This short story is supposed to be a prologue of a comedy-drama novel I'm planning to write, but the prose turned out to be not at all humorous. Instead, it became a short story about a vagrant who finds it difficult to believe that he has gone insane because of his inability to adapt to society.
In search of wisdom, he has forgotten what it means to live.
——
In the busy, filthy, unforgiving streets of Metro Manila, there are those who are more ignored than jeepney barkers who convince people that they could still ride along and sit comfortably; more invisible than condominium promoters who give away brochures; and more avoided than a pile of shit excreted by a stray dog with an upset stomach.
Tramps. The rejects of society.
It is a riddle as to why some people collapse to the point of vagrancy. Gambling problems? Predisposition to mental illnesses—and the lack of support thereof? A personal choice?
Has society failed them, or was it they who had not fulfilled their roles?
These are questions that nobody contemplates about—not even the tramps themselves. For what makes clawing a garbage bag and offering services to a capitalist company a different activity from one another? Both are a struggle to put food in their mouths. The two only seem different because one is socially acceptable and the other is “embarrassing.” But if one looks at it fundamentally, then there is no distinction at all.
But no one wants to see the rawest version of themselves. “To interpret our behaviors as nothing but acts of survival? That is animalistic.” The tendency of humans to resort to pretense just to look “good” is what makes them a slave for the system. It is just as well, for the ones who are stubborn enough—but not brave enough—to rebel against the world just end up miserable.
Go pretend. Continue being ignorant. These attitudes will serve you better, and this is not an attempt at sarcasm. In fact, I—
“Do you know you do that out loud?” Yugo, a fellow tramp, interjects. He adjusts the cardboard box he is lying on as if his slumber is going to be more comfortable. “Shut up. I’m trying to sleep.”
He can read minds? I am having an intelligent conversation with myself only in my head. How come he hears it?
Yugo grunts. “No, I don’t do that black magic shit. You crazy. You talking to someone I can’t see?”
I clear my throat. Perhaps he could make a contribution to my contemplations. “What… what do you think of my conversation with myself?”
He rubs his reddish wide eyes, the dirt on his hands being engraved on his eyelids. “I think it’s full of shit. It’s not “intelligent”; you’re just complaining. Rationalize all you want, dude, but it’s not gonna get us out of here. You know what we all need? Money. Not some attempt at making sense of what is happening around us. It’s useless.”
I see his weak legs as he rests his elbows on his knees. The way his greasy hair does not sway according to the direction of the night breeze tells me how dirty it is. Touches of crude cover the severe acne scars on his cheeks.
I can see why he thinks that philosophical discussions are useless; he does not look smart. But then again, I do not want to admit that he has a point. I am afraid that I, too, am starting to think that I am just rationalizing to deny what is in front of me. Once I start to accept that notion, then I am officially a failure.
I am not a failure… This goes without saying, but I am not insane as well.
“You’re all obsessed with money—literally a piece of processed paper with some chap’s face on it,” I remark. “But, ‘A man’s gotta eat! We gotta pay the bills!’ What mat—“
“Look, man.” He looks annoyed. “Can you offer a better alternative? And don’t tell me that ‘Let’s Discuss Stuff for Five Minutes’ crap,” he points at my poorly-made poster, “actually makes your tummy full.”
Ah, yes. I do not know why, but I hunger for stories more than food. There is that distinct innate wisdom in every people, and with the hopes of turning my life around, I began to beg for their unique knowledge, not money. Food? I can just go to the nearest Jollibee to scavenge some chicken bones.
“And what have you achieved from begging for money?” I look at him questioningly.
“You ask me like people like us have a choice. I have a family in Zamboanga, trying to push my like here in Metro. Man, screw knowledge and wisdom and all that intangible shit. I have to provide for my wife and kids, and silly words aren’t gonna help me.”
“Are you… happy?”
“Hey, as long as my kids graduate and my woman satisfied, I’m cool.”
Sometimes, I envy the poor. They are lucky in the sense that they do not have time to ask unanswerable questions. They just… live.
“You?” he continues. “Where did asking questions get you?”
I point at myself. “Here.”
I think more than I do. My life has not been a struggle; my mind is. Where did I go wrong? When did this start? Would my family embrace me back if I decided to come back?
Years of effort on suppressing harsh memories prove useless in times like these. They just pour down like the waters in an overloaded dam, and I cannot do anything to stop them.
All my life, I have been striving to be the best version of myself. But every day, the opposite happens. It all went downhill after I graduated college, with me having to conform and do my role as a salaryman. A self-imposed from-riches-to-rags process, if you will. Or was it?
One thing about denying is that the longer it has been going on, the more convincing the lie. Hey, it was not like I did not try; I just have not found my purpose yet. It is this lifetime confusion that brought me from our cozy home in Pasig to the rat-infested alleyways of Ermita. People like Yugo, no matter how odds do not favor them, have the capacity to continue onward. On the other hand, people like me are not yet ready to admit that we, too, are just ordinary people who have to bow down to what the times dictate.
I have no idea what is wrong with me, but I cannot go back even if I wanted to.
“For the last time,” Yugo says. “Shut the hell up.”
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