'A Life Measured' : a short story

'A Life Measured' : a short story | Daily Tribune

At exactly 10:48 p.m. on 15 February 2005, somebody rang the doorbell at a private orphanage in Muntinlupa City. It would be two minutes before somebody came and opened the gate. Then they would find a baby boy in a box, only wearing a diaper and wrapped in a threadbare, green plaid blanket with flower embroidery.

Bobby remembered those details as instinctively as he remembered how to breathe, or the name given to him by the orphanage caregiver on that fateful night. He didn't know his actual birthday, so he used that date in all his records going forward, the same way the orphanage listed it when they registered him as a ward of the government.

Maybe it was this information, the exact time and date of when he was abandoned, that shaped Bobby's keen eye for detail. After all, he grew up mumbling it to himself, repeating it as if afraid that if he forgot, he would disappear and become invisible. It was easy to become unseen when he had no idea where he came from, growing up surrounded by other children all having to make do with a home not truly theirs. So he measured moments, calculated steps, took note of times and dates that everybody else forgot. Even recalled the faces of all the hopeful parents who came and went to the orphanage who never once glanced his way.

He grew up, and off he went on a journey to build his own life. To find meaning in a world that didn't offer explanations on a silver platter. Bobby now lived in a flat two barangays away from the orphanage he grew up in. He left home every day at exactly 7 a.m. He knew it took him four minutes, approximately three hundred and fifty-two steps, to walk from his apartment building, turn a corner, and stand in front of a gas station to wait for a jeepney that would take him to his job as a cleaner at the barangay office. He would wait somewhere between two to fifteen minutes to board, depending on how busy the roads were and how many other commuters were there. The jeepney ride would take ten to fifteen minutes. He would arrive between 7:20 and 7:35 a.m., enough time to get settled, chat with his workmates, and get a coffee at a nearby sari-sari store before his job officially began at 8:00 a.m.

It was routine. It was pattern. He never strayed from it, and if he did, it was usually planned in advance—like an appointment or visiting the orphanage to talk to Miss Paramin, the woman who found him that night and still worked there at 53 years old. Bobby knew how unpredictable life could be: rising jeepney fares, increasing vegetable prices, people drifting in and out of his life. At least this routine could be his. He had created stability and peace for himself after not knowing it for most of his life. He imagined that this was what normal people did, normal people whose life revolved around the mundanities that people like him craved. Each simple meal he prepared and bought with his own money. Each night sleeping in a room that was only his and not to share. Even a humble job that he never imagined holding with his impoverished background. Maybe the meaning of life was in these simple moments. Bobby could not claim he was sure of this, but at least, it was a start.

Today was his "birthday" and it was also sweldo day. He left home at the same time as he usually did, a spring in his step. After months of saving, he could finally buy a new entry-level phone to replace his old, cracked one that a kind teacher gave him when he was seventeen. And everything was going well today, which only further elevated his mood. His coffee was perfect. The streets weren't crowded. The moment he reached the usual spot where he waited for a jeepney, an empty one stopped by, and he could sit anywhere he wanted. The weather was beautiful. Not too hot. A cool wind blew, refreshing and welcome amid the sweat and heat of commuting in the Philippines. When he got off the jeepney, a dog ran up to him, wagging its tail. He laughed and bent down to pat its head. All of this done, and it wasn't even 7:20 a.m. yet, his usual time of arrival.

Bobby was about to enter the office when he heard a cry. He looked around, trying to find the source. Maybe a parent with a baby was passing by. Maybe it was a cat, because cats sometimes meowed sounding like a human child. Or maybe it was a kid crying after skinning its knee while playing. But there was no one yet on this quiet street, aside from the white dog he petted, which was now sniffing a lamp post and lifting its leg to pee. Maybe he had misheard it. But he wasn't even able to lift his foot to walk away when the cry sounded again. This time, it was insistent. Louder. Desperate.

Bobby, figuring he had time to spare, turned from his route toward the barangay office to look for the sound. Maybe he could help. He glanced at his cracked phone screen. Yes, he had time to help. Or if not help, then time to see if everything was alright.

But it was not alright. No, indeed. The cry came from the corner of the street, where trashbags, boxes, and bottles were stacked, waiting for the garbage truck. He approached and swatted away the flies. He ignored the stench of trash and muck, of piss and shit. And he saw it ⸺ a cardboard box, open at the top.

He peered inside and saw a baby staring back at him.

What could Bobby do at that moment, feeling as if he was staring into his past? The child, crying and wailing, its eyes closed from a world that abandoned it in the streets, lay amid the trash, like something to be discarded and left to die. At least Bobby was left at an orphanage. At least he had a blanket, no matter how thin and worn it was all those years ago. But this baby boy had nothing. Not even a diaper. It wailed, a song that already knew the harshness of life.

So Bobby bent over and picked the baby up, cradling it to his chest, ignoring the mess of tears and urine that stained his ironed white shirt. As he tried to soothe the baby, he forced the familiar sting of tears away. He refused to let them fall. Not today. Not today, of all days.

