Pamasak-Butas

by Comma Typer

Ibong Malaya

The next day begins with the same morning routine: fix bed, take bath, get dressed, eat breakfast. Sweet ham with dried fish and egg with rice. Heartier than yesterday, with globs of ketchup to taste.

Down the road ten minutes later, I get on a jeep and pay the fare, seeing my money passed along from passenger to passenger into the driver’s fingers. We hand along a few more fares and their coins with each stop and its fresh batch of commuters. Babies or toddlers breathing bad air with their mothers fanning them, lone survivors from empty homes experiencing their liberating or imprisoning freedom, elders and students on their own with discounts and slightly heavier wallets.

“Isa pa!” shouts the driver to the outside world, thundering his destinations to all who can hear. One more. Room for one more. Someone hops on and off we go.

We’re all stuck here. The sun’s heat and our own heat spread, transforms this vehicle into a metal jungle, arms raised to hold on to the handle and stay steady—feel its solidity; it keeps you safe. All stuck moving to a dozen more somewheres.

A few people drop off here and there. A wife and her son step down at Aling Nelia’s. Must be a birthday party today, with roast pig and some cake for lunch. Poor kid. A tense couple depart by the cockpit where they’ll watch two roosters fight from within a tight crowd, and they’ll bet on the winner from the fast-paced claw-scratching carnage. We scoot along, make space, get back some comfort.

I get on my phone and check my social media, hoping my data isn’t dead yet. We stop again, stop suddenly. Agh! Dropped my phone on the seat. As I pick it up, more come in to fill the spaces.

It’s hooves clip-clopping. The same three ponies from yesterday.

“Magandang umaga!” sings the unicorn.

Skittles, isn’t it? Don’t have to say. It already sounds ridiculous in my head, but there she is with her friends with not-so-sugary names.

That gets the whole jeep looking at them again as they sit down and pass their fare along.

“Pasa pasa po!” Hot Shot says with hesitation. She hoofs the coins onto an open hand, traveling through many hands to the driver. They’ve studied the phrasebook a lot but are just too enthusiastic with their words. Or they just like to flaunt how many words they know.

On second thought, they’re the ones I can relate to today. A second look around, I realize: I’ve never been on this jeep before. The driver is different, the passengers are unrecognizable, and there’s lots of turned-off colorful lights which I’m not used to unless it’s the Christmas season. I wouldn’t mind: you don’t exactly choose which one you get on. This is supposed to feel normal. Yet, these three ponies are here again with me. More creatures in the same boat.

Stop at Dimasalang Street. Enough people get off, some others move around and enjoy more space. That includes the ponies who scoot over so much, they end up across me.

They look my way and recognize me. Their ears stand up and their eyes grow as big as hats.

“Oh, hello there!” Skittles says, waving at me with her eyes closed. The others’ eyes, wide like saucers, flash bits of sunlight at me. “Didn’t know you’d be here!”

A chuckle escapes me. “Didn’t know you’d be here too.”

“Yeah, I thought we’d never see you again!” chirped Weatherwise. “Glad to know we’ve got a familiar face around here!”

They don’t know anyone in this country? “I take it you don’t have a tour guide, do you?”

“We want to take it blind!” replies Hot Shot, happily stomping her hoof on the seat. Careful or you may punch through the plastic covering. Those seats don’t come cheap. Got to preserve them all the time.

“And how aren’t you getting lost?”

“Well, we have a map, of course!” and Weatherwise brings out a phone. It’s a pony phone. Can tell because it comes with a long wearable strap so it can also act like a smart watch. Convenience for four-legged creatures.

He scrolls along to show me a map with all their destinations for the day. Most of them are in Manila proper again though a few reside in Pasig.

“Ah, and we took some nice pictures while we were there yesterday!” Weatherwise goes on. “Your country is very beautiful. See, my friends did an Asia tour last year, and they say that the Philippines is a must-see because of all the dream spots here. Things like the volcanoes, the beaches, the jungles, the exotic animals and plants, the old architecture all over the place...”

