Thoughts Recounted on the Ride Home

Smoke.

"Antipolo! Antipolo!"

The loud voices of the barkers added to the din of traffic's rush hour.

"Dito! Dalawa pa!"

I hurriedly jumped onto a jeep. The vehicle started moving just as I moved the rest of myself in. In my panic I had failed to see that it was bursting full, and that the barker's promise of "dalawa pa" was a mistake in arithmetic. Just as I considered the doom of riding stooped for the rest of the joy ride, a wave of command from the barker opened up a space in between two butts-- the promised land! I scrunched myself in delicately onto the small space; anymore pushing in would warrant a popping of someone's pelvis. I was now seated, and although comfort was unthinkable at the moment, I was seated nonetheless. I clutched the ceiling hand rail tightly, body straight and calm, ready to roll with the punches. Now properly positioned, I was free to look around.

I could see women mostly, from my viewpoint; I supposed the men were hanging at the back of the jeepney somehow, flapping around. Opposite me near my left was a mother with her three children, the youngest, a little boy whom I guessed was about a year old. He was looking at me with those wide eyes of his. I returned the stare, then tried to smile, then dropped it altogether; it occured to me that my smile could be mistaken as sinister and suspicious-- a thought rather disturbing to any mother. The two other of her brood was seated next to her, both of them looking ready to cry from the heat, smoke and loud music. Poor kids. There was a man next to them, and judging from the way he jutted out from the regular row, I could tell that he was in the same discomfort as I was. He was bobbing his head to the loud and crackly song that was music. For some reason, I liked looking at him enjoy the beat; I wanted to bob my head along too.

My bottom slipped an inch more off the vinyl. If I wasn't careful, I'd find myself sitting on nothing at all sometime soon, I chided myself. I hung on to the hand rail even more tightly, as the vehicle lurched and braked. Using the momentum, I deftly slipped back into my personal butt space, which was noticeably smaller than the last time I occupied it. It would take a tricky strategy to reclaim lost land, but I was more interested in seeing who else was with me.

I tried staring at the girl across me, attempting to draw her gaze and put my psychic powers to the test. Five minutes of the one-player staring game convinced me that my tactics were completely useless.

I decided to look outside the window. I found myself facing the rear end of a truck, eating its dust as the traffic crawled. I resorted to staring at my knees instead, taking note of all sensations I felt.

Itchy nose. Sweaty palms. Oily face. Oily hair. Itchy nose. Nasty throat. Smoke. Itchy nose. Butt pimple.

I stared at my toes, and the little hairs on them. I stared at the floor, looking at other people's shoes. To what degree of horrification will these peope have if a rat was left running amok on the jeepney floor, I bemusedly wondered. I imagined myself screaming along with them, feet up, shrieking "Kick it! Kick it!"

A familiar landmark jerked me out of my reverie.

Blink.

"PARA!" I bellowed, stumbling a little as the jeepney braked. (Fast braked? Hm.) I hopped off, ignoring the expletives thrown at me by other drivers.

I shrugged on my backpack as I hailed a tricycle.

"San po?"

"Dun lang sa kanto."

I watched the cement go by, willing it to go faster, faster in a dizzying blur of scratches and lines; faster, faster, to the comfort that is my home.

I couldn't wait to get a bath.