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Ibong Malaya
... O Ibayong Dagat
Ibong Sawi
Pugad...

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.

... O Ibayong Dagat

Last day of the workweek. Business as usual.

I get up and perform all my morning preparations. Breakfast today is hotdog and eggs but with some leafy vegetables and leftover pakbet to boot. I’m eating healthy this morning, and those eggplants swimming around on the plate prove me right.

Weather forecast says there’s stormy weather coming up later. Related news says that the local pegasus weather branch wants to help facilitate the weather city-wide, but the vote remains no. Something about not enough research to see how Equestrian weather practices would affect a country already riddled with constant floods and typhoons.

~ ~ ~

Phones are great diversions. Sometimes, I give into earphone music and podcasts even though it makes me look dumb and unaware. Not today. Just a pure walk through town, scrolling through social media, seeing the usual posts. Some of my more successful friends and former classmates or co-workers from previous jobs talking about their travels and their stuff and what they had for breakfast. Some fun facts and memes to lighten up the mood because life doesn’t always have to be serious. Some news about my relatives and my cousins and where they are and what they’re doing. Some actual news, local and global.

There are some accounts I follow that show Equestrian news. It’s become a necessity because we have to know the big stuff happening in both worlds now, even if it means seeing Squash Soup Declared New State Dish of Maresouri right above Dragon Lord Ember with New Plans on Territorial Expansion.

Following individual Equestrian accounts was all the rage. We had creatures who had no idea what the words Internet and online meant until we came along and helped them use the tech. Mixed reactions followed. On one hand, it was a revolutionary new way to meet with friends and maintain friendships while being physically absent. On the other hand, there were protests throughout the kingdom; they claimed humanity was peddling an anti-friendship dogma by putting creatures out of jobs and eradicating true face-to-face friendship. Didn’t stop the creatures who didn’t care. Was fun to see them learn the ropes and fit into our platforms like they’ve always belonged.

I could tell. I had first-hand experience with a pony who always liked everything I posted. Always commented something like, That’s great! Hope you’ll do the thing awesomely!

~ ~ ~

Coming in four days in a row, I expect those three ponies to come along for the fifth. I’ve resigned my fate to the magic of harmony or dumb luck. They are destined to come to my jeep and regale me with their bubbly personalities and their stories of what new thing they did here. When we round our way to the cemetery’s entrance, I raise my head, scanning the area for the excitable Equestrians.

They aren’t there.

After four days, the stars stop aligning. Maybe those ponies are looking for me now and I just don’t know where they are. Trailing me espionage-style isn’t out of the question. Sounds pretty spot on if a pony really wants to befriend me.

When the wheels turn to Dimasalang’s overpass bridge, I realize our paths won’t cross today.

I pass fares along, being seated at the front, and the wind refreshes me. Chit-chat with a chatty mother who keeps telling me about her daughter and how she’s proud of her child’s work. Isn’t as chatty as the three ponies who may as well be parrots.

No words said every two seconds, no unbridled curiosity over what’s this or that outside, no excitement to know me and everyone else. Nothing.

~ ~ ~

As I travel to the footbridge and walk past the street’s loaded stalls, absence follows me. Feel I might’ve missed something, that I should check my pockets and turn around just in case. Equestrians have a strange habit of turning up where you least expect them.

So when I most expect them, they don’t turn up.

I notice the vendors I’m familiar with. They’re familiar to me, but in eyes and face only. They notice me as well. Some stay silent until spoken to, some spill their sales spiel at you if you merely glance their way. They glance at me and the space behind me.

Go down and hop onto my next jeep without incident. Someone’s selling powdered milk for babies; he leaves with nothing sold. Loud poor-quality radio music blares through the speakers. A talkative circle of friends chatter the day away with each other, hyped for the weekend.

My soul drowns in the noise. The outside flies on without me.

~ ~ ~

Within months of the first portals opening—New York, London, Moscow, Vancouver, Paris, places like that—stories and tales went around. Human-interest stories was the formal term, and they scattered everywhere. Cluttered the lifestyle sections on newspapers and news sites worldwide.

There’s the feeling, this revival, of something old and new at the same time—the beginning of an era, they say. A nostalgia of innocence or a promise of a brighter future. Past the front-page news of politics and heads of state wondering what to do with literal magic and real-life fire-breathing dragons, we got these articles and stories of a hippogriff willing to let a kid experience flight for the first time or of someone’s “life-changing meeting with a unicorn.” Those first years were wonderful, even if it took me time to truly meet an Equestrian of my own—that took shape in a party of ponies from a portal in Oregon. Things got to the point where Hasbro did a little inspirational mini-series about it, complete without branding. They didn’t need egregious branding when their “franchise” had been a real world all along.

It didn’t take long for permanent transfers to get going. First, it was moving in to the big cities like New York and Los Angeles—for some reason, the techie cities got more Equestrians than average; maybe it’s because our tech is mysterious impossible magic to them. On the flip side, things went the other way too. Though in smaller numbers, people relocated to the other side, some to live, some to work, some to retire as fully-fledged citizens of a magical land. Things looked better there: a fantasy world where magic was king. It’s true that dark magic lurked around and evil monsters that could wreck Earth called Equestria their home, but that was a given. Even if they were afraid of that, people were assigned to the safer spots anyway.

With so many dreams coming true, who wouldn’t want to live there?

One sembreak years ago, college freshman me stumbled upon Fermin, having come home from a trip with my buddies. Most went home in their cars, but I didn’t want to be a bother to them by hitching one of their rides. I lived the farthest from them, after all.

After some food and idle conversation, I asked if he’d thought about moving on to somewhere else. Didn’t take long for him to realize I was talking about Equestria. The air’s better, for one, and there’re opportunities for moving up in life: his humanity can be of great use there. May even open up a totally new field in that world! Over there, things can be better and he doesn’t have to worry.

He said no. Said it’s okay here.

~ ~ ~

I get down at the usual spot, Garlan not so far away as people inspect his wares What a crowd he’s sustained through his first week! They also keep taking selfies with Garlan once in a while, and he keeps barely smiling at the camera. First in line—if you could call an irregularly-shaped blob of people a line—taps on the cart just like Garlan does, doubtfully swinging his head left to right, whistling while he stares at his payment. Must be in a hurry.

The griffon notices me as he stirs the food with his spoon. His first response: shoot me an eye-roll before refocusing on the pot.

Not a good time to watch him. I start my way out.

Screech!

Ears ringing, turn around. Close my ears!

The sound’s already gone, but the damage is done. Others look his way, and they see Garlan gripping the cash box. Death grip. The man has his hands up, stepping away from the mad griffon. Eyes shrunk, my heart pulsing, all silent.

“Don’t you dare steal from me!” Garlan squawks. No bothering with Filipino this time. Brandishes his claws. “I counted it, I saw you count it, so no excuses from you! Scram!”

The man turns round and flees. We look at him run before we turn back to the food cart.

As for Garlan, his feathers are ruffled, not unlike an aggravated fighting rooster ready for bloodshed. Goes back to cooking, tending to food and more customers. Anger lingers in his words, however.

My feet quickly take me away. Can’t have that evil eye on me.

~ ~ ~

Maybe I should make amends with Garlan. Boyet had a point about letting go, to treat the griffon like any other vendor. Says nothing justifies avoiding him on purpose. Shouldn’t have a grudge against an innocent griffon doing honest work.

It’s not a grudge.

Besides, what do I know about him anyway? He has a good point. Not like Garlan will bite.

Garlan can bite. I haven’t robbed him, though.

~ ~ ~

Half an hour into the workday. As I input more financial data into spreadsheets, there’s something lacking in the office. The rest seem to be here, but—

“Boyet’s not coming,” Sarina says absentmindedly as she looks at her phone. “Sick daw. Just woke up.”

I quickly check my e-mail. Sure enough, there’s Boyet’s message sent a minute ago.

Down with cold and flu. Should’ve told you earlier. Woke up only now. My apologies. Should return Tuesday!

After sending him a take-care reply, my workload grows. I have to pick up the slack. We all have to pick up the slack. The calendar says today won’t be a very busy day. That doesn’t matter. Have to keep it running.

~ ~ ~

Takes a while to consider what’s happening today: the night at Dan’s house and surprising Ma’am with some pony help.

I take notice whenever the boss calls his wife in between meetings, asking whether she was okay, that he’ll pick her up later. So far, so good. Usually doesn’t talk about her or even to her this publicly at work. Part of his scheduled personality: the time for the best woman in his world is, sadly, not now.

Later on, a business e-mail comes my way. I check for keywords. It’s an update from Tarts and Bagels. I open it up.

Check again. Tarts and Bagels?

My e-mail application is filled with hearts and cake emojis. Very stylized message compared to the usual black and white fare with the occasional dark blue text.

The actual contents are more professional:

Good morning friends! How are you doing? We hope that you’re having a fun time there!

To let you know, the cake is ready to deploy! We’ll be showing up around eleven. Just give us the go signal if you want us to come earlier.

See you in a few hours everybody!

—From, the Tarts and Bagel staff!

~ ~ ~

Almost lunch. Boss stands up and just tells us: his wife came down with something over the morning. Has to drive her to the nearest clinic for a check-up.

Jogs his way out, gets in his car. Speeds away with screeching tires.

When the car goes out of sight, he doesn’t leave my mind. She’s never been sick before, at least not while I was here. Goes to show how sweet and true his love is for her. Still, can’t take away the bitter from the bittersweet.

“Um… so do we cancel?” asks Quinto. He’s just come to my side, looking at where the boss’s car used to be.

Right. The cake surprise. Watch says there’s still time. “Yeah, let’s… wait, is that…?“

Through the window, a pony comes trotting into view. Instantly turns her way to the windows and waves at us. Carries the saddle bag where she stores her day’s lunch.

They’re going without our signal.

These ponies have too much initiative.

~ ~ ~

It’s Tart again. Came in to enjoy another lunch with us before the big cake surprise.

But we tell her about what happened to Ma’am.

“… Nothing too serious from what we can tell,” I say. “To be clear, we’re not canceling the surprise. It’s only postponed. I’m sure you can store the cake somewhere in your freezer or something.”

“We can, but we need the space for our other cakes.” The pony rubs her hoof across the table. “But even then, this is a very special occasion. We can’t let her down. I’ll see what we can do.”

I spread my hands open. “Don’t stress on it. This isn’t an anniversary or anything. We don’t surprise each other with tall wedding cakes just for a visit—“

She plants a hoof firmly on the table. “Yeah, but that’s why we’re here!”

This? What is this? Raising her voice like she’s trying to start a revolution? Given her tone, this will be her speech about what this simple gesture means to her. Like the climax of one of those episodes.

She puts her two forelegs on the table and stands up. I’m right.