While he rambles on, he lets me take the phone and skim through the images on his gallery app. There they are: frolicking around in Rizal Park and posing before the monument, taking pictures before the bay and sitting on the rocky ledge while ships float by, going around Intramuros with its Spanish-era buildings and stone streets which may remind them of home, bragging about their shopping spree from Divisoria—how they think they’re getting genuine stuff there baffles me, or they know they aren’t but they don’t care—posing at the steps of a national museum, though I’m not sure which one, and drinking some fraps in a Starbucks because why not?

“That’s a lot of photos.” I hand the phone back to Weatherwise whose feathers retrieve it. “But, it looks like you’re going to the same places again.”

“Not really,” answers Hot Shot. “We went to the typical places yesterday—the ones everybody knows about. Today, we won’t go there. We’ll take our time and explore the town for ourselves. No rush, no pressure, you know?”

Weatherwise leans back on his seat, lets the back of his head feel the running outside breeze as we speed along. “It’s like what they say: you can only explore a city when you get lost in it!”

The jeep stops again. Footsteps ring from the floor. Mother and father with their daughter. Judging by her uniform, they’re accompanying her to school.

She notices the ponies and her eyes light up. “Hoy, mga kabayo!” she yells, excited about the horses. Waves frantically at them.

So begins a scene I’ve seen many times before: a kid going up to meet the magic pastel ponies, a mother tagging along and hoping the kid doesn’t do anything stupid while the father watches from the sidelines with a smile that’s either genuine or is hiding his fear that she might get hurt.

She goes after the unicorn and Skittles entertains her. Floats stuff before her, teleporting coins around, and they all laugh. Gets the others’ attention too, if only because it’s something rather than nothing. On the side, the driver tells the mom to hold on to the child or else she may fall down and get hurt if we stop without warning.

At least I get a break from the ponies. Time to check up on my social media world again.

~ ~ ~

After I get off and the ponies don’t, not much happens the rest of the way. Same old same old: the same walk over the boulevard, the same walk to the next jeep, the same forty-minute-or-so ride to the stop. Takes a bit longer this time around—a motorcycle accident slows traffic like jelly—but it’s alright. One reason why I go early.

Get down again by Mencias, turn to walk to the office.

But curiosity takes control. Those smells entice me, tempt me again.

The food cart wins me over.

A crowd is still there, though smaller. The same Garlan from yesterday catches their attention. He’s no assistant or co-worker to any human. The griffon’s calling the shots, doing things his way, and everyone’s just gobbling it up.

Fishballs, squidballs, kwek-kwek, kikiam, siomai, even some calamares: they drift around in a pool of bubbling oil. Hands stick their food into the sauces with more empty sticks ready for the taking: poke food, collect food, then sauce the food.

I admit, he’s good. Fermin might’ve been as good if not better during his prime, but I only saw him when he was way past his glory days.

With all due respect to Fermin’s pace, Garlan’s speed and readiness is a breath of fresh air. His head leans in to better listen to an order, claws already gripping the tongs. He brings a prepackaged combo of fish- and squidballs, pours them down to the pan. Not too fast that oil spills over and burns someone’s clothes or his feathers. Goes on and supervises, watches over the food and stirs it, pupils darting around to keep track of what’s fully cooked and what’s not. Reminds someone of their order, points them to their food—“Oh, eto na ang tatlong fishball mo,” while holding up three talons. The waiting customer’s order of five fishballs is done, she gets it with a stick, avoiding the scalding oil with her quick hand.

As for the money, he’s meticulous. Give him bills, he quickly stashes them and counts out change from the coin box in seconds. Coins? His eagle eye identifies which is which without a millisecond wasted. If there’s any excess, he pushes them back with a talon. As for those who take longer than usual to get their money—tight pockets or some coins fallen to the ground—Garlan keeps a strict eye on them, impatiently tapping his talons as he waits for the money.

A cool rush of wind reminds me of the time. Check the watch: fifteen minutes to go until shift begins. Time to start off again and leave Garlan be.

I should eat his food soon.

