Biscuit-ball

Wednesday at 5 p.m. There is hardly any excitement when this time/day comes around every week, and not even the least noticeable for its lack of a meaning for people. The time/day has no zip, no interest, and no production like, say, that of a Saturday night. But most of all, it has no significance, except maybe for the start of murderous traffic jams along EDSA.

And if you agree with that, then you still haven’t read the story of Vicky and her timetable. You see, folks, Victoria (or plain Vicky) worked as an encoder for a lending firm in Makati City. It was her job for three years, and she always intended to keep it that way.

She was organized and annoyingly punctual, like a person who never welcomed change. The trait of spontaneity had clearly eluded her nature. Even stranger was the fact that she was part of a routine, which took place only during Wednesdays after her work. And while it may sound silly, every detail of her journey home on those particular days recurred and was strictly set in synchronized form. It sounded amusing as her inadvertent habit – an unplanned and unintended timetable.

At 5:15 p.m., Vicky stood with a backpack at the nearby bakery for some cinnamon biscuits. She took a bus ride to the MRT, fell in line at the counter, and got her ticket at 5:30 p.m. via teller no. 2. By 5:44, Vicky entered the train at the fourth compartment from the left, and if she was lucky enough to find a seat, it faced the northbound highway. She placed her backpack underneath, and ate her biscuits until the MRT reached her stop in Cubao at exactly 5:59 p.m.

The reasons for this trivial and unintentional route are typically vague, partly because it was a weekly custom. And since the precision was so incredibly absolute, the routine was never altered.

However, it should be duly noted that a single transition, no matter how small, has disrupted dozens of organized timetables with ease – let alone one. But while this story can be linked to a chicken soup piece or even borrowed from a Jeffrey Archer collection, it conveys a much more subtle objective.

The profound difference, my dears, is that choice had nothing to do with my character’s movements and patterns. So it was quite understandable that the relevance of time was never again brought up, especially after a shitty episode one late January.

It began just like any other Wednesday, but drastically evolved into something more after Vicky received a tongue-lashing from the supervisor. It came about when her computer broke down and erased the whole day’s work.

"But it’s not my fault," Vicky cried with this rustic line, which, although legitimate, did not put the blame on anyone else. She reluctantly stayed an extra hour to retrieve some of the lost data.

She spun around the cubicle and pummeled her fists on the desk. She was obviously not in the best mood, and her hard look and narrowed eyebrows did little to hide it.

"Sobrang bulok talaga nitong computer, p**yeta naman," she mumbled under her breath as a secretary came up to deliver a message.

And Vicky, who was already nursing a headache from the expletives, nearly fainted when she found out that Sam Castillo, one of the firm’s top executives, wanted "a word with her" next week.

"Ha? Sinong Sam Castillo?"

"You mean you don’t know our new vice president?"

"Obvious ba?" Vicky answered with deep sarcasm. "I mean, narinig ko na ang pangalan niya, pero hindi ko pa siya nakikita."

"Well, you will next week," was the cold reply.

"Um... Dahil kaya sa computer ko kanina?" she worriedly asked.

"Hindi ko alam. Walang sinabi sa ‘kin."

"Nye! Pano ‘yun? Ang labo naman! I don’t even know kung..."

"You will, next week," the secretary interrupted and began to walk away.

"Pero hindi ko rin alam if..."

"Basta you will nga, next week! Kahit ano pa ‘yang tanong mo!"

Afterwards, Vicky rolled some paper reports, placed them on her backpack and hurriedly left the office, kicking a trashcan on her way out just for good measure. The girl actually had reason, too. For not only was there an appointment with the new big shot (someone she never met), it was also about 6:30 p.m. already. "Sana bukas pa ‘yung bakery," she said aloud.

The events following her exit were naturally strained, but after much hassle, Vicky got to all of them. She arrived at the MRT station at 7:15 p.m., and it was pure hell at the back of the extended line at teller no. 3.

She had the reports in one hand and a large pack of cinnamon biscuits on the other, and she hastily stuffed them in her bag. This made her back ache.

Finally, after several more delays, Vicky reached the inside of the MRT. And though it wasn’t her usual fourth compartment entrance, there was a seat available. She then forced a weak smile, looked up and thanked God for the tiny good fortune. "Thanks for throwing me a bone, Jesus!"

Yes, well, it certainly was a break, but unfortunately, the feeling didn’t last long. She changed her mind immediately after an obese, middle-aged woman moved past the other passengers and squeezed-in to share her seat. Vicky sighed heavily.

