Juice

I see him. 

He's talking with the foreman on the other sidewalk, wearing a white polo shirt with slim black pants.

I remember his hair turned a brownish hue when the rays of the sun touched his hair.

Now the sun reveals a very blackened hair, probably coloured with dye to hide the signs of aging. 

I don't know why I find him so recognizable, especially after all those years but after catching sight of him a few weeks ago, I couldn't shake the idea that seemed too improbable and suspensely waited for our next meeting.

Now, he is here.

And, I'm here.

Not on the side of his car but on the same footing as him.

I have my own car. 

But, I still could be mistaken. 

Would he recognize me?

There's only one way to find out.

And, that's to get closer. 

I look around and catch glimpse of the table that has the refreshments for the construction workers.

I walk towards it.

__

When I was five, other kids played holen, a game using marbles. Instead, all I did was count mine. 

When I was six, I watched as my mother wept on a little stool in our little sari-sari store. She packs the little things that she has and leaves under the cover of the night, leaving me, my dad, and my five other siblings.

When I was seven, I watched as my classmate, Andrés, climbed up on the school stage to receive a participation certificate for his performance in the grade-level math contest. It was supposed to be me representing my class but my teacher couldn't gain consent nor contact my father, a street vendor, whom even I would miss for days. 

When I was eight, I dropped out of public school to spend my days on one of the world's most congested highways: the Philippines' EDSA highway. 

It was partly my decision.

_

“Salamat po!” (Thank you!)

The driver nods his head without looking at me. He rolls back his window and I count my earnings before running a hand through my merchandise: a bunch of leis that I made out of sampaguitas. 

I take a step back as the truck slowly moves forward on the highway before stopping again. The cargo he is carrying stops right in front of me, crammed at the back in two levels are putrid-smelling and a noisy herd of pigs. 

One has its head stuck out towards me, and I look at its beady eyes. Through them, I see the destination, the fate it is about to be driven to. Somehow I think we are the same.

I sneak a look at the darkened window before putting sampaguitas around the pig's neck.

Traffic moves and the truck speeds forward. I watch as the pig becomes smaller and smaller right before my eyes. I decide on a name. 

Godspeed José. Godspeed to both of us.

_

Today has not been a good day. 

I haven't been making a lot of sales. 

We might end up eating rice and soy sauce again.

I knock on their window, raise my sampaguitas for them to see, and if they refuse or ignore me I move on to the next car. 

I've been moving on a lot. 

Well, it's not like I'll run out of customers. 

Now, that the alert level has lowered to one, more cars have returned to the streets to uphold the capital-Manila's title as having one of the worst traffic in the world. I look to my right and see the endless snake of crawling cars until the horizon. I look to my left and it's no different. 

Welcome to EDSA.

_

My heart's beating accelerates faster than the pace of cars on the highway.

Nearing the end of the afternoon, sales amped up. 

I guess people are feeling generous. 

As I thank and hand over change to the woman in the car, the sun begins to set and my mind drifts to when I come home.

Maybe we don't have to eat rice and soy sauce after all.

My mind is doing cartwheels and flips when I walk to the next car, a jeepney, and lift my sampaguitas for them to see.

The jeepney has open windows and transports passengers around like a taxi or a bus, except it's a jeep. A very colourful one. 

This jeepney is painted a mix of blue and red, there are a lot of decorations lining up the windows that chime noisily on the road.

I eye the passengers staring out from the open windows, some are looking sternly at me, some are using their phones, some are looking elsewhere. 

I see a lady holding a paper bag filled with green vegetables on her lap, beside her sits a hyper little girl. I see people in formal attire, probably call center workers, sitting tensely in their seats. I see mostly students who are chatting very lively among themselves, passing the time and ending their day with smiles and laughter. I see people getting on with their daily lives, I see people trying to get somewhere where they have to be. 

My eyes fall jealously on the students.

"Ang papangit na nga ng mga kalsada, traffic pa!"

(The roads are already so busted and then there's also traffic!)

My eyes snap to the driver's seat.