~ ~ ~

Morning work doesn’t have much to show. Only thing of note is a watch repairer unicorn requesting an appointment with the boss next week.

At the start of lunch, Boyet isn’t here again. Turns out he’s gone to the bakery again. When he returns, he’s brought some baked goods and Tart the pony too.

She’s curious about the basketball game Quinto’s watching, and she watches with us while we eat. Mavericks win against the Spurs, and I’m not sure if Tart knows what we do with spurs. Good thing they lost then.

Lunch is over and Tart is gone again. She’s a nice person, I can say that. Though, really, what’s with ponies and baked goods, especially the sugary ones? They eat a lot of it and then some. You’d think these ponies would have a diabetes pandemic with how often they devour the things on YouTube and Facebook, but then they also eat hay and flowers. Like that’s supposed to balance out the sugar high, but it does somehow. Something about high metabolisms, perhaps.

After Tart leaves, we just power through the afternoon. A couple more checks to deposit, some files to update and send, and before I can say it’s closing time, we’re done.

~ ~ ~

“So… you really like that place… uh, what’s it called?”

“It’s Tarts and Bagels,” Boyet says.

We’re walking our way to the boulevard. Five minutes if I want to have dinner and flop on my bed a little early; Ten to fifteen if a leisurely stroll sounds better. Don’t think there’d be much traffic today, so it’s a stroll. Also, there’s Boyet, and he’s always fun to talk to.

“Her husband’s named Bagel something, di ba?” I ask. An assumption, but a logical one considering how candid pony names are.

A smirk creeps up on him. “Cute, no? Pero, not a husband. Just a boyfriend.”

I was right. Romantically right: falling in love at work, working with the sweetheart of your dreams. It’s easy to imagine: Tart and Bagel grew up in baking families, got their cutie marks in baking, fell in love with each other at first sight, then bake their way into each other’s hearts. Won’t be surprised if I’m right on all counts.

“How’s it?” I ask. “You’ve been there na, so what’s it like?”

Get a shrug in return. “Eh, it’s okay. Not that different from the other bakeries. But there’s hearts on the walls, so… ‘yun. Nothing too special.”

I’d like to ask where it was exactly, but we reach a sari-sari store. Boyet frequents it for his nightly servings of beer and food. May not be good for his image—standing outside and drowning himself in beer-drenched peanuts and, if he’s lucky, some homemade sisig—but he lives around here. As if that justifies it, but anyway...

We part ways with a wave and a farewell.

~ ~ ~

As I wait by the intersection as autos leave me in the dust, I glance at Garlan. It’s a bit darker than usual, so he already has an electric lantern on. It glows a warm yellow and the cart basks in its glare. Customers under the umbrella get filtered in yellow too. The griffon’s eyes and feathers shine in the sunny tint, and I’m sure that the oil is glimmering nicely underneath.

Jokes about griffon-cooked eggs aside, Garlan prepares a big order of kwek-kwek. On the side, here’s an aluminum foil container of quail eggs in a sea of thick orange batter. The griffon scoops each egg up, gives them a quick coat and roll of the batter, and dips them into the scorching pan.

I remember the childhood joy of seeing these eggs go from simple liquid pink-orange goop to golden fried pure red-orange up close. I’d pick them up with a stick, all while it’s piping hot—that almost undetectable crunch of breaking freshly fried batter doused in chunky vinegar to add that zing. I was too young to handle the pain, so I ate with hot tears. They were all worth it to taste kwek-kwek fresh from the pan.

Seeing a few children there get a taste of hot-out-of-the-pan kwek-kwek is nice too. Nostalgic, even.

“Bakit tagal mo, ha?”

The words snap me back to reality. They were faint, but I definitely heard them. They’re in Garlan’s raspy voice.

What took you so long, ha?

Happens that the griffon has an evil eye on someone spending an unusually long time looking at the coins before him. Sharp talons twinkling against the light doesn’t help.

What if that’s me? What would I do with an impatient griffon staring down at me? Stay silent or apologize for the inconvenience? Certainly can’t talk back at him and say I’m just human. That won’t work on non-humans.