“We want to spread the fun, the joy, and the value of baking the way we know how! Part of that is baking pastries for someone—for a friend—just because! Why? We love them, we love our friends, and we want to brighten up their day! That’s why I got my cutie mark in the first place: I baked a friend in need her favorite tarts to show that I’m with her and that she still has something—and someone—to enjoy life with!”

Points a hoof out the window. Owns the great view with her sweeping hoof, sun shining down on her flowing mane.

“I won’t hole up here, pity the poor woman, and give her a template greeting card. She’s begging me to give her something from within. My heart can say nothing else!”

Tart ends it with a final huff and sits back down on her chair. No hard time breathing. Just sits back down and looks at us dead in the eyes like that’s nothing.

Okay then. At least she’s committed.

~ ~ ~

Before you’re used to ponies as everyday people, saying goodbye to them is like waking up. Rare is the happy ending since tomorrow resets it. A new day comes along and there’s work to do, still another thing to do.

We’ll still get to see Tart though. Just have to visit her instead of the other way around. She does have her passion in the bakery, after all. Can’t spend all her free time in another company, so she has to stop visiting us for now.

After that bundle of pony joy leaves us, things go downhill. A client asks to cancel today’s meeting at the last minute because he’s already made up his mind and apparently needs no counseling. Cue confusion and arguments, multi-tasking with our mouths running and our hands typing or writing and our feet stumbling.

When the boss comes back, he is tired and flustered, wiping his sweaty face. Wife’s down with severe diarrhea. Has to stay in the clinic overnight while she gets treated for a quick recovery. Also angry about the last-minute changes. Last-minute anything is a bane to a stickler to schedule. Have to endure him complaining to the client on the phone, lecturing him on punctuality and wasting people’s time.

All of us play catch-up until quitting time, or what should’ve been quitting time. We flounder with work still left, with more data to update and more papers to print for the weekend and next week.

Half an hour overtime, more than half the team’s already left. We, the ones who remain, care about the extra mile. Or they want to beat the traffic rush to get home early so they can enjoy Friday night sooner.

We don’t last forever. One by one, the others leave. Hernando’s got papers to do for an interview for a job opening in Equestria. Ivory has a family trip tomorrow and she has to wake up extra early. Loretta says she can do no more, that she’d just be slowing us down with her tired self. Quinto just admits he’s going so he won’t be late for Dan’s party.

Work slows to a crawl disguised as a speeding car. We work fast but not smart. We bumble along and ask questions. No one can answer, so we check the documentation which is always slower than asking the expert.

I promise Sarina that I’ll hold down the fort and finish the work. All looks fine. Just a little over my pay grade, but if Boyet can go above and beyond, so can I.

And so, the last one—Sarina, the faithful veteran—leaves me to my own. Leaves me alone in this darkening office with its mass of computers, papers, and printers as my “friends.”

~ ~ ~

No man should be an island. I’ve tried to be one, but an hour later, I am a sinking ship. Misplacing things, almost pressing on the wrong buttons, second-guessing and triple-guessing things before overthinking myself silly, tripping on my own two feet.

All frantic. Wish they haven’t left. Wish the boss is here. Wish Boyet didn’t get sick and that he’s here. Pushing myself up against a mountain, no end in sight. I want to go.

Then the rain begins to pour. Raindrops land on the windows.

~ ~ ~

Seven-thirty, and it’s soaking wet. There’s a jeep I must catch, but I’ll be late anyway.

“Sampung fishball po.”

After my wondrous trip through the rainstorm and waiting for the jeep in vain, I wind up in Garlan’s food cart. All alone, all to myself. And him too.

Garlan says nothing as talons pick up the plastic bag of frozen fishballs. Methodical, he adjusts his talons here and there as he pours the fishballs. Enough dive into the boiling pot, the new fishballs with the leftover ones. It’s difficult to hear the sizzle in the rain, but it’s there: crisp music with continuous pops as the notes and the percussion. Fishballs going szzt! as they drop into the pan with little splashes, bubbles clustering around and frying the snacks.

Garlan doesn’t do much after that. Stirs them around so the food doesn’t get unevenly cooked. Fishballs don’t need constant stirring in oil. They just fry.

Still, it’s bewitching. They slowly grow in size, from flat shapes to less flat starchy goodies. Bubbles collect around their girth, the little bites darting around like hyperactive paper boats on lava.

I grab a stick.

Before poking the fish balls together, I glance at Garlan. Not doing much. Checking his inventory, but then he notices my look.

“What do you want?” he blurts out, reacting in English. Probably studied a lot on Filipino as an informal business language. Language crash courses haven’t prepared the griffon for random humans staring at him while he measures his wares to see if he has enough sauce for tomorrow.

“Ah, curious lang,” I answer. Self-defense. “I’m just curious.”

I roll up my sleeves—can’t let the oil spoil my corporate clothes—and prepare to pick the fishballs. Since they’re the only food being cooked, I don’t run the high risk of an oil bubble boiling my skin. Even then, I’m used to it. Comes with the territory of a sometimes hopeless street food addict wherever the food’s around. Fun trips and good times, having to pick your orders in a sea of bobbing shapes while others pick along with you, armed with their own sticks. Sticks colliding, maneuvering around other sticks and other people, careful not to get someone else’s food.

Poke the fishballs. Crisp on the outside, soft on the inside. With the stick, I can feel them. Letting the stick pierce one, then two, entering the oil. Hot air coats my hand and arm. The sizzles become more real. Five, then six, then seven.

I have ten now, all lined up nicely along the stick. Like potato chips on a stick but wider and a little healthier.

The sauce jars are closed. Can’t let the rain soil them, though rainy air cools my hot hand. Open the sweet sauce, my favorite since I was a kid. My sweet tooth never went away. It just came by less and less.

Dunk the stick inside, let it bask in the dip, pull it out.

Food’s ready. Behold the masterpiece in my hands: ten flat fishballs impaled on a stick, oozing with thick brown sauce trickling and dropping onto the pavement. Have to lean forward to not stain my shoes and pants. Not that it will matter. They’re already deluged in stormwater.

Then I glance at Garlan. He’s finally done counting. Looks at the now emptypot.

He catches my glance. Doesn’t say anything.

Time to spill my thanks. “Salamat.”

Garlan nods. Just nods. He’s satisfied another customer. Also got more money. The griffon counts his coins and bills another time and writes down the numbers into his books.

Around us, the soaked and soaking outside. Furious rain rages on, obscures my vision. Building lights glow hazily. Cars scramble for a way out, their own lights as translucent swords. Bare sidewalks, dotted with few brave souls bracing the weather. Fewer are those standing out here, waiting for anything to hitch onto and ride off into the deafening night.

The gale splashes rain onto me despite the cart’s umbrella, but that’s okay. It’s just me, a griffon, and a snack under a rainbow umbrella, illuminated by warm lights. I can endure this. I can rest and wait here.

“Oh, hey!”

I lurch to the side, see who said that.

To my surprise, there’s those tourist ponies again, all three trotting under one floating umbrella. The unicorn closes it with her magic as they enter the cart’s bigger umbrella. Must’ve run all the way here. Easy to get unlucky with public transportation in the storm.

“Surprising to see you out here!” yells Hot Shot. She smells the food and double-takes, hoof close to her muzzle. “Um… is that…?”

“Fishballs,” I blandly say, raising my voice against the rain while gesturing to the food stall. Flash a smirk at them. “Bet you don’t usually see an Equestrian cooking this.”

It doesn’t take long for them to see the griffon by the pan. Garlan greets them with the same stoic face he’s greeted everyone else with. The ponies return the favor with dumbfounded expressions. Definitely didn’t expect a fellow Equestrian dishing out hometown food.

“Sorry,” he says to them with a dismissing wave. “Haven’t prepared any veggie stuff for you ponies.”

Weatherwise rubs his belly in reply. “That’s okay because we’re full! We had a buffet over at that Megamall place! The chefs were super nice to us and they had lots of stuff there! They even had a birthday party, and we joined in the songs!”

“Oh, should we tell him about our trip to the studio?” asks Skittles, nudging the other two ponies with her sodden umbrella.

Ah, they finally went there. Finally met some of their other-worldly “makers” or, more appropriately, their other-worldly artists who subconsciously conveyed another world on television. How that actually happened, I’ll never understand, no matter how much researchers on both sides try to break it down for me.

“It was alright,” says Weatherwise, winding his hoof around. “It was all nice, yeah. Met the staff and we all had a good time socializing and talking about life. Even showed us some sketches!”

“Though I realized that we may’ve sort of gotten over that phase years ago when we went to Vancouver,” added Hot Shot. Must’ve met all the big names over there. Little room left for novelty and thrill over our crew.

“I see.” Tap my feet, thinking of something else. “So… you’re waiting for someone? Or you just wanted to see me, huh?” I finish with a sly smile.

“Not really!” Skittles cries out. Backs down and giggles anxiously. “Well… sort of,” she says, scratching the back of her head.

Weatherwise takes off to hover over the ground. “After giving up on waiting for a taxi, we roughed it and got here. We were hoping to see a free jeep ‘cause you get off here so maybe we’d find more of them here... and here you are!”

Yes, here I am. Drenched and aching to ride already. Let’s hope chatting with them won’t make me miss my ride.

“You go home around this time?” asks the pegasus.

“Nah.”

Open my mouth to take a bite of my food, but his ears twitch a little. I stop. Have to be polite, be considerate.

“I usually go home at five,” I continue, “but some things went wrong today and I had to do some overtime.”

Skittles turns her head to the rainy road, witnessing the chaos outside while brilliant shining jeeps, taxis, vans, and SUVs turn a blind eye to our plight.

“Getting a ride seems pretty hard now,” she says. Thanks, Miss Obvious.

“Yeah… hold on, is that a—“

It is. A jeep flashing their lights at us. A barker pokes his head out the window and howls destinations through the rain: the right destinations. Escape at last.

I rush with them, shielding my food from the elements with my free hand, closed umbrella in my armpit. The rest of me gets wet while the unicorn lifts their umbrella around with her magic, keeps her and her friends dry.

The ponies get ahead. Someone leaves, gets down and bumps me on the way. Those three get past the two people holding on to the jeepney by the bars, hanging outside without a care for the pounding rain. Now there’s room for four more, barker shouts.

My feet step into the jeep.

I’m told there’s no more room.

“May apat daw, ah!” I yell, braving the rain. They said there was room for four!

But they tell me again: no more space. Barker apologizes, rocking his hands at me like he’s giving up. The rain torments me, washes my face.

When my eyes pass over the jeep’s length, something strikes. A fleeting memory returning:

Ponies take up more space sitting down than me.

I leave, hopping off then get splashed by a puddle. Can’t argue with the ponies. Don’t want to give them a bad impression tonight. Try to see them: the ponies wave at me, saying goodbye, hoping I’ll find another ride soon.