For the first time in his twenty years, Bobby strayed from his routine. He did not even tell his superiors at the barangay what he was going to do. He figured it was not as important as getting this baby somewhere safe. Somewhere he knew would help, just like how they helped him when he too was left alone with no one. His job could wait. He would deal with the consequences later. The child was the priority.

He crossed the street. He waited six minutes for a jeepney that would take him to the orphanage. He ignored the stares of other commuters, all curious at this young man holding a naked, crying child. Maybe they saw the emotion in Bobby's face despite his valiant attempts to conceal it. Nobody asked him about the boy or tried to take him from Bobby. Maybe they knew the child was safe with him. He with a white shirt stained and soiled, and he who did not care for it at all and had gentle eyes only for the baby. Balancing the tiny child in his arm, he fished his pocket for coins, paying 18 pesos for the ride.

Back in the barangay office, Bobby's boss questioned his peers and friends where he was, saying that Bobby was assigned to clean and stock the conference room where the city mayor would visit later at noon. Nobody could answer the barangay officer. And everyone was confounded, because Bobby was nothing if not reliable. He never would have gone tardy without notifying anyone. He would never miss a day's work even if he was battling a migraine, which he was prone to.

So the barangay officer ordered one of the other cleaners to take over Bobby's job for the day. The worker, not particularly accommodating, kind, or close with Bobby, grumbled and complained under his breath. But because he was juggling two jobs for the day, he was behind on tasks and schedule. When the delivery of pancit and biko for the mayor came at 8:22 a.m., he wasn't there to receive them, being on the top floor of the barangay office. The barangay officers were in the conference room, preparing documents and a welcome banner for the mayor. The other cleaners were doing their jobs, and besides, it was the other one's job, why would they do it, they had other stuff to do, and that one was a piss-poor man, he wasn't worth the effort anyway.

The delivery boy, after calling the cleaner's number (Bobby's number who didn't answer his phone) given to him several times with no one picking up, left to deliver other orders to another client. By the time the cleaner came down at 8:31 a.m., he had gone. The barangay officials got mad because now there was no food for the mayor and his staff. The cleaner who got told off walked out of the barangay office, cursing them and Bobby for today's misfortunes. The head barangay official then ordered one of the other cleaners to just buy fast food, urging the woman to hurry and ask the restaurant to prioritize their order because it was for the mayor.

As the woman who was told to buy food hurried out, she boarded a tricycle to drive her to the nearest fast food restaurant. She paid him 50 pesos for a special ride so she didn't have to wait for another passenger. The tricycle driver, after being told that the errand was for the mayor, was overcome with eagerness at the thought that he was part of something important. So he drove fast, maneuvering through the mess of vehicles and commuters, even shouting at some other drivers and pedestrians to give way because he was on a special mission to deliver the good madam to where she needed to be. In doing so, he managed to turn the six-minute ride into four. He parked right in front of the drive-thru driveway, and the woman unboarded right away, ignoring the beeping from a car.

Meanwhile, the tricycle driver got into a heated argument with the car he unintentionally blocked at the drive-thru. The driver yelled at him to move, and the tricycle driver yelled back, oo na, ito na nga, 'di makapag-antay, akala mo may mamamatay pag hindi agad nakadaan. So the tricycle driver backed from the driveway and attempted to maneuver back to the road and into the flow of incoming traffic.

The garbage trucks usually picked up the trash at 9:00 a.m. sharp. But today, they came late at 9:30 a.m. Two hulking trucks turned corners, stopped and picked up trash from the sidewalks, blocking the other vehicles. Cars and jeepneys honked their horns. The car at the drive-thru was carrying a couple who had an appointment at 10:00 a.m. By the time they had exited the drive-thru, the trucks were already at the fast food restaurant's street, stalling the car even more than the tricycle had earlier.

It took another seven minutes for the car to move along, maneuver the trucks blocking the way, and proceed with its route. But it was the morning rush hour, so the car crawled forward and stopped. Crawled forward and stopped. In the car, the couple was worrying and fretting, saying, ay nako manong, dapat sa iba ka dumaan, dapat 'di na tayo nag-drive-thru, male-late kami nito e.

Because the trucks had blocked the street earlier, the car didn't make it in time for the green light at the intersection. It stopped again. At this point, it was 9:58 a.m.

Meanwhile, Bobby was now at the orphanage. He had gotten off the corner, and he would have to walk two blocks before reaching the building, nestled between residential houses and a road with trees that offered shade and breeze. The baby kept crying, his little belly contracting at each hiccup and sniffle. Bobby wondered when he last ate, noting his tiny limbs that were thin instead of round with baby fat. Hot tears pricked his eyes yet again, and with no one around to see, he let them fall, joining the baby as he cried. As he walked, Bobby could almost imagine he was his own father, or perhaps his mother, carrying himself as an infant, headed toward the orphanage to leave him behind. He wondered, did my parents leave me because they knew I would get a better life here, or did they leave me because they did not want me or love me? As the child calmed a bit, hiccupping and finally opening his tiny eyes, he looked up at Bobby with something akin to trust. And Bobby swore he would make sure this young boy would be taken care of. Bobby would even visit and volunteer to help care for this boy, so that he would not grow up thinking he was alone in this world. Bobby could at least be a constant to this child who had already known so much instability in his young life.