The slowpoke hurries up and complies. Garlan receives and counts the money with a grunt before continuing on with his kwek-kwek duties.

A barker shouting “Quiapo, Quiapo!” wakes me up, and my legs take me to that jeep. Don’t care about thinking, instincts setting in: just get there.

An uneventful ride later, I’m home. We have leftover sinigang for dinner, and, for the rest of the night, I lounge around in my room, busy on my phone to pass the time.

I drift off to sleep with the phone on my face.

---

There are times when I spend the jeepney’s time silently. There’s lots of catching up and catching on in the news and in social media—Facebook, Instagram, and, if I don’t have anything too important on my plate, YouTube and its random clips of sports, more news, and the occasional meme or two.

If I’m bored with that, there’s the free and easy option of looking out the window. It’s hard to do that in a jeep with its narrow landscaped windows compared to the wide open vistas of buses, taxis, even tricycles. Here, I am rewarded with cropped blurs of buildings zipping me by in the rousing sunshine. Names of stores galore, with someone’s first name or otherwise a random generic set of words for a paint store because, apparently, it’s getting harder and harder to register a unique name with the DTI. The pressure helps produce creative names like Bread Pitt Bakers over in Quezon City. Those punny ponies are going to love that.

Once I’ve gotten tired of looking out or find no opportunity for small talk, there’s always the prospect of people-watching. In this semi-cramped vehicle, all are equal, trapped in the same low-cost wad of steel with tires screwed onto it. We rub each other’s shoulders, sweat and perfume and food combined for a grubby scent. A few play the latest MOBA or FPS mobile game on the market. Those in clothes finer than mine probably work for the big names over here but it’s more cost-efficient for them to hitch a public ride than to drive their own car, pending some law drafted to limit private cars I’ve heard over the radio. There’s the romantic pair in the corner: him whispering sweet nothings to her, both showing bright smiles against the gray grime and cover of the jeep’s interior.

“Hey! There it is! Wait, we’re coming!”

Those three ponies leap into our jeep with a thump! and hitch a ride at the last second. Talk about action movie moves.

They greet everyone on the way, waving hoof and wing at them. We don’t mind much, only nice nods and a greeting back at them. The stares don’t last too long, and many of us go back to looking forward to the next stop. Or texting or sleeping or whatever.

The ponies manage to get a seat at my side, surrounding me. Hot Shot and Weatherwise to my left, Skittles to my right. Takes them a while before they realize who exactly they’re sitting by.

“Oh, hey!” says Weatherwise, tons of joy in his voice. “It’s… uh, Macario, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Nod at them. “Fancy meeting you here three times in a row.”

“Uh-huh!” Skittles cheeps. Eyes closed in pure joy too. “It’s like you can’t live a day without us!”

At this rate, we’ll be neighbors by the end of the month and visiting each other’s families by the end of the year.

“Not exactly like that,” I say. “I’m very punctual. I guess you must be punctual too.”

“That’s because we’re on an itinerary, duh!”

Time to do a double-take. “Uh, I thought you didn’t have a tour guide.”

Hot Shot starts gesturing around with her hooves, mane bobbing with her head. “We don’t want to miss a thing during our stay here. That’s why we wake up early!”

I check my watch. Yeah, early. Barely-six-in-the-morning early. “Right. Sounds about right.”

Meanwhile, Weatherwise flaps his wings open, excited at all the new sights. He’s seen them three times by now, but I get it: the buzz of being in a new place takes time to wear off. Just be careful with those feathers. Easy to ruin someone’s morning with stray feathers in their mouth. Or, worse, their nose.

”You’re going to Manila again?” I ask.

“Not really,” says Skittles. “This time, we’re going deeper! We’re gonna hit cities like Makati and Taguig—“

“And I heard they have a canal like the one in Venice!” Hot Shot exclaims. A couple heads turn her way with that delightful shout. “And there’s all the—“

“If you’re going to say ‘shopping,’” Weatherwise cuts in, turning his head back to us, “don’t! I just want to fly around and visit what I want to visit on my own terms.”