They all disappear. Hot Shot, Weatherwise, and Skittles are on the way back to their comfy, cozy hotel room. They don’t have clothes to wash nor do they have any work for the rest of the trip. They can just rest, take a bath, and do their thing. Whatever it is. Get me out.

Haven is the cart, so I return like a defeated dog. Hot in here, the pan still boils without a hungry stomach nearby. The rushing breeze shakes me in storm-cold shivers. A sticky feeling. My hand is stained with the sauce, though the food’s remained dry and safe.

Here I am, a wet and dirty mess. Good thing I don’t have anywhere formal to go tomorrow. The trip home will be horrible. Stupid me, trying to follow in like a kid. Should’ve remembered how ponies take up space sitting down. Should’ve eaten when I had the chance, when I was safe. Would’ve had a free hand too.

Rest my back on the wall. Then have to move and stand straight: moss just got on my shirt. Wipe it off, dirty my hands more, stain my shirt.

Almost kick the air. Instead, my shoe slides and water gets pushed to the gutter, reuniting with the rest of its friends as they all flow away.

Crashing darkness covers the sky. It’s rain, eternal rain, endlessly splashing on all places in its thin sheet of white everywhere. Sidewalk’s water reflects the lights above but all distorted, all murky and wavy.

Garlan breathes a loud sigh.

That gets my attention. There he is, looking at the street where the last jeep and so many others used to be. Looking at the foggy and rainy horizon. Nothing in this lively watery darkness but me and him.

“I never liked those ponies,” speaks his beak.

Rasping voice says he’s middle-aged, but he looks like he’s in his prime. No sagging cheeks or baggy eyes here. His feathers seem full and healthy too.

I continue to look at his eagle eyes, those words ringing in my head. Griffons don’t really bond much with ponies, but here’s a frank griffon.

“You’ve met them before?” I ask.

Garlan shakes his head. “Nah, but I’ve seen their kind. Seen them many, many times. Always telling me something about themselves even if we’ve never crossed paths.”

The griffon bends down and a click goes off. Kills the fire under the pot, boiling oil beginning to cool. Bubbles dissipating, sizzles dying, oil calming down.

He rises back up, warm feathers shining under the yellow light against the dark and stormy outside.

“You know how it is.” He closes plastic packages of food for good and seals the sauce containers. “You whittle and crunch your talons down to nothing. Get through the day just to earn enough money for next month’s birdseed. Next thing you know, some pastel eyesore wonders why you don’t bother fixing up your lousy excuse of a nest. They could fix it up lickety-split if it’s their homes, they say.”

Something gets unloaded. Only now do I notice the three wheels that’ve been there the whole time. He’s pulling some things from a cabinet: the tricycle seat and its handles.

“Ponies’ll gab about hard work all day long, no matter where you put them. The farm, the factory, the office… anywhere—from apples to zinnias. It’s so perfect, they sing at work and live on playing shanties.”

He raises a talon, gives me a hardened look with those furrowed eyes. Fixes some more tricycle stuff with a punch of his free claw. Still looks at me, watches me like a hawk, like I’ll disappear if he takes his eyes off me.

“Thing is, there’s a catch. There’s always a catch. They’ll work hard at what they want to do—whatever those butt tattoos or some other destiny magic says. It’s always something to do with their talent or passion. Problem with your cutie mark? Just talk to your friends. Have it all talked about and fixed in a week or two.”

Wind picks up speed. My shirt and hair flap in the gust. Teeth clatter too, but Garlan holds my attention hostage.

A groan leaves his beak.

“They don’t understand what the rest of us do. They don’t understand that they’re lucky: they got a princess to rule their paradise, their dreams come true every day in their land, they’re well provided for and have all the opportunities to do whatever they wanna do… things can only get better every day. Only issues they got are world-ending monsters and friendship problems.”

He stops fixing up his food cart or tricycle. Wags his head and chuckles. His laugh dips pathetically into the rainfall’s noise.

“We griffons? We just work, take whatever we can get. Take anything to just move up, to have something.”

His claw goes over the money box. Grips it for a second. Almost unlatches it before he hesitates.

He unlatches it. Eyes the money inside.

Equestria was all the rage in the wake of first contact. That didn’t mean we never got news about the world’s other kingdoms. Weeks leading up to the Manila portal’s grand opening, news went around about how those kingdoms prepared for it. Mount Aris did a good job: an archipelago wasn’t a far cry from their own home, and they could both fly like an eagle and swim like a fish, which made relating to us an easy task; sent a full-out delegation, complete with chefs, musicians, photographers, everybody else they could throw at us. The dragons were also coming in because of the volcanoes: none actually dug into them, though a dragon research team got access to study them and see how their volcanoes differed from ours. There were also the breezies who liked our flowers and got overjoyed at our diversity of plants: despite how frail they looked, they were bold, dressing up and arming their own representatives like Indiana Jones, ready to explore our jungles together.

No official word came from Griffonstone other than one ambassador and some boilerplate praise for the opening.

Considering the photos of Griffonstone I could find, taking trips to the other side wasn’t the griffons’ top priority. Rundown roads partly covered in hay. Rotting birdhouses, inches from falling off their nests. Trash scattered high and low on nest-made floors and ground. Forever gray skies deadened with infinite clouds, horizons closed permanently.

The griffons themselves: whiling the hours away with games and gambling. Squabbling and not much else. Their existence: lie dormant, move while waiting. No life.

A beacon of hope could be found in a few counterculture griffons. They wanted to spread friendship with free baked scones and friendship lessons. Even now, though, progress is slow. Old habits die hard.

Another groan comes out of the beak. He’s checking his cart, probably for any snags in the tricycle parts.

He stands up. Stops. Looks upon the pot, its cooling oil coming to sleep.

“When you have to work because there’s no other way. When your family depends on your work so they can live and not just be. So they can jump over here because lodging’s cheap, because it’s way better than that pecking order of pigeons back home.”

The pot is tipped. Oil runs over to a bin. After seconds of scrubbing with water and soap, the pot gets shoved into a cabinet.

Garlan wipes the sweat off of his feathery head. His wings spread out, pinions relaxed and feathers stretched out.

He looks at me. Half a scowl comes up. “What’re you waiting for?”

I blink a lot. Am taken aback. Open and close my mouth like a dying fish before I can say, “I thought you still had something more to say.”

He rolls his eyes one more time. “Go ask someone else to flesh out their life story. You know enough. Or too much, but… agh, never mind…”

The griffon gets the rest of the cart ready to roll out. He hovers around to check his tires, making sure to stay dry under the umbrella. Keeps his wings closed so they don’t get wet too.

Something falls on my shoe. I look down.

Under the lantern light, a brown splatter gleams. Sauce on my shoes. Not that they are already wet and dirty thanks to the weather.

Sauce. The sauce leads me back to my food.

There. Here in my hand.

Food’s still there. Stick still in my hand, fishballs still dripping sauce. Closer to my hand, they’re still warm.

Near my mouth now. Stomach growls. Reminds me: I’m hungry. I don’t take long looking at it.

I take one piece and eat it.

Hot, but not too hot. Little crisp on the outside, completely chewy on the inside. The sweet sauce covers the senses—thick and rough. Then comes the fishy aftertaste, a hint of the full-bodied fish it used to be before it got crushed into a pulp.

Another fishball. Eat slower, let the tongue roll the bite around, savor the sauce. Another fishball. Chew as fast as I can, digest the meaty gum. Another fishball, and I lick and drink the sauce before my teeth sink in.

I repeat, repeat the sensations prancing in my mouth, dig deeper down the stick. Such a long time since I last tasted this. Such a long time since last week.

Only me, the rain, the food, him.

Trees and wires sway. Tarpaulins flutter in the violent breeze. Near barren, the café across the street has people. Diners don’t mind the fury outside. Waiters try to serve their customers peacefully: Don’t mind the rain outside. Please enjoy your dinner! Cars come by on the road, their swift figures casting more wind on me. The rain and the wind only perfect the delicious hot food dancing in my mouth. Let the diners stay inside. I am here, bravely and boldly eating in the storm with a stick.

Delicious. A familiar flavor.

I look back. Fermin almost appears in the lightning, but the light shifts back into Garlan. He’s almost done packing up. Anything food-related is gone now. The food cart has become an ordinary if bulky tricycle.

I go in for another bite.

And bite my own teeth and stick. Hurts a little. Can sense the sauce but nothing other than the nothing flavor of stick.

It’s gone.

I put the stick down in the little trash can Garlan hasn’t put away yet. Put my hands out in the rain and wash them clean from the stain. My heavy soaking clothes? I’ll think about that later.

Cheap scratched third-hand watch tells me it’s getting late. Have to look for an open jeep, starting with a pair of headlights coming in from the left. Down the road, the jeep fast approaches. I hold my arm out in case they haven’t seen me yet.

“Say,” Garlan speaks up over the storm, head raised, “I’m curious about one thing… ah, Macario, isn’t it?”

My name grabs me and I look back. “Yeah, it’s Macario. How’d you know?”

That rare smile again on his beak. “Your tag.”

I look down. Sure enough, there’s my nametag. The one everyone in the firm’s supposed to wear in the name of being professional. Must’ve forgotten to put it away when I rushed out tonight.

He turns off the overhanging lantern while I put the tag away. The light dies, plunging the stall in shadows. A nearby streetlight protects us from total darkness, shaping us in harsh yellow hues.

“So, Macario—” but he coughs. Covers his beak before speaking up again. “I was just wondering: why do you keep staring at me like a ghost?”

Good question, and—

Like a ghost.

A people watcher? You remind me of someone? Novelty of a griffon selling local street food? Haven’t seen you before?

The headlights glow brighter. The horn blasts like a truck telling me to go or die. Someone shouts that there’s room for one more. “Isa pa! Isa pa! Isa pa!”

I look at the griffon. The griffon looks at the jeep.

Move my feet a little, aiming for the jeep. Don’t want to miss it in the pouring rain where one slip means falling flat on the road.

I don’t forget him. I turn to him one more time and say:

“Garlan, you remind me of... of a good friend I had.”

The jeep stops beside the stall. The barker tells me to rise and enter.

~ ~ ~

I come in dripping wet, water stretching across the floor. Dull lights reveal watermarks of shoes past. Not a lot of people here. They shy away from my damp clothes, my damp body. Don’t care. I’m on the way: that’s what matters.

We start moving again. Everything slowly starts moving again. How I’ve missed everything moving! Sitting down after all this standing up with the rain so close. I am no longer idle. I am moving. I can rest.

In the distance, through the jeep’s open back, I see Garlan looking at the jeep. Looking at me.

Before he’s erased by the rain, a talon waves at me.

