ONCE at a restaurant, a group of loud young people sat at the next table across us, also having their breakfast.
Not much of an oddity these days. For one, their overwhelming presence and large numbers in practically all of the gathering places in the city nowadays stabs at the heart; a glaring reminder to us, their older versions, that we are a thinning herd.
It’s no wonder, society has patronizingly bestowed upon us its ceremonious pat-in-the-back merit card: the senior ID.
As a second thought, one could easily tell these rowdy crew were call center agents, just fresh from their graveyard shift.
Why, I even spot one or two girls wearing pajama tops under their coats even as one actually hugs a pillow in her seat.
A late-comer joins their group, briefly acknowledging me with a curt nod, as if to say sorry for the boisterous laughter occasionally coming from their direction.
I merely smile, nod back, and mouth no worries, as all is good. All the while, the ruckus of conversation wafts and continues to mix with the rich smell of Chinese fried chicken, specialty of the place.
I have nieces and nephews who work the trade, so I understand the rigors and unique challenges it poses. Often, while we regular folks sleep, they’re the ones who keep the wheels of industry turning, even at the oddest of hours.
Then unlike many of us, they’re routinely-doomed to deal with difficult customers who shout their mouths off, a thousand miles away from the opposite side of the world.
They are at it day-to-day and they’ve to smile through it all. Even with an attractive paycheck, theirs is not an envious job, only fit for the hardy among their generations, whose bodies could still undergo such ordeal.
At the same time, they have to develop a thick skin and patience pronto, to maneuver past the business minefield.
Not easy to do, young minds tend to be impatient creatures, rushing as they go. Partly because of all that, I’m more than willing to excuse their release of pent-up emotions at the table.
Before call centers came to be, all-night cafes and restaurants weren’t really much of a thing in the city, save for a few 24-hour doughnut shops. That’s where law students stay till the wee hours, while gobbling coffee as part of their study routine.
Unlike in Manila where 711’s thrive, Davao was, in a sense, pretty much provincial at the strike of the Cinderella hour. “No nests for kwaknits (undead),” a drinking buddy/friend liked to say.
Many years back, when I got to visit my brother at his quaint coffee shop below two towers along QC Avenue, I was pleasantly surprised that at regular intervals, a swarm of perhaps a hundred strong, would flow from out of the elevators, with some heading our way for coffee and a quick snack, while others crammed the park outside to smoke.
Amazing, I thought, this mostly-silent mass would go about their business for about ten minutes then rush back to the lifts from where they came and in a few, all was silent again.
An apt depiction of the slave economy. And through the years, it has crept unnoticed into our city.
A few minutes later, same as the silent multitude under the towers in my daydream, the gang before me started to leave two at a time.
With that, a still-sleepy waiter took his cue at cleaning the tables. All was silent again, except for a radio somewhere in the kitchen reporting on Last Two and the latest news.
I’m imagining scenes like this play at the same moment, while Davao stretches and awakens.