Hot Shot sticks her tongue out and bumps him on the muzzle. “Too bad we can’t fly like you, Wisey!”

“Hey!” Blushes explode on his cheeks. “Not in public!”

They’re together, no doubt about it. That, and the nickname is cuter and more ridiculous than Skittles. Surely a sappy nickname for a romance.

Makes for a pleasant change in tone.

~ ~ ~

For the rest of the trip, there’s nothing I can do but talk with the ponies. They visited a lot of places yesterday. Funny that they’ve been to the Mall of Asia: the surrounding area contains dozens of casinos. Sure enough, turns out they’ve been to a local casino already and tested their luck with the cards and chips. All their cutesy appearances make me forget that these are adults through-and-through. Speaking of adult things, Makati’s not short on bars, so they’ll go on a drinking spree. Seriously, ponies have a natural taste for grain. If they try out half the beers in town, that won’t be strange.

They also show me pictures of a drunk Weatherwise from last night. They just read my mind.

May as well ask though. I’ve never asked it before.

“So how does beer taste to you?”

Hot Shot rubs her hooves, seeing the ever-changing landscape outside. “It’s just fine. I was surprised when you humans say beer’s an acquired taste. I mean, for us, the only thing to get used to is the fizziness. Other than that, it’s just like any other drink… except for the alcohol and the whole intoxication thing, of course!”

I confess, I still don’t know much between the two worlds—these connections, the similarities, what’s different. Just minded my own business through first contact and the rest of the contacts. Have read some articles and watched some videos during my off-time, but I can’t say I’m an expert.

It goes on like this for the rest of the ride: ponies running on about the places they’ve been to, the other countries they’ve visited here, and so on. When they turn it to me, I say I haven’t been around much. Other than a business stint in Malaysia and a few days in Australia to visit a friend, I’ve been nowhere.

By the time we’re closing in on Quezon Boulevard, I keep watch. Keep my senses on high alert, ready to pull on the overhead rope to signal the driver. Lights will turn on, the jeep will stop, and I’ll get down.

So I do just that, giving the ponies a short goodbye as I shuffle my way out and try not to step on their hooves. Only when I look down do I remember that all their hooves are up on the seats. They take up more space than us that way. It doesn’t bother anyone though, so okay.

I stop by the intersection and in the middle of the rightmost lane. By a strip of mostly closed and graffitied storefronts, this huge stretch of road holds a fast bulk of vehicles. Shame I forgot to bring my air mask today; the stench of smoke poisons my nostrils. Wires cross the sky, especially over the intersection and by the overpass footbridge I’ll have to use.

“Wait, we’re going the same way?”

That’s Weatherwise. I look back at the jeep and, sure enough, the ponies are getting off here. That’s not the right way to go to wherever they’re going. Are they following me? Stalking shouldn’t be a friendship activity.

I raise my brows. “Wait, I thought you were going straight to—“

“We decided to try out a semi-random route on the way there,” Hot Shot says, bringing out her phone from the saddle bag. “Have to experience the ordinary stuff too, and we can’t do that with the shortest path. Take things slow, you know?”

Weatherwise flutters his wings in glee and nudges me with his knee. “It’s awesome that our paths cross a lot! Hey, that means we get to talk more and enjoy the day together, right?”

Ponies are so direct. It’s a blessing and a curse. Then again, we’re not that different. Go past how we look and how we grew up in two completely different dimensions, we’re reasonable and emotional sapients.

They just want to walk with me. Nothing hard about that.

“Why not?” I say.

~ ~ ~

The walk across is short, but it’s filled with so much. The street where we get on is gated with lots of stalls and stands outside, peddling the world to us: fruits, vegetables, helmets, speakers, batteries, flashlights, candies, cigarettes, school supplies, clothes, stationery, and so much more. Go farther ahead, you’ll see a sea of colorful umbrellas and people where bargain-priced goods change hands every minute. The street doesn’t have a market: it is the market. Pity the poor drivers who have to wade through an ocean of shoppers.