I lean forward and wave at him. I’m sure he sees me and my smile through the storm.

~ ~ ~

In my dream, there is no more mourning. There is no dead hand to pull me into death’s quicksand. Only a welcoming lion-bird’s claw. He tells me to move on. There’s life yet to live, he says. Be unshackled from the dead hand.

I take the griffon’s talon and we travel onward.

So I move on.

Author's Note

Afterthoughts.

Ibong Sawi

I’m soaking wet. The rain won’t let up. I’ve got a jeep to catch, but I’ll be late anyway.

Taking one for the team and being the last one to check out seemed noble then. Only then did I realize how valuable Boyet was to us. He knew everything about the applications, the records, and everything else like the back of his hand. I didn’t know everything and I didn’t do the job that well, but, hey, it’s over. As for the others? Bahala na. Come what may.

First time I’m leaving the job in overtime, and then I’m rewarded with endless rain. The houses out here in Addition Hills already have their lights on, and the streetlights shine down as hard raindrops streak down walls, cars, and telephone poles. Barely a soul out here.

Put one foot in front then the other one. Still have to look professional though no one’s looking.

A gated mini-village passes by. Drenched shoes avoid puddles while the downpour drenches my head. That’s despite the trees supposed to cover me.

The minutes are forever, but I make it to the last street before Shaw Boulevard. One last stretch and all else I need is an open jeepney. Then, home is guaranteed.

Brick or stone walls of old houses and the cleaner concrete walls of newer “apartment” complexes are assaulted alike by the storm. The local sari-sari store, one among a dozen here, weathers the weather as the owner sits and watches soap operas on a fuzzy TV. Have to dodge raindrops from the wires above, bundled up and dancing in the wind. Slowly, the water erodes paper posters dotted with phone numbers and requested services lined out in bold text: hopeful tuberos or plumbers at a moment’s notice, or maids in need of good pay and a nice household.

I reach Shaw, a barren wasteland in the rain. Farther on: Ortigas, busy district with all its malls and its offices glowing against the gloomy rain—much of the traffic’s trapped there in this rain. Here, a gas station-turned-parking lot and some off-the-wall diner—Indian or American or a hybrid of both, I can’t tell. Haven’t paid much attention. I don’t eat there.

My hand waves at every wheeled thing. I shout at them, but they shun me: jeeps, taxis, FXs—ridesharing’s no option since it will kill my wallet. The road shines with their speedy headlights, and I can see silhouettes of passengers—insides ever full, no room for me. The ones headed home are always full; the empty ones deceive because they’re on the wrong route. A barker calls out the right route. No, someone else gets on it, and they hurry away and vanish in the watery curtains ahead. “Isa pa! Isa pa!” yet I’m too slow to catch that room for one more.

Wala na. No chance. I’m too wet thanks to wheel-hit puddles splashing onto me. Tired of running here and there to a too-late vehicle—going somewhere else, someone gets to me already, or I’ve been lied to with isa pa. Can’t keep on like this, at least not without a break.

To rest, I rush to the food cart—umbrella and shelter by the corner. I get by and hunker down—already hungry too, thanks to the smell of fried stuff.

Everything stops. The sputtering sound of cooking oil, summer heat wafting out of the kawali pan: they’re familiar friends, cozy memories. Someone eats, chewing on a skewer of kwek-kwek. A woman in business casual, likely the same age as me, enjoying fried quail eggs. Eyes to the road, waiting for a commute like me.

Suddenly, she dashes to an open taxi. No umbrella: just her, running. The next car stops, honks with the taxi suddenly stopping, but that’s how it is. She goes, the taxi slows, and nothing moves until the taxi driver takes off.

I don’t check if it’s on the way home. Then I remember: it’s a taxi. Can go anywhere you want. Chances are she’s not going anywhere near my house. Never mind.

Attention returns to the cart and the little starchy chunks of food floating around in boiling oil: leftovers. I say to the vendor, “Sampung fishball po.” Ten fish balls please.

A talon takes my coins away, stashes them in the money box.

I’d forgotten about the griffon, but the sizzle fills my ears. For a few seconds, I don’t mind.

It’s the Monday before, the beginning of the workweek.

Last Friday, we caught wind of someone dying in his sleep: Mang Fermin. He was the guy that served street food at the corner of Luna Mencias and Shaw Boulevard for decades. Always with a stoic face. Ninety-eight when he died, but you’d think he was only seventy with his wispy hair and his trimmed beard. Mother was one of his loyal customers when she lived deeper in the city during her college days. When she took me to meet him—I was only five or six, he was already an old man. When I got to college, he was still there and he still cooked. Ate at his place with friends when we had the time, and it was always a blast.

When I started my current job, it turned out his cart was right on the way there. I’d buy food from him before I got to the office. Did that every day. That’s how it stayed until the end came near.

He didn’t call in sick the day before. Made his death all the more surprising. Came home from work like any other day, went to sleep, and died.

Dead just like that.

We attended his Sunday funeral. The family and relatives he left were there plus the rest who knew him but weren’t that close—they had to bring in additional chairs outside to accommodate everyone. I’m not sure if his great-grandchildren cared; they were bickering with each other and playing with their toys, but that’s them. Let them be.

After he was buried—deep in the ground, which the family had barely enough to afford—there was the usual get-to-know-each-other talk with everybody present. I didn’t know much about him; I only knew Fermin the Food Vendor. So, hearing those other stories about the rest of him made me appreciate the guy a lot more. He was a funny man with limitless jokes stored in his head. He crocheted in his spare time and had crafted lots of bags and purses at night. He participated in the local epics on stage whenever he returned to his ancestral home in Albay.

When it was all over, everyone headed home, but despite all that good talk, I couldn’t shake off the thought of now-dead Fermin. Now, who’d be there to man the food cart? A close friend carrying on his legacy? A nephew running on family name and blood? A total stranger who saw empty space but never knew why it was empty? Or would there be nothing for the foreseeable future? I might’ve heard something in all the talking, but I couldn’t recall.

I went through the rest of Sunday in a daze. In a way, I shouldn’t have felt like that. Fermin wasn’t related nor did we buddy-buddy together, yet, that’s what death did: made the world stop, made me think.

You don’t know what you have until you lose it. Now, this old familiar face is gone. With him, a big piece of unwritten history and a part of our hearts is gone too.

~ ~ ~

For all my death-fueled contemplation, there is still work to do this Monday. I could use my leave, but no.

My mind wanders as I take a bath, fix myself up, and eat fresh hotsilog—hotdog, garlic rice, egg, and banana ketchup. It’s Mang Fermin, Mang Fermin, Mang Fermin. He wasn’t one to talk much, but he was someone to talk to apart from loved ones and the usual friends or co-workers. There to see me check in for work, there to watch me eat his straight-from-the-pan snacks. An old root or bridge, connecting the past of families and villages with the present of corporate ladders and grown-up me.

Who will replace him? No one in the family has the answer yet. All we know is that, according to an aunt close to Fermin’s survivors, it’s some brand-new guy named Garlan. Decided to take up Fermin’s spot because it was available. She had eyewitness testimony too: saw an empty food cart by the side herself, and a buried man definitely wasn’t out for lunch break. Shouldn’t be too worked up about it. Food is food. It’ll just take some time to get used to, that’s all.

My commute begins with a ten-minute walk out of the village to the beef pares place by one of the busier roads. Usual stuff on the way to work: people walking around in the cracking dawn, car windows shooting new sunlight into my eyes while businesses start the day with the rattle of opening those metal pull-up gates.

Doesn’t take long to find an available jeep on the usual route. Ride until Quezon Boulevard, walk to the other side and hop on a jeep going straight to Pasig, and keep riding until I reach Luna Mencias road by Addition Hills in San Juan and then walk five minutes to work. Close to an hour on a very good day, one and a half otherwise.

I get up, find a spot, and walk narrow so no toes get stepped on in this half-full sardine can of people. Sit at the front, right behind the driver and passenger seats. Means having to pass many fares to the driver, but I’m up for it with a ready hand.

I don’t need to say where I’m going. We know each other but only by face, not by name.

“Isa po,” I say. One person on the way. That’d be the usual nine pesos which I drop onto his outstretched hand.

The ride begins, and there’s little to do: sit, wait it out, and Fermin enters my mind again. Like going to a friend’s house knowing he won’t be there. Everything else will go on like normal. My co-workers will be there; my boss will be there; the same flock of jeeps will be there; my family, both close and extended, will be there back home. Everything and everyone will be there.

Everyone except Fermin. No Fermin but this Garlan guy instead. Okay, he can make a good first impression on his first day on the job. Could also make no impression... but I should save that for later.

As we go down the main road, my eyes lean to the outside. Across a hardware store stands an abandoned or under renovation gas station; has been that way for years. A nail spa and a print shop sit beside each other, and beside them sits a grill place: get your nails done while you print important papers, and then, for breakfast, have some barbecue. If I want something faster, there’s the 7-Eleven farther down. Still farther down, there’s Aling Nelia, one of the few landmarks we have that makes our little barangay stand out. Roasted pigs on a spit, standing up skewered with big sticks for all to see outside. Someone’s always out there to take care of the roasted pigs and advertise the meals to the usual passers-by. Vloggers and articles keep it the most famous pride of our village.

We stop and go for more or less commuters—ride on or get off—from different walks and collars in life. No divided seats or big spaces to separate us: we’re all here. We don’t know each other, but we’re here, on the way to a couple somewheres.

In front of a cemetery’s entrance—not the same one Fermin is buried in—the jeep stops again. Big and loud voices outside. Definitely some tourist or two. To prove my point, one of them shouts, “Yoo-hoo! Is there still space there? Alright, let’s go ride this one!” Yeah, tourists: excited to ride on our nifty public transportation and experience this national icon. If you somehow believe the marketing, commuting’s more fun in the Philippines. Just ignore all the hour-long traffic jams and the years of wasted life on the road.

Instead of Americans or Europeans—judging from the voice—or any other human foreigner, it’s a trio of ponies waltzing in. They say their little excuse me!’s as they get onto some empty part of the seat. Lucky me: it’s the space right across me. They clamber up the seats, sitting down like dogs.

The Earth pony fumbles with her coins. Her fast hooves catch them before they drop to the floor. “To the… uh, what is it again?”

“Rizal Park,” replies the pegasus. He holds on to his friend’s purse with a hoof while managing a brochure with a wing.

“Let me handle it!” says the unicorn as she levitates all the coins with her magic.

The coins ignore the driver’s open hand and go straight to the coin box on the dashboard. Needless to say, the driver turns his head around. Doesn’t question it once he sees the cheerful ponies in his jeep.

About those cheerful ponies.

Some years back, Earth made first contact with a world from another universe: Equestria. Equestria, as in the land filled with magic ponies, rainbows, and sunshine. The same Equestria from that My Little Pony show.