I see a man slouching over the wheel whose hair is thinning. He's looking angrily at the car before him while holding a lit cigarette in one hand. He honks his wheel twice before taking a quick drag from his cigarette.

"Kuya, bili po kayo, P20 lang po."

(Sir, please buy some, it's just $0.30.)

Hesitantly, I raise my sampaguitas higher for him to see.

The man looks at me sideways before smirking. He takes a long drag from his cigarette before exhaling the smoke out in one long blow filling the whole compartment, the passengers on his right wave their hands in front of their faces and scowl at him. I hold my breath without showing it because I have seen what it has done to my father. His teeth are yellow and his voice is raspy. It made him meaner.

The man flicks his cigarette at me and I stumble backward releasing one throaty yelp. I stand there with both of my hands raised, feeling a seething burning sensation that seems to be spreading everywhere on my neck. The smell of smoke enters my nose. I look down to see the lit cigarette, only to see it light up all my sampaguitas that I have dropped on the floor.

_

I'm running. 

I cannot stop.

If I stop, life will go on without me. 

The cars in EDSA will keep moving.

So, I cannot stop.

_

The sound of wheels and footsteps on asphalt and concrete, the sound of multiple horns powerless in a sea of trapped commuters, the sound of crowded, old-fashioned trains passing by; showing themselves briefly before disappearing into tunnels. Among all of these, you cannot help but get lost on the road you've taken like the strays that are too afraid to cross to the other side. On the days when you earn less, trying to sell flowers to people who couldn't be bothered otherwise, the sun beating down on you will beat you down. You'll notice the lack of green in your sight, the debilitating structures, and the abundance of gasoline in the sky. You'll see the harsher side of humanity when placed against unpleasant odds, so the people who find the time and effort amongst all of these, in a world badly designed, to put a hand out of their windows to a boy with flowers could really shine brightly, brighter than the sun who cannot shine half as bright.

_

I stop.

I'm bent over with my hands on my knees, trying to get a hold of my own loose breath. I'm still in EDSA in a stream of honking cars. The sun is setting, headlights and taillights replacing it, and more and more people who are trying to get to their families and homes are growing more and more irritated. Tears are streaming down my face and I'm panting, suppressed yells escaping from me.

A little boy without his flowers, crying in the growing darkness, with nowhere else to be.

It is too much.

Too much for me to understand.

I shouldn't be here.

Whose fault is it?

Whose fault?!

Nearby a motorcycle with a man and a woman falls with an ear-splitting crash from a hole on the road.

I start running again.

_

I see myself in the reflection.

I stopped again because the pain on my neck has outgrown what's burbling inside.

Vaguely, I see something.

I lift one finger toward it and use my other hand to stretch the skin on my neck.

Vaguely, I see a dark and reddish circle near my collar bone including a bubble that I touch.

It shoots needles throughout me and I wince. My tears start falling again.

My reflection disappears as the window rolls down.

The sun which now made everything you see orange sets upon a man who has a hand out towards me.

I noticed his brown hair and the tiny birthmark on his left ear but what stood out the most to me was the yellow and green box that said: "Del Monte" on it and the piece of tree resting on his palm.

I went home with rice and dried fish but what occupies my mind is the thing in my hand called "juice".

__

Balancing two glasses in both of my hands, I cross the unfinished eight lanes and approach them.

The foreman, Mr. Cay-an, sees me.

"José! Since kailan ka dumating! (Since when did you arrive!) Mark, this is José, our other road engineer. José, this is Mark, our project head. He's the guy funding our little project."

Mark chuckles, "I wouldn't call it so little, Ian. We might be single-handedly solving Manila's terrible traffic or contributing to it, whichever the two. Although, I hope it's the former."

He turns to look at me. His eyes and gentle, friendly expression once again after a long time rest upon mine.

"But, with our trustee engineers, I'm sure it is."

The corners of my mouth rise. My grip around the glasses tighten.

He stays like this for a moment before gazing down at the two objects in both of my hands.

The sun is setting and the construction workers are crowding around the refreshment table. 

I look at his left ear.

"Is that juice for me?"

I look at him, my heart jumping.

There's a mark.

_