By Raoul Simon Suarez
The AM radio played an old song. A classic. One of Frank Sinatra’s best. It was three in the afternoon. A nice time for a siesta. It played two other songs after that. One from Louis Armstrong and another from Engelbert Humperdinck. Old familiar songs from a time when owning a TV was a luxury and a status symbol.
After the songs were finished, the radio announcers got on air and started talking about current affairs and they rambled about the problems that plagued this little city. They then started to dig out some of the letters sent by the listeners. Love stories. Sad stories. Stories. Just plain stories. Today they were going to read another one. Just a regular day at the radio station. Nothing fancy. It was a letter from Bert.
His name was Bert. He was forty years of age. Poverty-stricken but honest. He drives a “trisikad” (a Hiligaynon word for the pedicab) for a living. His address was not given out. His last name was not mentioned. There was no information about his credentials. There was no mention of the schools he attended. His name was Bert and he was a trisikad driver.
He wanted to speak out and make people aware of what happened to him so he wrote a letter to the people working in the radio station with the hopes that they will read it on air. It was written in his local tongue. He had no Facebook. He can not afford such luxury. He did not have a cellphone. All he had was a pen and pieces of paper; so he wrote. He penned all his sadness and sent it over. He told them his story.
Yesterday, he went to the mall. He bought three packs of instant noodles so he could feed his family. He lined up with the rest of the consumers. Behind him was a lady the same age as he. She was adorned with jewels and wearing heavy make up. He assumed that she was rich based on what she wore and believed it to be so after seeing the cart behind her that was full of groceries. She was in a hurry and was a little impatient about the queue.
It was his turn to pay. He had his coins ready. He set the packs of instant noodles on top of the counter and started to count all that loose change. He wanted to make sure he had the correct amount to pay for the goods he wanted to buy so he counted his coins carefully. He then handed his coins to the cashier.
The lady behind him called him out. She asked him why he was buying from the mall and wasting other people’s time for such a small amount of groceries. He could have saved her and other people from the trouble and inconvenience brought about by waiting in line if he bought his noodles at a sari-sari store. She pointed to the cart situated behind her. It was overflowing with all sorts of items. She boastfully exclaimed how much it would all cost and told him bluntly that she will be spending thousands for the mall to earn and he was just a nuisance. He only purchased three packs of instant noodles; not more than ten pesos a piece. It pales in comparison to what she was going to buy.
She also blurted out that he emitted body odor that was not all that pleasant. It offended her. She believed that the likes of him did not deserve to be inside the mall. He was not supposed to be there right next to her. His raggedy foul-smelling self and the few goods he purchased just took away the precious minutes of her life as she stood there waiting in line when she could have been next. She loathed him and made a public display of her disgust by picking on him while everyone bore witness to the oppression.
“Naga-ano na di s’ya iya ya man? Kagamay man lang sang baklon n’ya sini. Pwede man tani nga baklon didto na lang sa mga tiangge lang lapit sa ila. Kabaho pa. Aircon ta diri mo! Kay sa mall gid mabakal nga gapagutok-gutok sa pila!”
Nobody stood up for him. They were too busy minding their own affairs. Some were just enjoying the show. They did not want to get involved. He did not retaliate. He took all that tongue-lashing and belittling. He did not have time for an argument. There were people at home waiting for him. He shamefully walked to the end of the counter where the goods he paid for were being packed by the bagger. Before he left, the cashier consoled him and told him to forget what happened and to just forgive. She told him there is nothing they can do because they were poor. “Pasensyahi na lang, Nong. Anuhon mo na abi kay pigado gid kita.” Bert nodded in response, thanked her, and went on his way.
Today, his letter reached the radio station. They read it on air. They broadcasted what happened. They commented on how it was not fair. They played a song for him. They dedicated it to him. They felt sad about the oppression he was dealt. They were angry at that woman; a woman we all do not know the name of. His letter was read. His story was shared. His name was aired on the radio. A few days later, it will be forgotten and drowned by music, news, current events, and numerous advertisements.
His name was Bert. He was a trisikad driver.