To say the least, it was interesting. Everybody tuned into the news to see a purple horse princess speak in the United Nations headquarters. Held negotiations with the franchise’s toy company and just about every country in the world. The goal: spread the magic of friendship to a whole different kind of people, and establish good relations with humanity. As for Hasbro, they’re the happiest company in the world ever since Twilight okayed the toys of real-life personalities. Also said she wanted to find a way for the brand to continue beyond toys. Cue the documentaries, the human-pony expeditions, the exchange programs, the new live-action slice-of-life shows, so on.

When the portal hubs started opening up, thousands went through from both sides. For pleasure, for business, for study, for more. New horizons lay out there, and we were living on the edge. Didn’t take long before they opened a hub here in Manila as a companion to the airport.

As for why ponies from a land filled with magic and friendship would want to visit Earth, much less the Philippines: friendship’s my best bet. Novelty’s a close second; everyone likes to go to the big destinations, so you’re automatically cool if you go somewhere else. We also house one of the show’s animation studios; places and people involved in the show are must-see material for both human and Equestrian tourists. They’ve probably visited Canada, the United States, and Ireland, so run here to the finish line in the summer islands at the edge of the Pacific Ocean.

I think that’s what these ponies are doing here—part of it, at least. They go on talking to each other about their first time on a jeep, speaking loud and clear. They manage to chat with the other commuters: a mother is there, daughter left at home, and she’s excited to meet the ponies. They make conversation with a frail grandmother, her wise and golden English surprising them, though they’re speaking too fast for her. They pester the driver for chit-chat, and the only thing they get is him pointing at a piece of paper showing the fare rates.

Then the ponies look at me.

The pegasus grabs an English-Filipino phrasebook from his bag pocket. Has been referring to it for some time now.

“Oh, um, uh—M-magandang umaga! Kamusta kayo?” he says. Good morning! How are you? Pronunciation’s a bit off, but I can’t blame them. They’re learning.

I politely put out my hand. People aren’t this straightforward most days, but these aren’t your usual people. Or at least human people.

“Okay lang,” I reply. “What’s your name?”

The three ponies are surprised again. “You speak Pon—uh, English?” asks the unicorn. Both Ponish and English are pretty much the same despite developing universes away. Up to today, scientists and mages are still stumped as to why.

“Yeah. I work in a finance firm, so I had to learn how to speak good English.” Really, though, many in the city speak English to some degree, and every school teaches it too. It’s good for dealing with business and globetrotters, among other things. “I’m Macario,” I go on. “Nice meeting you.”

The phrasebook gets put away.

The pegasus shakes my hand with his wing. It still feels strange to grasp what should’ve amounted to just feathers. He moves them around with maybe pinions, but it’s firm to grip.

“Ah, let’s introduce ourselves!” says the only stallion in the troupe. He retracts the wing and the ponies bunch together—they practiced for this. “I’m Weatherwise!”

I take a good look at the maybe weather pony. His black coat and yellow mane make him look like a road. Has golden eyes too which is quite something. First time seeing yellow eyes up close.

“My name’s Hot Shot,” the Earth pony says with a wave. Makes sense, now that I see her chili pepper cutie mark; the pegasus with his storm cloud cutie mark fits his name as well. As for Hot Shot herself, she definitely looks like a ponified chili pepper with her red coat and her curly green mane.

Which leaves me with the unicorn and a queen chess piece as her cutie mark. Green coat accompanied by a striped red-orange mane sprinkled with little blue bows and ribbons strewn on her mane. She looks a lot like a candymare, honestly.

“And I’m Skittles!” shouts the unicorn.

She must be joking.

“The candy?” I ask. Maybe ponies got addicted to Skittles and were already naming their foals after brands. Though she’s too old to have been born after first contact.

“No!” she replies with a shake of her head. “It’s Skittles as in a nice, fun game of chess! But I love the candy! In fact, I brought them over!”

She brings a pack of her namesake out. Those sweet and sour bits of imaginary rainbows. “Want some?” she asks excitedly.

Okay then. I decline and will not question her about it. I’ll search up the chess term later.

“No thanks,” I say, and that’s that for the not-a-candymare.

The conversation over, the ponies talk to more fellow commuters. I’m safe for now.

That’s them: ponies. They’re the most optimistic and idealistic creatures I’ve ever met. Innocent and wistful when it comes to many things, like they belong to some fantasy land. No, they do belong to some fantasy land where friendship beams are a thing. It’s like that Enchanted movie with some naive princess winding up in New York, multiplied by ten.

It can get pretty awkward. First pony I met was during the portal’s early days. I was passing by the hub to meet some overseas relatives coming to visit. A pony came up to me and asked me for directions to the bay so she could take some beautiful sunset photos. She was so sweet: pink coat, cutie mark of hearts, cutesy voice, holding the map up with her wings even though we’d all moved on to online maps stored in our phones. I just pointed out where to go. She was a pegasus, so she didn’t need to memorize the streets’ layout.

“So, where are you going?” Hot Shot asks me. Her tilted head makes her all the cuter. Did they ever realize that they were one of the most adorable societies of all time?

Alright, where was I going? Work, duh. Shouldn’t say it like that, especially to ponies who are just visiting. They haven’t come all the way here to get insulted.

“I’m going to work.”

“Ooh!” She squishes one of her cheeks with her hoof. This is getting very sweet very fast. “Where do you work?”

“It’s over in San Juan,” I say, jerking a thumb outside. Don’t know where it’s pointing at. “You know, the one with lots of malls.” Then again, malls are everywhere, so I’m not really answering their question. I am technically correct, though, even if Ortigas techincally had many more.

Now it’s Skittles’ turn to ask. “You work in a mall?”

“Not really. It’s close by though, inside a village.”

“Alrighty, then!” says the happy unicorn. Closes her eyes and they turn into cute black lines of eyebrows and eyelashes.

That’s when they talk to all the others again. The rest of the ride goes on like that, with everyone talking to the ponies in the jeep. Certainly keeps the ride alive and fun. Have to thank them for that.

~ ~ ~

I get off at Quezon Boulevard, the ponies still on the jeep to Manila proper. Go figure. Hope they enjoy the sights. Heh, they have calesas there. That’d be fun to see: ponies on a horse-drawn carriage. Though, if they’ve been anywhere else, I guess they’ve already met a horse and tried it out.

After crossing the boulevard via overpass, I get on my second and last jeep for the trip.

Without the ponies, it’s business as usual. Just sit and wait it out through long stretches of avenues, past old-style buildings. Not much traffic, but we do encounter a few hiccups. Other jeeps try to overtake and ours tries to overtake too, sometimes to be rebuffed back onto our lane. Have to hold on to the ceiling handles so I don’t fall over and knock my nose on the metal floor or the iron knees of the bodybuilder before me.

It takes another main road exit to the right and crossing over the river before I enter Mandaluyong proper. Up ahead, the Ortigas skyline rises in the sky, imposing its morning power on all of us tiny humans with our little stores and our tiny houses. Everyone’s going there: see the steady march of cars rolling onward to the mass of skyscrapers.

I don’t join them since I get off at the corner of Luna Mencias and Shaw. It’s a very familiar place, this gateway from the rush of downtown life into the peaceful residence of Addition Hills. On the other side of Shaw, there’s a gas station-turned-parking-area with a restaurant on the side: seems full today. On my block, there’s some small branches of fast food stuff, pizzerias, and Chinese cuisine. Past the little crossing which Mencias makes with Shaw, there’s Mang Fermin’s food cart as people crowd around him under the cover of a huge rainbow umbrella.

That’s not him.

I peel my eyes, check what’s going on.

It’s a crowd, most of them locals. What’s unexpected is how big it is and how there are more than a few tourists gathering around. All the chaos with people ordering—“Tatlong fishball!” “Pwede sampung kikiam?” “Um, I’d like to have three of those!”—all waiting or eating, talking to each other, poking and picking food with their sticks one by one, all while some talk and get to know the new guy.

A break forms in the crowd, a voice telling them to not block his sight. The source of the voice, the vendor behind the scenes, is revealed. Whether I like it or not, I see Garlan, the man who replaced Mang Fermin.

It’s not a man.

I freeze when I see a griffon manning the stall. Brown and white feathers, beak of yellow. Eyes are a piercing mustard too. Those wide eyes tell me this is an Equestrian griffon, not some local eagle standing on his two feet. Don’t see much else of his body behind the cart, but I can see his tail swaying once in a while. His wings show too, acting like two more hands to hasten the job by grabbing this and that.

Here’s someone saying their order. Can’t hear it myself, but it doesn’t take long to see: his talons use some tongs to grab five prefrozen fishballs with and drops them into the cooking oil-filled pan where many other fishballs and finger food swim around—from the juicy squidballs and the meaty kikiam to the orange-battered kwek-kwek or quail eggs. Wonder if the griffon is okay with cooking and selling bird eggs himself.

An outdoors free-for-all feast for everyone here. Other vendors would put the food in separate strainers or just one huge strainer bowl. Here? You get it straight from the frying pan, as if the griffon doesn’t care about the regulation craze. Old style.

As for the sauces, they’re all in open containers and they’re all there: sweet or spicy, onion-garlic-chili vinegar or the thick brown sauce which many call manong’s sauce. It’s all open for free dipping, no questions asked. Not like the newer ones where they pour it on your plastic cup of food: here, just dip your stick of food into it. The only rule: don’t double dip.

As far as I can tell, everyone’s enjoying their food, and some enjoy talking to him all the while. A griffon serving fishballs for cheap is something new.

So this is Garlan. Garlan the griffon. Not a smile but a blank face. That face says, I am here to serve. Enjoy.

The smells entice me; they beg me to buy again. Still, the crowd is unusually dense. I may end up late for work if I have to wait, and what if this griffon ropes me into a conversation? They’re not parrots, but people talk of the hippogriffs having a gabby reputation.

I leave and go on my way to work.

~ ~ ~

My workplace is a financial planning firm on the third floor of a multi-purpose commercial building, a ways away from the packed main roads. We’re roommates with a trucking business’s second-floor office and the ground-floor laundromat.

Up the side stairs, I make it to the office. Couple of the early birds already opened it up and are now cleaning the place. Floors gleam under sun- and office light. I join in after we exchange greetings: sweeping and mopping the floors, wiping the windows from the inside and out, turning on the computers and the air conditioning, and more.

“Ah, Cario,” Sarina says, loading a copier with blank paper. She’s a veteran here for two years and is never seen without her ponytail. “Nakita mo ng bagong tindero sa labas?” Have you seen the new vendor outside?

I nod my head. “Oo. I have.”

She gives me a curious look. Knows about the thing I had with Fermin; probably doesn’t know about his current condition.

“Uh… what do you think of him?” she asks.

