Wheel of Fortune

It was passed four in the afternoon when the burden of work for tomorrow’s classes obliged us to go home. From two rounds of heavy afternoon snack, I together with Jeff head our way home. We were on the public utility vehicle (PUV) that time when we were talking about random experiences that can possibly be use as a subject for our personal essay, until a high schooler (I recognized as Munozoñian for her white and light blue uniform) uttered, “Roseville lang po.” The vehicle slows down a bit but kept going. The high schooler repeated “Para po” several times but it seems like the driver was not able to hear it. As I glance outside the transparent window, I saw that we already passed the gate of the subdivision the student was about to get off. To my surprise I shouted, “Para daw po!” and that was one of the few moments I pay attention to other people’s concern.

As our conversation continues, Jeff brings up some experiences we had until he came up to that moment when I got so drunk and almost loses consciousness. He told me to write something out of it but the problem is I cannot recall in detail what happened there, except from the moment when Emae (a quite distant friend of mine) assisted and help me compose myself, despite of the fact that she is also under the influence of alcohol that time and is also undergoing something; despite of the fact that she is also in need of care and attention.

As I go over all these previous experiences and instances I had throughout the day, I suddenly picture out a situation I have been through that somehow wraps it all.

It was some night in November last year when I and my brother, Ivan had a walk on the city. It has always been our hobby since then to roam around and find something to eat (street food, perhaps). It was a typical thing for me to see the city in that state—busy, fast-approaching. Street lights illuminating, vehicles moving in a quite rapid manner, random people approaching, minding their own businesses. In the middle of a busy city, we were about to cross the other side of the road; aware of the possible danger it may bring. We have crossed the road that time when out of nowhere something urge me look behind. And suddenly, I found myself staring at an unfortunate man, riding in his not well-conditioned wheelchair—crossing, almost halfway the road but what happened next is something I will never forget. My brother, who is not fond being the center of attention told me that we should help the man cross the road (knowing that the man is in the middle of the road causing disturbance to the vehicles passing by). It was not easy doing so because of the troubled condition of the wheelchair. And that we have to pull it the opposite way but as we do, a passer-by of our same age bracket helped us to get to the other side of the road.

The thought somehow fascinated me. How could a man of indifference do something as compassionate as that? All these instances led me to the idea that humanity and compassion can often be found in the most unexpected places, from the least expected persons.

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