"God giveth, then God taketh away!"

It had been a long, miserable day, indeed, and an exhausted Vicky munched on the pack of biscuits. "So much for dinner," she said aloud as the overweight woman smiled and looked at her. Vicky grinned politely and offered her a biscuit. The woman took three.

Vicky was momentarily stunned, but she just shook her head and placed the biscuits on her side. And she tried to ignore it, but the woman rudely scoffed at her when the goodies were taken away. It was a grim sight. "Some nerve this glutton has! If she’s hungry enough to eat a horse..."

For her, this fatso was an extra test and the last obstacle before she got back her peace of mind. Besides, Vicky felt she was courteous and even gracious to an extent, despite her half-hearted offer. She glared at the woman, rolled her eyes and tightened her grip on the biscuits.

As the train reached Ortigas, Vicky grinned and nibbled on another piece. But almost as if on cue, the lady cleared her throat, leaned forward and ever so casually took one from her again. Vicky couldn’t believe it.

She bit her lip, but when the woman took a couple more from the pack, Vicky had enough and ate the biscuits rapidly. She had even barely finished a piece and she already had several in hand. It was all for spite and a ward-off act, but to her astonishment (and great irritation), the obese lady sped up her snacking pace as well.

If one chewed hard, the other did, too; and if one of them swallowed, the other followed suit. Pretty soon, Vicky saw this ridiculous mind game turn into a furious race of who could eat more biscuits. And while neither woman ever said a word, their fiendish stares on each were so transfixed that both would be dead if looks did kill.

"I took all the shit thrown at me today and did nothing," Vicky thought. "So just this once, nobody will dictate the outcome but me!"

And with that, Vicky gnawed even faster on the cinnamon goodies with more fervor. It proved highly effective too, as the woman shortly suffered a stomach cramp and recoiled in anguish. Vicky smiled triumphantly, and held up the empty pack. It was all over.

And in a rare display of meanness, Vicky belched loudly at the woman as if to say, "That’ll teach ya!" She then spotted the Cubao station from a distance and stood up, as the lady continued to writhe in pain.

Vicky giggled softly and picked up her backpack. Deep down, she felt that it served the moocher right. And as the train neared her stop, however, Vicky lost her footing near the exit. She was able to hold on to the rails for safety, but her backpack dropped to the floor.

Vicky then turned and saw the bag’s contents scattered around. And she turned completely white because right there, down on that MRT floor together with her backpack and strewn paper reports, was a large, unopened pack of cinnamon biscuits.

Her eyes widened and she turned speechless. It took all her strength to snap out of the daze, and when she did, Vicky kicked herself hard for she, of all the people, was the moocher.

Extremely embarrassed, she meekly went over to the fat, middle-aged woman and apologized several times.

"It’s okay. You didn’t mean it," the woman uttered while holding her abdomen. She was still in obvious pain.

"Sorry, sorry po talaga! Please! Let me take you to the hospital!"

"Ah... no need. I’ll just walk it off."

"Sige na, manang," Vicky cried. "Let me make it up! Kahit ano gagawin ko!"

"Eh, ‘wag na lang, iha. Hayaan mo na..."

"Manang, gusto ko rin po umuwi, pero konsensya ko nalang ‘pag meron nangyari sa inyo..."

It took a lot of convincing, but Vicky was adamant. And eventually, she talked the lady into accepting her help.

"Oh, all right," the woman relented. "I don’t need a doctor, but you can help me carry these shoes I bought kanina."

"Sige ba!" Vicky exclaimed. "Ako na magdadala nyan at ihahatid ko kayo sa bahay n’yo."

"Ay naku, ‘wag na, ‘wag na! Malayo pa ako dito."

"Hindi po! Walang probl..."

"And that’s not what I meant any-way! Hindi ko pa kasi kailangan agad ‘yung mga sapatos, eh," the woman insisted. "Kaya doon mo nalang dalhin ‘yan sa Makati office ko next week. I’ll be out-of-town tomorrow, kasi."

"Ah, o sige po."

"Paki-address mo na lang sa pangalan ko, okay? I’m Sam Castillo, nga pala."

"Ha? Wha…" Vicky babbled.

"Mrs. Samantha Castillo," the lady repeated. "Maybe you can bring the shoes on Wednesday at around 5 p.m."

* * *

E-mail the author at mister_foxy@yahoo.com.