I shrug. “Okay lang. Haven’t tried it yet. New guy’s a surprise though.”

We continue cleaning.

~ ~ ~

What we do here is the usual clerk stuff. Filling out digital forms and sending them to the BIR, signing checks and depositing them in nearby banks, maintaining a database and record of accounts with our clients. Our boss is one of those fancy top-tier graduates who, instead of moving on to some big corporate conglomerate, settled down in some random village to help the locals with their small shops and services. No suit or tie: just a polo shirt and much more cologne than necessary. A man of the people, they say, if only a strong-smelling one.

Come lunch break, we rest and eat. Some of us bring our own lunch. Mine’s canned corned beef and egg with rice. Others go out to eat at a nearby cafeteria. For those that remain like me, we catch up with each other’s lives: Aurora’s gotten another boyfriend, Quinto’s house almost burned down because of an unattended stove, and Loretta found a job opening in Silicon Valley—the electronics company, not the California techie place. May be her final month with us now, so we wish her well.

Normally, Boyet stays here too. Today, he’s been gone for half an hour. Minutes later, though, he’s climbing up the stairs, a basket hanging by his hand. As he enters the office, we see that it’s a basket of muffins and cupcakes. An unexpected goodie considering that these things—the size of your hands—are no cheap treat. His big smile completes the suave look befitting someone who always dresses nicely and has that give-all-my-110% attitude toward work.

And a pony comes along with him. Blueberry Tart, she says. From the new bakery farther down Shaw.

Not much to tell, really. Tart’s like a lot of other ponies: very sweet and out of place here. It’s a love-it or leave-it thing. Lots of people I know were excited to be friends with a pony or any other Equestrian. People like me? It’s interesting, but I guess we never clicked that well. Or I just didn’t obsess over it. This is just another thing, another part of my day.

The treats are tasty though. I don’t forget to give her my thanks.

~ ~ ~

After lunch, Tart leaves, and it’s back to the afternoon grind which isn’t much out of the ordinary. It’s a busy afternoon since we have a glut of appointments, but it’s manageable.

By five, work’s over. We say our farewells and pack things up. Some of us stay behind to close up shop, while I and a few others go ahead and leave.

We’re on a fine, peaceful sunset walk. Having one’s office within a host of homes and houses makes for a different experience. No traffic, low pollution—of air, noise, or waste—and open space just for us to talk freely before we re-enter the gritty downtown.

When we get to Shaw again, the crowd around Garlan’s cart hasn’t shrunk one bit.

It’s strange. I’m used to seeing Mang Fermin’s old rugged face and a cart with only a few customers around him. Not that I didn’t want him to succeed. Just felt more natural, more friendly when it’s just us and not everyone. Doesn’t matter if it’s Garlan the griffon or Garlan the man or even Garlan the dragon. It’s like they opened up another McDonald’s or Jollibee here for the thousandth time. Gone are those never-changing shirts and his masterful hands and fingers fluttering above the burning pot.

Before I can get a better glimpse of the griffon, there’s a jeep on the way home. I catch it, take a seat, and that’s all for me and the new guy.

It’s full. I sit closer to the back. Squeezed between each other, holding frantically onto the ceiling handle to make sure I don’t get shunted: in this cramped can of sweaty people, I look out the back as we move away.

The griffon disappears into the crowd. The many colors of many shirts mask him from my eyes.

Author's Note

Preliminary thoughts.

Pugad...

Fermin is still on my mind. Wisps of memories fleet by in the morning as I trudge to the usual jeep spot.

My polished half-expensive leather-enough shoes meeting plain asphalt recall the tale of slippers and rubber shoes covering my once-small feet, brought by my parents to the quiet old man at the busy street corner. Introduced me to someone they called Manong. Served me delicious fried snacks. Never opened his mouth much. He talked but only enough to answer a question or to say thanks and welcomes.

Those oily bites gave off a crude smell. The sauce dripped and fell off the stick—lean in and let it drop to the sidewalk, lest it hits your feet. Had that happen sometimes, though I quickly wiped before my mother noticed. If it were my father, he’d just shrug it off. Told me the times he dropped his stick into the sauce, how he dipped his fingers in just to get it back.

Fermin’s corner wasn’t interesting. An ordinary corner by a streetlight and a couple eateries with no wheels, accompanied by buildings whose names I always forgot. All the interesting stuff was everywhere else. Up ahead, Ortigas with the big malls and the high office buildings where I heard people in suits sat in cubes and made millions. Go back, either you came home and had the little joys like betting on fighting roosters or you’d chance on one or two cemeteries if you wanted to become contemplative about Heaven or Hell. Go around instead, you’d land in the country club with big green golf courses, a hospital at the back of said country club, or an entire mall complex.

Fermin’s corner had nothing. A fully-functioning gas station maybe. Some other stores and a couple trees aside from the eateries. To young me, there was also no Addition Hills. That was just a place where other people lived and they weren’t my neighbors, so I didn’t care.

That lonely street corner was his roaming ground.

Now, I’m on the sidewalk, waiting for a jeep to catch me and take me there.

A shadow passes me by. Briefly darkens the jeep.

Up in the sky, a pegasus. No. Too big to be a pegasus. Definitely a hippogriff thanks to his beak. There he is, taking aerial photos of the place, and I’m part of his life now.

Maybe Garlan is Fermin’s reincarnation? Can’t be that far-fetched. Has that stoic face and all.

… Stupid idea.

~ ~ ~

I grip the overhead handle, jeep carrying me on. A couple people carry food inside along with groceries in big cardboard boxes. To the airport? An unusual and cheap way to get there with lots of baggage besides. I don’t know. I don’t mind.

I do mind. There’s talk about staying temporarily in Manehattan. No, I’m not mishearing things.

Or I don’t mind. Phones are good distractions.

~ ~ ~

The same three ponies come up to the jeepney. Takes a second to register that, yes, they’re the same three from yesterday and the day before that and the day before that.

Here they are, going here and there with their greetings to all. Seems they’ve added something to their arsenal: pulling elders’ hands to their foreheads, being blessed by old men and women who look kindly upon them, speak good words and questions to them.

They manage to sit across me again. For the fourth time in a row, we’re in the same vehicle, going the same way. Out of all the jeeps they could’ve chosen four days in a row, it had to be the same one I’m in. Not the jeep in front or behind or beside me, but the very one I’m riding in. Some may say it’s harmony or destiny magic working on Earth. I’m tempted to say that it’s more like dumb luck, but ponies don’t believe in dumb luck.

“It’s you again, Macario!” Weatherwise says, putting out his hoof this time. More personal than a wing-shake. We are getting closer.

I’ve shaken hooves multiple times. Still, I’m shaking a big lump of keratin. How exactly they grasp stuff still escapes me, but I do feel some of their “magic grip” or whatever it’s called, their hooves’ frogs making some little motions.

“How are you today?” Hot Shot asks nicely with her leaning head. Mane falls and bounces to the side.

Maybe to them, this cuteness is normal. It’s not cute to them; it’s just how it is. I cannot name anyone I know that’s close to being this cute. If they were evil, they could kill people with a goofy smile on their face and a weapon hidden in their manes.

Point a finger to myself. “Fine. I’m doing fine. Just another day at work.”

Skittles puffs her lips up. She won’t let me get away with a simple answer. “You don’t like your job?”

Not that I don’t like it. It’s nice and pays very well. Just that I don’t see myself doing clerk work forever. In a few more months, I’ll have what it takes to be a supervisor or at least a next-level clerk in a multinational corporation. Or handling my own business altogether if I’m feeling ambitious.

“Sure, it’s good, but you don’t see me prancing up to work with a big smile and a heart balloon.”

Shouldn’t have said that.

“Well, I can imagine a few who’d do that anyway,” Skittles replies, levitating money for the fare. Of course, she can imagine that. Sounds a bit miffed though. Knew I shouldn’t have said it.

Although, speaking of prancing up to work: they’ve asked me about my job, and I’ve said my piece. It’s about time I ask them. I’m curious how they take their work, and it doesn’t hurt to know what their jobs are. It’s only fair I turn the tables on them.

“Say, what do you do back at home?” I ask. Lean forward to show interest. “Like what do you do for a living?”

Hot Shot pointed to herself, squeaked a little gasp. “Like our jobs? Well, we’ll let you guess from our cutie marks!”

I’ve played this game before with another pony. I don’t blame them, not fully. When one’s personality and passion is symbolized and put on your body for all the world to see, it’s a piece of cake to turn it into a guessing game. Makes for a good icebreaker: trying to figure out what they work in, what they love, and what their personality is just by analyzing their cutie marks. The ones with abstract shapes and weird item combos had a field day like that one with a glass of hot water on his flank. Smacked myself when he told me his name was Hot Water, that he worked as a spa pony with a stake on jacuzzis.

For ponies like Hot Shot with her chili cutie mark, though, it’s a quick guess.

“You farm chili, no?” Given how farming is still a big thing in Equestria, it’s not that far-fetched. Not even close.

Her closed eyes and her huge grin tell me I’m right. “Yeah, I do!“

Time to turn to a squirming Weatherwise. He’s hiding his flank so I wouldn’t cheat. Too bad: I have a good memory. “And you handle, uh, rain clouds?”

“Sort of!” he says. Head shaking up and down; supposed to be a nod. “I’m Steeplechase’s weather manager. That’s where we’re from, in case we didn’t tell you!”

Two down, one candy-chess pony to go. “And you… like to play chess. You’re good at chess.”

She leans up to me. Would’ve been uncomfortable if she wasn’t grinning and wagging her tail like a dog. “Is that your final answer?”

It has to be. I don’t want to be fooled by these cutie marks. The queen chess piece could mean that she’s good at chess. Or it could be that she’s a high-society type of pony. Or that she knows how to navigate places because the queen is the most versatile chess piece. Or she doesn’t play chess but makes chess sets for a living. Or she just likes crowns and other royal headwear.

Or she’s just good at chess. That’s my final answer. Whatever happens, happens.

“Yeah, you play chess.”

“Half-right!” she chirps, leaning back onto her seat. “I am good at chess—heh-heh, if I do say so myself—but I’m also good enough at leading ponies that I’m Steeplechase’s Season Officer!” She spreads her forelegs in the air like the seasons lie in her hooves. “The Season Officer leads and organizes the town’s seasonal operations: from the Fall-Winter Squad and the Spring Cleaning Troupe, all the way to the Summer Team!”

Good to know. I say, “That’s great!” and I mean it wholeheartedly. Nice to be in the company of a pony leading from the front.

“Yeah, it is!” Hot Shot chimes in. “You should see how fast we can do it… if we want to do it fast!” Her hooves dance a little on the seat. “We do it slow and steady. We’re not like Ponyville or Applewood where everything's done by the minute! Can’t go fast when you’re dealing with syrup, after all! That’s our hometown specialty, by the way!”