For me and the tag-along ponies, we don’t go much farther before turning around and getting onto the sidewalk. Past the narrow space where people hawk more helmets and electronics, we ascend the crosswalk’s stone stairs. The stalls continue here too, though they’re selling on the steps themselves. The vendors sit on stools or otherwise just the steps, selling herbal medicine or fabrics or watches or maneki-nekos.

All the while, I try to keep a level head paying attention to the ponies. They gaze upon the wares in awe, attention lured in with the sheen of new. They want to buy half of everything here, but they know I’m not here to shop.

We make it down to the other side which has its own share of vendors including the food merchants: oil-fried sizzlers in their pans, barbecue and other meat parts over charcoal grills, salted coconut-topped cobless corn dug out of its bucket, and peanuts roasting under sweltering lights. The mix of car smoke and hungry scents produce a weird sensation I’m used to, but a cough from one of the ponies gives away how unfamiliar they are to the local smells.

No time to dilly-dally though. We manage to catch a jeep, clambering onto the moving vehicle.

We stumble onto the seats, catch our breaths, rest from the quick sprint.

“That was fun!” blurts out Skittles. She levitates some coins to my hand. “Oh, and, we’re going to pay for you! Our treat!”

I wave my hand around, denying the money while others look on. “It’s fine.” I take out my own wallet and open it up. Inside, my own coins. “I can pay for myself.”

Skittles pouts and goes, “Oh, alright!” It only lasts for a second before she cheers up and passes her fare along. At the same time, she reads the matrix to see if she’s gotten the price right. “Three ponies to—” checks her phone for instructions “—to Arellano!”

Not bothering with Filipino, but the driver, eternally ready for anything and anyone, understands and accepts the money.

I give him my fare and we hurry on.

~ ~ ~

When the whole first contact thing broke, I watched some episodes of the show, the one that was no longer just a work of fiction. Took me a while to get it. I thought, “It’s not Star Wars aliens with faster-than-light spaceships, but magic rainbow ponies?” To prove my point, there was that episode where three of the main characters had a sleepover as adults because one of them, the very princess of Equestria, never had a sleepover in her life because she’d been steeped into books and isolated herself from everybody. At first, I suspended my disbelief: They had lots of deep lore and magic systems that went beyond what the show could ever portray, and that was without talking about their complex structures in a society that only magic horses could develop. Surely, these friendship-loving ponies aren’t as innocent and upbeat, right?

Innocent and upbeat ponies were the ponies we got.

These three ponies remind me of that sleepover. They’ve never been this far east in the city before, so seeing them stick their heads out and comment on everything is both cute and profound. They point up and look at the underbelly of our light rail system and the pretty green plants that sometimes adore the islands on the road. They bring up the international juggernauts we come across like KFC and McDonald’s. They stare at the graffiti and call it beautiful vandalism. Coo at the bus depots out in the open with buses sitting on a ground of rocks. Admire more buildings which aren’t boring slabs of concrete, particularly the ornate ones with signs of Spanish architecture—balustrades, balconies and more.

We approach Arellano University, its campus hidden behind concrete and glass. Students exit their school buses and other vehicles, crowding into the campus proper like they’re entering an inner world through a magic gate.

The ponies begin to stand up. Stretch forelegs first onto the ground, then get their hindlegs down onto the floor.

They all say, “Bye!” and they get off.

The trio wave as we speed away. Happy little ponies en route to another jeep, setting out to chart another part of the world.

I wave back.

~ ~ ~

I almost trip getting off the jeep. Should pay more attention to what I’m doing. Thinking about the nice ponies with their big innocent eyes distracts me and I can’t deny it.

For all of that, though, I manage to make it here earlier than usual. Seven-twenty. Good to be early.

The crowd by the food stall has thinned since last time. The novelty around a griffon cooking fishballs fades fast. Unlike the typical pony or even other creatures like the hippogriffs and changelings, the typical griffon is very reserved. If not reserved, then not afraid to speak his mind. Cuts straight to the point.