So he reached the orphanage gate at 10:00 a.m. He rang the familiar doorbell. Inside, he heard the sounds of children running and laughing, of older voices warning the kids to slow down lest they trip and hurt themselves. He smelled the scent of tuyo and sinangag being cooked for breakfast. It was Miss Paramin who answered the gate again, five minutes after Bobby rang it, aside from the two minutes it took her twenty years ago. And when she saw Bobby, her wrinkled, motherly face broke into a grin, and she ushered him inside. Bobby explained the situation to her, finally bursting into tears and sobbing like a tiny child, like he did years ago whenever he confided in Miss Paramin how much he felt he didn’t belong anywhere.

And Miss Paramin shushed him, comforted him by rubbing his back, and took the baby from Bobby with the same tenderness as she did all those years ago. She carried the baby inside the nursery, telling Bobby she would call the orphanage's physician to examine the child. Meanwhile, she told Bobby to change his soiled shirt, maybe borrow one from a volunteer, and that he should eat before he left.

Bobby, figuring he was late anyway, decided breakfast would be great. He changed into a volunteer's extra shirt, a green one with the orphanage's logo, and he sat at the table, answering the kids' questions, telling them he used to live here, and telling them about his job at the barangay office. A young girl climbed into his lap. He helped her drink orange juice and wiped her chin with his own handkerchief. A little boy stared at him with curious eyes. Bobby smiled gently, and the boy smiled back.

At 10:38 a.m., Bobby finished his little share of pandesal and eggs, and he wrapped up his chatting with the kids and other adults in the house. He passed on the sinangag and tuyo, telling Miss Paramin to just give it to the kids or the other volunteers. He bade the children, the volunteers, and Miss Paramin goodbye. And, as expected of typical Filipino fashion, the goodbyes with Miss Paramin were lengthy and sentimental, with him being chastened by the matron for not visiting more often, being told how he should eat more because he was so skinny now, and him saying, opo Miss, salamat po Miss, una na po ako.

Meanwhile, the car carrying the couple with the important appointment from the drive-thru was actually headed for the orphanage. The couple was looking to adopt a baby after years of failing to conceive. And because their appointment was at ten, and because they were late, they asked the driver to speed up. The driver, after many minutes of being told off by his bosses and maneuvering the busy Muntinlupa roads, was stressed and stepped on the gas pedal. He sped up, turning the corner to the street where the orphanage was.

And at the same moment it turned, Bobby stepped into the street.

At 10:48 a.m., 15 February 2025, Bobby lay on the ground in front of the orphanage, the same one he was left in front of all those years ago. His head was surrounded by a red halo as blood steadily seeped into the ground, a blanket of red. The couple and the driver of the car had stepped out of the vehicle, screaming for help, for an ambulance. Miss Paramin rushed out, the baby left inside in the nursery under the care of the other volunteers, to find Bobby on the ground, his head cracked open and his left leg bent into an unnatural angle.

And at the very last second of his life, Bobby opened his eyes to see Miss Paramin's face gazing down at him. In his dazed, fading state, Bobby thought he could see into the past. Miss Paramin was the first face he saw, he fathomed, as a baby when he was left outside in the cold night. And now, Miss Paramin's face would be the last face he'd ever set eyes on. Her mouth was moving as she talked to him, but he couldn't hear her anymore. Instead, he heard a baby's cry. He remembered the details of his life, tiny insignificant measurements in an attempt to find meaning in the mundane ⸺ 10:48 p.m., on 13 February 2005. Three hundred and fifty-two steps to the gas station. The ten-minute jeepney ride to work, paying 13 pesos. The thirty minutes of laughing and talking with his workmates. Working from 8:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. The jeepney ride to the orphanage where he grew up, where he aged out of, where he would always come back, worth 18 pesos. His savings for a new phone he would never get to buy, P4,000.

Everyone else moved on. Stuck in the routine, the automatism of their lives. In the barangay office, the mayor arrived and was greeted with fried chicken, spaghetti, and Coke floats, and a welcome banner by the barangay officials. The cleaner who had walked out smoked a cigarette under the awning of a sari-sari store, immediately considering where to look for a new job. The tricycle driver who drove the woman to the fast food restaurant was taking on new passengers, boasting about how he helped the barangay on an errand for the mayor. The garbage trucks picked up bags, boxes, and bottles. When the garbage men arrived at the corner where Bobby found the baby, they only found trash instead of a living child abandoned by a cruel world.

And when he closed his eyes for the last time, Bobby finally found his place, the reason why he was left into this world.