This story originally appeared in the Philippine Daily Inquirer on October 28, 1999.
One night last month, I arrived home dazed and exhausted. I had just spent two terrible hours crawling through rush-hour traffic from Makati to Antipolo. The vehicle I took was distinctly Third World, a circa 1970 Fiera with seats that were way too narrow, way too low and way too hard. To make things worse, the dispatchers had argued that a seat for six could actually accommodate eight, and some women had the nerve to insist on sitting sideways.
From time to time, I was able to turn my head and glance out the window into the darkness. It was maddening to never be anywhere near where I thought we were. On the radio the Honeyz were singing “End of the Line,” a lousy song that somehow lasted for weeks on the charts. Blowers posing as air-conditioners coughed and belched out warm, sticky air. And a strange odor emanating from somewhere–or someone–was the cherry that topped the sour sundae called hell. I’m a Jew being carted off to a concentration camp in a dark, filthy, jampacked train, said a twisted part of my mind. A bit of sick dark humor to lighten the madness I had to endure.
I had never been so glad to reach home. My rear end was sore, my legs were numb, my hip bone was dislocated, my head was pounding, and my temples were throbbing. I collapsed weakly onto my bed and stared blankly at the ceiling for a long, long time. I congratulated myself; I had survived the ordeal. But the thought that I would have to go through it again, every day for the rest of my life…
When I applied for the job a month earlier, my boss-to-be had asked, “Won’t it be a problem coming to work all the way from Antipolo every day?” “It’s no problem,” came my ready answer, “there’s a shuttle service right outside our village that goes to Makati every morning and returns to Antipolo in the afternoon.” So it’s no problem? she asked again. None at all, I replied confidently. No problem at all, I muttered as I lay on my bed. Ha ha.
Months before graduation, I was excited about entering the real world. There were warnings that “Ateneo is a very sheltered place, the outside world is very different,” but I believed I was ready. I was less sheltered and more streetsmart than the average Atenean. I knew how to commute since I never bothered to learn how to drive. I knew my way around; I knew how to deal with people. I soon realized it wasn’t enough. I had nothing against my job.
I worked as a writer and editor in the Ayala Museum, a place I loved since childhood. I was surrounded by art and culture. My load was light, and I was free from stress. My work stayed in the office, a fact that got a friend who taught high school history very, very jealous. Mornings were filled with classical music, the afternoons with Broadway musicals. I enjoyed writing, which I missed terribly since I hadn’t paid much attention to it since high school. Besides, only a fourth of our entire graduating class was employed. Despite the paltry pay (it’s a foundation, after all), it was a good deal. But there was more to the job than the job: there were radical changes that made adjusting difficult.
Just five short months ago, two months before graduation, I would stay in school long after my last class. I would study in the library, attend to my organizations, or hang out with friends. Then I would ride home with my brother in a car that had a real air-conditioner, a real chair that seated just one person, and a stereo system that let me play the music I wanted. Now, every day, as five o’ clock drew near, dread welled up within me at the thought of the agonizing ride home in that murderous shuttle. Five sharp and I was out of the office–no dilly-dallying, for if I left Makati even just a short while later, the traffic would be worse. But no matter how early I left, the ride was just as bad, and I would arrive home with a battered body and a frayed psyche.
Getting home wasn’t the only big change. Once upon a time, there was such a thing as an allowance, on top of which I was reimbursed for all my expenses: movies, transportation, meals out, gimmicks, clothes. In those days, I spent my allowance and asked for reimbursements without shame, rarely considering how much something cost before buying it. I would have lunch out every day, selecting from the wealth of restaurants along Katipunan. There was the occasional dinner out too. I loved movies, and watched at least two of them each week.
And I often found myself too lazy to take a bus, a jeepney, or an FX, and took a cab instead, justifying my choice by saying that since I was with a friend, we could split the cost anyway (although we each still ended up paying more than thrice what we would have paid for a bus or an FX). It all changed when I started working, and my parents presented me with a new “arrangement.” It was painfully simple: I would no longer get an allowance or reimbursements. My transportation, my meals out, my gimmicks and outings, and my clothes (underwear included) now have to be paid out of my meager salary. All I was to receive for free was a daily packed lunch, my toiletries and my room.
I sighed and blamed the city planners for the screwy road system that easily got clogged, and for the concentration of commerce in Makati and Ortigas that forced employees to travel long distances to work. I was beginning to regret not having taken seriously the idea of working out of town–Cebu, Davao, even Hong Kong–until the MRT was finished. Where would I be now, I wondered, if I had majored in something more “in demand” like computer science or management? I’d probably be making twice or thrice what I was making now. I sighed again. How did everyone else before me do it? I wondered in frustration. It was the kind of story that I wished would end with some kind of deus ex machina. A winning lottery ticket, perhaps? A job offer for the editorship of Time or Newsweek? A car and chauffeur from my parents? Ha ha.
In the meantime, I would become interested in whether government people, whose salaries came from my salary, were doing their jobs right. I would start reading the papers (my parents had been nagging me to do so for years) and become more politicized. I would have more to say over dinner at home, asking for advice about my job, bitching about my ride home, discussing the President’s latest blunder. I would go out less and eat out less and learn to save money. And maybe somewhere along the line, my deus ex machina would come along. Welcome to the real world, I said to myself sardonically as I laughed out loud. Talk about a warm welcome, I mused, this one’s a real baptism of fire.