As he cooks on and as people pierce and eat their scorching bites as they please—the griffon advising them to please not double dip—someone goes up. Judging from his accent, most likely another tourist. Says, “No, I insist, you can keep the change.”

Garlan takes a second to analyze the overloaded money. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah! Food’s good. I’m certainly coming back for more.”

The griffon takes another glance at the cash.

He takes the money, safe and sound in his clenched fist. “Thank you.”

The visitor goes away, his face toward me. From across the Pacific, most definitely. As for Garlan, he puts the money in his coin box and continues stirring the pan, taking orders.

He spots me.

I cringe inside, turn my eyes slightly away. I’m staring at the crowd, not at him. However, those eyes are sharp like knives. No curiosity there, but something worse.

Once he stares somewhere else, occupying himself with more food and more orders, I take the opportunity to leave.

~ ~ ~

At lunch, Quinto brings a box of cold beer. It’s for a get-together at Dan’s on Friday night. We question why he brings Friday beer today, especially in a no-alcohol workplace.

Boyet’s out for lunch again. Sure enough, he comes from the bakery and brings along the same goodies along with Tart. Boyet talks proud about his time there, getting excited about the ponies there. With that, Tart joins our talk.

Sarina almost pets her, but she gets a sharp look from the pony. Something about being treated as equal sapients, she says.

~ ~ ~

Our office reflects and lets in the fading light of the setting sun. Its orange blaze circulates through the high windows of sleek but stuffed complexes, courses through the openings of older modern-style manors. Hedge walls and walls of moss join the sunset club and so do the construction workers toiling on more sleek and stuffed living complexes beside us.

A couple painter ponies rolled up across our house some years back. The house across was much fancier than ours: second floor and all that jazz, had a grass yard despite the lack of space in the village. The paint job ended up as a human-pony collaboration: humans and ponies working together, painting together, sprucing up a house together. Helped that most of the ponies there had cutie marks related to painting; they were painting experts. Humans in aging clothes, sweat and oil building up on their faces, working with the ponies humming and eager to chat anytime. The ponies even did a song, which some neighbors first thought was a drunk uncle kicking the karaoke machine again.

We walk together, fellow clerks and gophers going home. Quinto is here, and so is Sarina. They talk about the party coming up at Dan’s place on Friday night: beer, cards, and, of course, some karaoke to herald in the weekend. Loretta suggests watching a movie: a new Avengers film or some other film in some other cinematic universe. I propose that we should take the drinking into a proper bar: we can all chip in with our own money to lighten the load. Plus, it’s hard to get a movie everyone will agree on.

Doesn’t take long before we reach the boulevard and wait once more. For the first minute, public transportation abandons us, seems to ignore us because we just can’t find a free vehicle. One by one, however, the spots open up. A taxi’s open for one. Another gives up waiting and calls a rideshare. Others get lucky with a regular FX, go for a group spin.

Fifteen minutes later, it’s down to the two of us: me and Boyet. He lives closer to the city’s northern border than I do, but the Quiapo jeeps are just full.

While we wait, with conversation stalled, we’re bored. Bored of waiting, bored of car-watching, bored of each other. Just tired. Saying words doesn’t cut it anymore. Our eyes look around for interesting stuff to look at. Like moths, we eventually turn to the light of the food cart

Boyet nudges my shoulder. “New guy, right?”

I look there, seeing Garlan serve food under the yellow light. One thing I didn’t notice until today: people taking pictures with the griffon, including selfies, especially the yuppies with rising accounts, both the bank and the social media kinds. They were the type to take pictures with Equestrians back in the day because it was the in thing where everybody was doing it. #Ponies. #Equestria. #MagicsInTheAir.

Garlan goes with it in his no-nonsense style. Nothing flashy for the camera: just a sly smile. Tells them to hurry up through his beaming beak because he’s got snacks to cook and stomachs to fill and cash to earn, but any publicity is good publicity. More people who know him, more people who’ll buy, more money he’ll gain.

