Joseph couldn’t give anything to the woman. The bus stopped abruptly, almost hitting a motorcycle that was trying to overtake it, interrupting the woman’s discomfiting stare.
Dropped off at Baclaran, Joseph raced to the LRT station, where another mammoth crowd was in queue. He had to wait another 15 minutes in line to reach the ticketing booth. Further inside, the station was packed to the brim with passengers, like a swarm of zombies in an apocalypse film. Joseph, sweating profusely, looked at the time. It was 4:34 p.m.
He stood at the aisle, like a Spartan in the Hot Gates waging war against the Persians.
Pressed for time, Joseph forced himself inside the carriage bursting at the seams. He was pinned between passengers and the double doors of the train. Joseph felt relief, as he was a few minutes away from Intramuros, where he was working at a construction site.
Joseph’s phone rang. He struggled to pick it up. “Asan ka na? Ilang beses ka na late ngayong buwan? Wala ka na sasahurin niyan. (Where are you? You’ve been tardy a couple of times this month. You won’t be getting enough pay if you keep it up),” said Peter, Joseph’s friend and the project manager.
Suddenly, the train went on an emergency stop. Its doors violently opened, and Joseph was hurled outside. Everything went dark.
Joseph was jolted awake by the street carolers singing, at the top of their lungs, “Pasko na Naman,” as they struck their makeshift tin can drums and shook their bottle cap tambourines.