Nighttime Wanderers

Rain, Lost, & Third-World Romance

There must be something in the rain but I can't point it out.

I set foot at the glass exit of a mall when I heard the loud barks of the traysikad drivers and the unnecessary loud honking as they're stealing each other's passengers until one resulted in a road rage. I was there, after battling my hunger and tiredness from grocery shopping for my nephew's birthday, my year-old shoes were soaking from the amalgamating water that God knows what substances there are. I noticed that it was raining heavily. Should I ride a tricycle and pay extra money to be at home early or huddle my way to the jeep and drench myself in this sudden rain? While I was thinking, I heard a loud barrage from my left side. They are not as mutilated as the engine roars of rusty tricycles; they are purer and sound, like an auto-tune of the former I described. White and black cars started to flood the street as well. It must be nice not minding the problems accompanied by the rain. I followed a gray one as it overtook other tricycles. Their windows are not tinted, so, I can see them eating and laughing inside.

"The rain must be different when you are rich," I said inwardly. As they pass by me, little ripples cascade to my shoes. The rain must run somewhere down the bottom. Will it be drained or stuck until it becomes a flood?

After deciding to steal another destitute seat on the jeep, I forcefully crossed the threshold. Luck must be a jester tonight as the moment I left my umbrella at home is the only day that the sky pours its heart out. I jump in the puddles avoiding embarrassing myself a thousand times ever since He created me as a bull in a china shop. I was too focused on not to humiliate myself when I saw that no jeep yet that's bound for my route. I immediately looked for an area to cover myself for a while as my groceries started to be liquified. I spent a thousand pesos on this. Quite heavy but not enough, definitely not for a week. I shake the droplets from my hair and embrace myself to the misfortune I have encountered. Well, this is life for me. For a minimum-wage earner, life should be miserable. It should never be like those people in that gray car.

I am too fixated looking at the next jeep when a man stands next to me. He is soaking wet as well. He is wearing a green polo and anxiously scans his left and right for maybe a jeep or a tricycle. I occasionally glance at him and I think there's something warm brewing amidst the dripping city rain. He is good-looking, actually my type. His muscles are chiseled in that drench polo. I steal glances etching him well in my aging brain. I am too close and I can feel his heat. The moment is lost and my breath is as well. We were there for a finite minute but our occasional brushing of shoulders made something multiply to infinity. I almost want to talk or say something, but I know nothing good will come out of this mouth. We are just there, two soaked owls, tilting our heads sparingly, until, sometimes we get in synch. I never stared eyes. I am afraid they see something unfathomable in me. I know that story can never be hidden in your soul's gateway, and I am always an open book.

People started to nestle around us. The pathway is consumed by "basang sisiw" and our spaces become smaller and smaller. We have no other way, but to remain covered, we must move closer. From nautical miles of space between, we are now sharing the same rain. However, someone pushed their way between us. It's a woman with a kid. The woman is so busy with her groceries and holding her daughter that she just does not notice our budding love affair here. I saw the guy keep on glancing at them. I telepathically said to him, I know, it's annoying. Despite the detractor that comes in between, we still brush shoulders. I hope this never ends. I hope time suddenly struck a magical barrier that cast a spell on those who found love in this mishap. Yet, it never did.

The jeep with my route has arrived and I excused my way away to the pathway I am canned. Just as I predicted, I was pushed and pulled by these very people that I would be sitting with for the rest of this rainy jeep ride. After drenching more in the rain, I am finally settled. I look outside and immediately locate that man. I saw him running to the next jeep as well, squeezing himself to the fate I was in a few minutes ago. The last thing that I saw in him was his eyes and I trace an agony. This is why I hate looking at someone's eyes.

When we hit the road, I said to myself that love from something like that is bound to evaporate. It's always a matter of choice. It's either I become a character of a Taylor Swift's song or I'll die of hunger under this acid rain. After all, our love is something that they identify as third-world romance. Bound by money, fleeting time, and responsibility.

Will I ever be home on time and feed my hungry family before something blooms between us? Will I ever know his name before my mother calls me on my phone? Will I ever hear our hearts beat as one before my stomach aches for something else? I suddenly remember that gray car back then. Do they ever worry about not meeting their special someone just because they met them at the wrong time? Even serendipity is different from those that are rich.

In the quietness inside the vehicle, we are all passengers who are trying to arrive home. The public vehicle is a good spot to eavesdrop and give your mental two cents to their situations. The mother and daughter who were behind me at that pathway a while ago sit in front of me. The mother was trying to settle her child, checking her daughter if she was dry enough. Probably afraid to catch her a cold. She keeps on patting her pocket and digs her shoulder bag and the back of her seat. The nanay beside her meddled and asked her what was she's looking for. She said her phone, she lost it. We started to look also because maybe it just fell. However, no traces of the lost phone. Until they arrived at their destination, the curious passengers failed to find the phone and she left with nothing but her daughter. The other passengers threw that piece of story out and went back to their problems.

I look at the muddy road as we pass the Makar wharf. My mind played some sort of a rewind. From that guy to that almost-but-never-quite romance. That mother and her daughter were behind me, just between that man and me. I recall that if she was there and she positioned her shoulder bag on her right side, then it must be on the side of the man. And there was no one there but the guy. I cut out the scenes and paste the pieces like Benoit Blanc on the quest to find the killer. Just like that, my synopses send signals to my brain; I think I got it.

That man — that I thought was the one for me — is maybe the suspect. The stealer of my heart is also the stealer of a phone. Or maybe it was not him at all. Maybe that lady misplaced it somewhere, and I am simply pre-judging things because, like others, I've internalized society's stereotypes about us. That once this rainwater becomes a great inundation, the poor will inevitably resort to blaming each other. I was too imaginative about the predicament when I finally arrived at my stop. I look out and it is still raining. I shook my head. Well, what else can we do? It's a third-world country after all. I shrugged as I paid my fare.

The other passengers might throw these pieces of story after they arrive at their homes, but, for me, I will paste them together. I know that human experiences that meet one way or another need to be stitched for they paint a picture almost invisible to wearers of rose-colored glasses; one that only mere people like us can experience. In this case, it was the rain, the lost phone, and the third-world romance.

In the grand scheme of things, just like Benoit Blanc, there is only one answer — perchance, a question — did the family in the gray car arrive at their home safe and dry tonight? ß