The Earth pony hums a few notes before looking at me again. “Hey, do you want to know how I became a chili farmer anyway?”

This will be fun. Should’ve expected their life stories to come up by now. The setting’s become perfectly cool for a good tale too: ponies’ manes rippling in the cold quick gust.

“I belong to a family of chili farmers,” Hot Shot begins without warning.

Her friends huddle around. I huddle too, lean more forward.

“We made all kinds of chili, and that was why a lot of our food was spicy at home, but, you know, it’s all healthy! Even helps with headaches and migraines too, but you should talk to Aunt Bell for more of that!

“Anyway, while I was a growing filly, I tried very hard to get a chili cutie mark by helping out on the farm. Planting the seeds, watering the soil, harvesting the crops… but nothing worked! My cutie mark wasn’t there, and it never appeared for years!

“I was afraid I’d never grow up to be a chili farmer even though I obviously loved chili. What if I got my cutie mark in something else? What would my family think of me?… but, then, I tried cooking the chili instead. Made everything chili like chili sauce, chili flakes, chili sandwiches, chili oil, chili wine, and chili-flavored hay! There were so many things you can make with chili if you just tried. With all the other ingredients we had, the recipes were endless!

“But it was when I served my special chili cakepie on Hearth’s Warming Eve—it was then that I got my wish! They saw my cutie mark before I did, but when they told me and I looked and saw my own cutie mark with my own eyes... I squealed for joy!”

By the end, some passengers stare confused at the squeaking mare. That’s okay. We like a good tale even if it’s just to pass time. The storyteller gushing over her own story certainly helps.

“Yeah, she’s like that,” Weatherwise says, jerking a hoof at her. “Me? I wasn’t that dramatic.”

A ruffle of his feathers, and then he starts his story. “I always played around with clouds ever since I was a foal, but I always had a soft spot for rain. It’s a good day when it rains: the smell, the cool water, just splashing around and having fun. My mother encouraged me to volunteer for the local weather service, and… well, the rest is history.”

Kind of short, but not every pony’s cutie mark story is an epic for the ages.

“And I went to a chess club at school,” yells Skittles out of nowhere, “and my friends taught me chess and yeah!” Shoots her forelegs in the air, whacking the ceiling.

I flatly stare at her. “Really?”

She looks genuinely baffled at me, brows high. “What? You get my story straight to the point! Shortest one too!”

The unicorn gets a light punch from Hot Shot. “Hey! It’s not a competition!”

Cue a pony slap fight where they lightly tap each other and giggle like it’s a friendly pillow fight while Weatherwise avoids getting hit without moving from his seat.

~ ~ ~

Our jeep ascends an overpass bridge. For a few precious moments, we see a couple small skylines. Oases of state-of-the-art modernity in a plain of ordinary houses, shops, and slums.

Skittles breaks the silence. “Well, what got you into doing that finance thing?”

If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t mind my answer. However, I know Equestrians, or at least ponies, have a different mindset. We don’t have cutie marks. No advertising to the world our passions or what we’re good at thanks to a magic flank symbol, no sign or easy solve to determine who we’ll be.

Talking to Equestrians and learning about their ways of life on the news and online—seasoned with watching the show occasionally—taught me that cutie marks aren’t the end-all-be-all of a pony’s life. Still, it looms over them like a specter of stability, a rock-solid foundation for their futures. Maybe they’re stable and we’re not. Order versus chaos. Something like that.

“You could say that I’m good with handling stuff, understanding a company’s assets… what they have and what they should do with it. I like to help others use what they’ve got. Or maybe I’ll start my own company too. Don’t know what exactly it’d be, but construction’s a hot one these days.”

The ears on Weatherwise perk up. “Oh, you like construction?”

“Not exactly. I’m keeping my options open. Though, I do have a friend or two over there who can teach me the ropes pretty quick.”

They don’t make a show of it, but their smiles widen at the word friend.

~ ~ ~

If there’s anything different this time around—anything different with ponies getting down with me by the footwalk—it’s that they’re more distracted today.

Why are they with me again after the first stop? They’re going further east. This time, they’ll be enjoying the wonders of Ortigas, and then the rest of Pasig before a short night swing in southern Quezon. They’re taking an optimal route too: the jeep goes straight to Ortigas. Just pull out and they’re in. Shop ‘til you drop action plus a million other things to do like ice skating.

Only halfway there, the thrill’s overtaking them. Skittles is the most distracted of the three. She coos over postcards and other souvenirs in the stalls, but Weatherwise stops her. There’s plenty of postcards in the malls, he says.

“But I want a real souvenir!” she whines while being dragged away by her pegasus friend. Points a hoof at the wares of a vendor confounded at the desperate unicorn.

~ ~ ~

On the second jeep ride, I realize how entertaining ponies can be, the perfect solution to fighting boredom on these trips. Pointing here and there, talking about this and that building or vehicle or person in the distance, willing to share to this pony or that creature on their social media—Equestrian social media even. Silly me. I should lighten up one of these days and stop fretting too much about these horses.

While they’re doing that, Sarina pings me a message. Says the boss plans to bring his wife along around lunch tomorrow. No birthday or anniversary or any other special occasion: just a simple gesture for her. She rarely comes into the office, so it’d be fun to shake up her day.

I don’t know if it’s us sucking up to the boss. Maybe. Maybe not. Singing to her won’t be bad though, so I text Sarina that. Don’t mind brushing up on my ukulele skills, rusty for ten years and counting.

~ ~ ~

The ponies haven’t gotten down which means they’ll continue without me to the business center and its fancy buildings.

However, I notice that they’re trying to tolerate everything. Hot Shot’s put on her air mask though with an embarrassed blush. The others haven’t put them on yet, but they might soon. Understandable. Pollution is effectively non-existent in Equestria. Even their biggest cities like Manehattan have clear skies and clean air everywhere. Something to do with their harmony and connection to nature.

On the bright side, that doesn’t stop them from calling a friend and chatting about their day to him. He’s apparently a changeling living as an on-the-rise actor in Canada. That should be cheating, but if you’re born with the ability to shapeshift and you see open spots for a theater play, it’s a no-brainer.

“Hey, Metrid!” Weatherwise calls out to his phone. “Here’s the first friend we made here: Macario!”

They point the phone to me. I see the changeling’s face with his bug eyes and his hard orange chitin. Waves at me like I’m far away. His insect wings flap rapidly in anticipation, and they buzz.

“Oh, hello!” he sings with a nasal voice.

I wave back. It’s courtesy, no matter how many people look at me crazy or odd. I don’t care. I’m surrounded by ponies, a pony baker has lunch with our firm, and a griffon replaced a familiar face, so talking to a changeling isn’t a stretch.

~ ~ ~

I finally get down on my spot. This is the closest the ponies get to my workplace.

It all ends with goodbyes being shouted at my face, their heads out the windows and their hooves waving wildly and a speeding SUV swerving to avoid hitting those hooves.

The jeep vanishes out of sight. Alone again.

Good wishes on their trip. Hope they don’t go broke. It’s tempting to fork out cash every step of the way, given the hefty shopping centers and how you can run a marathon up and down the stairs in those things. Then again, there are escalators and elevators—

“O, ikaw.”

Hey, you.

That’s me.

Garlan, staring at me. Some look my way, but it’s just eat and talk and tiny glances. They are nothing to his eagle eyes narrowing down. Winnowing me down, shooting me down.

Points a talon at me.

“You’re gonna eat or not, ha?” he speaks. An accusation? “You’ve been staring funny at me, so make up your mind!”

Getting confrontational. What’s he doing anyway? Who does he think he is? He’s not wrong. I was just looking—

“I was just curious, that’s all,” speaks my mouth. Not sure if I should’ve said it.

“Then stop ogling me, unless you wanna eat!” Garlan shouts. Gestures to the food that I can buy and eat right now if I just go there and do it. “Or if you’re a scaredy-cat, just leave! Fewer heads to worry about!"

And just like that, he goes back to frying food. Sizzles continue, people go back to eating and talking and complementing the roadside chef, though others look at me odd.

Intimidating. Told off. Left to hang high and dry. On the hot seat for no good reason or all good reasons.

Never mind. Head for work.

~ ~ ~

Walking things off alone, feet and legs moving like machines.

Perhaps it would’ve been different if they just deserted the spot. In the nothing, I can say there used to be something, someone I knew. Let the mind speak and remember what used to be there, who used to be there.

Being chewed out like that, a griffon going around like he owns the place: it’s not right. Fermin would’ve appreciated the stares like that, being observed for doing nice work, doing what he liked. Like those Krispy Kreme donuts they prepare and glaze in the open, except it’s not machines and conveyor belts but a person doing everything. His soul touches the food, uplifts everything. There was and is an art to it—not the kind of art you’d find in a fancy restaurant, but still an art. Something to observe, something to look at, something to like looking at. Nothing wrong with that.

It could be that Garlan isn’t a human but a griffon, and I don’t talk to Equestrians on a daily basis. At least, not until this week. Maybe it’s that the griffon is a lot more novel to me than I thought. Perhaps I’m still feeling my way through this.

But I was here first.

I don’t recognize many of his customers. Not that I know any of their names or that I’ve seen them before but still.

Maybe I’m right. Or maybe I’m greedy.

Maybe I just don’t know.

~ ~ ~

As usual, Boyet comes in from his unusual bakery trips. As usual, Tart’s with him, carrying her baked goods.

Not as usual, Tart’s brought along a crew of ponies from the bakery, all to help us brainstorm on what to treat Ma’am with when she comes by tomorrow.

For a couple of ponies, they’re quite aggressive with asking us questions, determined to craft the perfect baked gift for her. They bring out charts, but they don’t present like us. The slides are colorful, cheery, and there’s even a little song there—something about their passion for baking and making people smile.

We settle on mango cheesecake.

After that, the ponies leave. Some of us watch them prance away from the office. It’s amazing, really. One moment, the room’s livelier than ever.

The next, they’re gone.

~ ~ ~

We’ve done a lot by the time we’re out, but it’s nothing to write home about. I’m happy that what I did helped others and that I can go home again.

Tomorrow is Friday. The weekend draws near.

As we approach the main road, talk shifts to the exciting stuff for tomorrow: surprising the boss and his wife, and the hectic get-together over at Dan’s house (my earlier suggestion of moving to a proper bar were declined). Such get-togethers always carry surprises. Who knows? Sarina says they may end up with a pony coming around and maybe a yak or two—says they just moved into one of the older houses here. Word gets around fast. And it’s not like this will be an exclusive function: it’s just a big table in the garage. Anyone can come in and drink as they please, including ponies and yaks ready to get plastered.