I check myself out of the griffon stereotype. Not all griffons are greedy snobs who’ll pinch every single penny they find and store them in a secure Swiss bank account.

“He’s okay,” Boyet says, nudging me on the shoulder one more time.

“What do you mean he’s okay? Sinabukan mo?” I ask. Did you try?

“Oo! Of course, I did!” Points again at the griffon pouring dozens of fishballs into the burning pot without visibly counting them. “He’s just like all the others kasi. Nothing crazy like pink fried chicken or ganun. I don’t need that. You see, this guy knows we just want food, so he gives us food. Sweet and simple siya.” He folds his arms, acting all smug.

Can’t argue with that.

Other creatures tried to sell snacks on these streets over the years. Vegan ponies didn’t fare so well: many of us weren’t sure of vegetarian fishballs or, worse, fried hayballs mixed with salt and seasoning. After that, a dragon hosted a food truck with diamonds and gems mixed in the offerings. That didn’t sell. Once the dragon got shooed away, there was a misinformed changeling who shocked everybody by selling fried ants and scorpions. He’d done better selling fertilized duck eggs, but it’s hard to imagine a pastel changeling considering that.

It’s the same reason why, for now, ordinary humans trying to change up the street food scene fail all the time. We rely on our staple snacks staying the same. If they keep changing, they aren’t reliable, and we don’t want to risk our money on something unreliable. Visionary is the one who cooks up something new in such a traditional hardliner market. This griffon gets it.

A beep and a barker shouting the right names yank us back to going home.

“Oh, Cario! Go na!”

“Nah, you go ahead,” I say, holding back a hand. “Is there room for two—“

The barker shouts “Isa pa!” one more time. Room for one and only one.

But I’m polite. “Eh, just go, Boyet. I can wait.”

“Ah, alright.” Scratches his head, but I can tell he’s happy to get going. “Take care, ha?”

So he goes, climbs up into the jeep, and he’s gone. Fades into the traffic and the urban clutter that surrounds us in its many walls.

The sun starts to set. Littered with dark and dirty clouds, the fiery sky filters that sun whose rays still touch us. Those rays cast a holy glow upon the griffon, shining down on the culinary laborer through the umbrella’s colors. Meshed with the chorus of car honks and car horns, music shrieking through loudspeakers, and the crowd talking and eating around the griffon. Caught in the glorious moment.

Unsure if an empty jeep has passed me by.

~ ~ ~

Later that night at home, I check the news on the phone. Probably a bad idea to do it on social media with a groggy head, but I do it.

It’s someone I tagged or mentioned or whatever days ago. She shows up with a selfie of the griffon and his pan. Hand with a stick full of food gets prime real estate in the photo.

Did NOT expect to see a gryphon making pica-pica! Tasty! :) :P #StreetFood #Fishballs #RandomEncounters #Gryphon

Stare at the photo.

Joyful face of my sometime friend who I should be proud of for catering to the griffon. Happy that she chose Garlan, happy that Garlan’s getting ahead in life. Garlan’s happy too though his beak’s turned only a little upward. Barely a smile.

Out of curiosity—and, admittedly, in my attempt to not sleep—I do a quick search on the last hashtag. I check the hashtags for griffons—both griffon and gryphon, despite constant Equestrian news and posts clearly saying that the griffons hail from Griffonstone along with griffon enclaves across the land.

Filtering random griffon photos and Griffonstone news and random griffon accounts, a few more pictures of Garlan pop up. His smirk is faint in all the photos, and he doesn’t do anything wacky. Amid funny poses, over-the-top faces, and insane clickbait material, he stays sober. That new rare-smile griffon is going places with his food under the spotlight.

Food under the spotlight.

Fermin also cooked food.

Fermin never went places. Never went anywhere.

He just was.

Comments

[Diokno44]

Huh, a story with Filipino elements. Neat

[Shachza]

Macario and Skittles sitting in a tree...!

[ILoveCheetos]

I am seriously loving this. How easily you capture the atmosphere of Manila is amazing!