Image borrowed here
My dad's newspaper business stands right in the corner of a clothing tiangge along a busy public jeepney station. It was a typical dusty old open area, barely 4 meters long and 2 meters wide crammed with stacked piles of soft drink bottle cases, a table used as a counter top and a news stand brimming with half-folded daily tabloids.The partitions were made out of chicken wires lined with old greasy tarpaulins and calendars given by different city political personalities. On the left are rusty improvised shelves and on the right displayed are more tabloids on rusty metal clothes hanger. It was the sight I have to endure and get used to since my father's trusted worker took a leave to seek medical attention from years of late night drinks. And until my father found another employee to man our microbusiness, that meant we, at our household, have to take turns operating the store on our own.
I have seen enough heated arguments between jeepney chauffers to presume that place to be a breeding ground for negative energy and I have inhaled enough jeepney exhaust and second-hand smoke to call myself hypocrite for selling cigarettes labeled dangerous for my health. These are only some of the things that I have come to hate aside from killing precious time and staring blankly at the countless passersby envying them from not getting stuck in a dusty roach-infested store trying to make a living.
Sometimes I wander whether these strangers perceive me as just another newspaper boy handing out changes and living my life in complete frustration. Well, I have dreams too. This job may have made me bitter but I have dreams too, you know.