Inevitably, the topic shifts to Equestrians. The going-on’s in the news with some recent trade agreements, more portal hubs to be opened in ever smaller cities, and the continual hot button issue about whether there should be a magic school for humans or not. Meanwhile, on one of the news channels, some pundits debate on whether the seaside towns should encourage hippogriff immigration to improve our fish output.

Out of all of us, Boyet’s the most enthusiastic about Equestrians. Talks a lot about the bakery, Tart’s family and friends, what they did back in Equestria, what they do in their spare time here on Earth, and so on.

From what I can tell, Boyet was sold in on the whole Equestria thing when they came here. He’s never been to the other side, but he welcomed any Equestrian who happened to be here instead of somewhere else on Earth. At times, he was too welcoming: his long-time-friend-since-high-school Quinto told me about how Boyet pet a sleeping pony once and how he was rewarded with being screamed out of the vicinity. That’s not to mention calling griffons Filipino just because our national animal was an eagle and that the sea-lion was “sort of a national animal but not really, but it’s the thought that counts, right?” There’s also how he bought truckloads of mangoes to attract bat ponies thanks to some meme.

He’s sometimes more excited about Equestrians than his own kind. I can’t just say it’s heat of the moment because he’s been doing this for years. But, good for him. Keep doing you, Boyet. Just don’t get us into trouble with your stunts.

He coughs again as a cigarette’s smoked away. Cover my nose, blot out the stench, and we walk on.

~ ~ ~

We get to the stop at Shaw/Mencia. Waiting begins again, each of us taking a jeep in turn or in pairs. Never enough room for a trio this time around. Slowly but surely, the sky dims and we diminish in number. Seven becomes six, six becomes five, five becomes four, four becomes us three.

While waiting, Sarina decides to catch a bite from Garlan’s food cart.

Talking and reminiscing made me forget about that. Or I’ve intentionally tried to ignore it, but to no avail because I just had to look his way. Between the rainbow umbrella, the tempting smells, and the hissing of the oil, it’s hard to miss. And there’s a griffon too. Very hard to miss that.

Sarina orders from Garlan. He treats her like he’s treated everybody else: a hungry customer. A plain “Salamat,” a plain thank you, and she comes back with her food: fishballs dripped in spicy vinegar.

She goes away in a jeep seconds later, food in hand. We say goodbye to her.

Just me and Boyet now by the sidewalk. Headlights zoom by and neglect us as the sound of traffic overwhelms our ears.

~ ~ ~

Minutes later, we’re homebound. Boyet isn’t the only familiar face around here. The people around us are no strangers. We know them the same way they know us. Coming home from work, fine clothes testifying that they’ve been slaving away at the computer or recording stuff on paper forms, interviewing people or being interviewed by people, negotiating deals. Our semi-formal attire clashes with our crude, coarse, reality-tested jeep: tight spaces, hot and not-so-fresh air. Trash can tied by a rope. Driver calling out to a fellow jeep driver as well as a trucker in casual house clothes, both driving in a lane alongside. The word-processed sign informing us that only coins should be used in the morning: Barya lang po sa umaga. The smoky stink of diesel. The lustrous flashes of phone lights on faces. Dim orange glows shine from the ceiling.

Like everyone, we hold on to the ceiling handle. United, we don’t know each other and won’t see each other again for the rest of our lives.

Not much traffic for us today. Buildings whiz past us. The lowering sun casts its dying embers on us. The windows shine a greater orange, reflecting a brilliant sunset sky to us. Dark clouds threaten overhead, but the sun ensures a bright future for us if only for half an hour.

We cross a bridge and exit Mandaluyong.

A tap on my shoulder. “Oh, I forgot to ask you about that.” It’s Boyet.

Turn to him. He looks too curious. “Ask about what?”

Eyes scan the floor. His gaze rests there while his feet shuffle. “You know about Garlan. You’ve tried some of his food, right?”

I look up. “No. Not yet.”

“Ah, that’s okay… it’s just…”

I sit up. Got my posture right, but there’s something more with Boyet shuffling around, trying to find the right words but failing. Maybe it’s a personal problem. If that’s so, I question bringing it up here where everyone can hear us.

His mouth opens again, hands rolling to find the right words. Says:

“I… I wonder what happened to Mang Fermin.”

Ha?

Huh.

He means well. He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell anyone about it. The others weren’t that close to him, but they know of him anyway. To them, Garlan’s presence means that Fermin’s moved on to work somewhere else. Or moved back to Albay where he started his food cart thing. Or changed jobs. I was told that, before becoming a street food vendor, he washed cars and before that, he sold newspapers and sodas in glass bottles, and before that, he toiled in the field back home, born to a family of abaca farmers. Wouldn’t be surprised if he refused to retire at a hundred even if his status in life never changed.

Unsure if that’s good or bad.

“He died,” I say bluntly. Get it over with.

Boyet becomes crestfallen. Scratches his head, hands shake in the revelation. “Uh… oh. I… ah, pasensya… I didn’t know…”

“That’s okay.” Okay for now, I’d add. “I wasn’t sure when to bring it up, especially with Garlan grabbing everyone’s attention. Didn’t want to sound like a jerk hating on the new guy because he’s new.”

“Is that why?”

That is why what? Shades of artificial orange and shadowy black shroud his brows. They ask me why, why, why.

“Why what, Boyet? Ano gusto mo?” What do you want?

He only shrugs.

“I tried it,” he says. “It’s good. Sarina tried it too; you saw her. I bumped into Loretta on the way yesterday. She said she likes Garlan’s food too. Even Arno likes it, and you know how bad he talks about ‘dirty food.’”

His face stares at the other side. Past the people on the other-side seats. Faint sights of trees, walls, and street signs emerge to vanish the next moment. The old engine rumbles, not enough to take me away from him.

“I think… Cario, you’re thinking what I’m thinking?”

No.

“I… I think… I don’t think you’re shy or anything like that.”

Raises a finger in the air. Almost hits the ceiling. Lips purse; tongue rolls in his cheeks. Gazes upon me with those asking eyes.

No.

“You see, Cario… I think you’re avoiding Garlan.”

Headlights flash on our heads. Briefly unveil our faces. On Boyet’s face, burning words I must answer.

No…?

If Boyet were a pony, it would make sense. Ponies are known for being blunt and straightforward with everything. Early on, less than a month after the local portal hub opened, a pony came up to me and greeted me. After a minute of polite conversation, he asked if it’d be alright to share a problem he’d been having for the past year or so. If I indulged, we’d end up sharing our secrets and, if things got real bad, we’d tear up in each other’s arms. I then remembered the infographics warning me of pony scammers being lovey-dovey for fast cash.

Luckily, a jeep came just in time to rescue me from that situation.

“You know how it is,” I say to Boyet. Lock my fingers together. “It takes time, you know.”

It’s not easy to talk to Equestrians. Ponies are the hardest, but it’s something I encounter with anyone from the other side. When there’s such a thing as a Princess of Friendship, dragon arm-wrestling contests to determine status, and government-sponsored Feelings Forums, interacting with Garlan—interacting with them will take work.

I decided back then: we’re coy, they’re not. You get shy ponies and then you get people like me. Like-minded pony introverts are no small group, but even then, if some pony was sad, they’ll broadcast it with super sad faces: no big need to hide it away; if they try, it’s hard. I can tell there’s something with the creatures from the other side.

And, after dealing with more ponies all week than I’ve had over the past few months, it casts Boyet’s attitude under new light. The ponishness has gotten him, and he isn’t stopping. I want him to stop.

“Or maybe… baka lang… maybe you think Garlan is disrespecting Fermin and that he shouldn’t be there, no?”

There he goes with his theories. To their credit, ponies can tell when someone’s having a problem.

“Was it that obvious?” I ask.

He leans forward. “When you told me Fermin was dead, I was able to piece it together. Not that obvious, but, you know...”

I look. Try to look away, get my fraying mind together. I need rest.

“I mean, I understand,” he goes on. “You told me about him being there when you were a kid, there with your parents...”

Dinner would be nice. I should invite a neighbor to come over. Or skip to bed and watch some YouTuber react. Or watch the TV news with my family. Or sleep and recharge.

“But… you know… maybe it’s time to… well, move on.”

I don’t shout at him. Can’t say I don’t scowl.

I somehow say, “Yeah, about that. Sorry, but that will take time...”

“Eh, how much time? Or maybe you’re holding on to it for no good reason naman?”

Just shrug at him. “Posible.”

Boyet’s eyes pierce me. Their looks, sharp under murky light.

“Look... this will take some time. I can’t speed this up. Maybe I’m taking too much time, yes, but… ah, thank you for this, okay?” Offer him a handshake. “I’ll sleep on it, think about it overnight. Okay, pare?”

Okay, buddy?

He grabs my hand and shakes it. “Yeah, yeah...”

It’s a long handshake.

It’s a longer ride.

~ ~ ~

High-rises imprison the sun. The night sky covers us and our thoughts. Around us, a blanket of headlights and rear lights. Car horns and engines keep me awake and lull Boyet to sleep.

~ ~ ~

I wake Boyet up with a shake and wave him goodbye before I go down. He waves back as the jeep speeds away, gloomy lights sparkling on his worn-down face and the worn-out metal floor.

Here I am: the other side of the road, past its islands of shrubbery—some living, some dead. An old painted wall stands across me, a blatant ad for a major local paint brand: depicts images of progress, of smiles and bright buildings infecting the city. Climb it, you’ll enter a cemetery. The towering trees behind the wall don’t tell anyone this, but the dead harbor nearby.

On my side, the houses and little stores that make up home. A little retail shop with glass doors as its only sophistication; the rest are aisles of general faceless merchandise and parked cars blocking the entrance. A junk shop on the side, sacks and plastic bags of reusable scrap hanging on the front gate and the grids inside: newspapers, cans, rags, plastic bottles...

As I walk farther into the village, I pass houses shrouded in the night. They give off their gentle lights from behind the windows. The only primary source of illumination outside is the streetlight, its mirrored glow bouncing off the windows of cars crammed to the side.

~ ~ ~

In a dream or horde of insomnia, Fermin. Not my grandfather, not my friend. His face, his kindly beard, a face of infinite wisdom and joy and determination and other good qualities. His face shines.

An old forgotten but remembered paradise in the junction. Faces of half-remembered eaters, delicacies dangle from their sticks, oil and sauce swim and fall in zero or full gravity. Taste a taste remembered from last week and a decade ago. Through storms, deaths, birthdays, graduations, jobs, life: Fermin.

I fall. Clouds climbing, ground always closer. Flail around, scared, never screaming but I should’ve.

A griffon’s image wakes me up.

It’s still deep at night. Soft moonlight touches my window, my cold hand. Cold sweat. Outside, horns and honks in the distance.

I go to sleep again or for the first time.