The Newsstand

Around this time many years ago, I would be at the Port Area to oversee the dispatching of our newspaper. We had a small cubicle, in an old building occupied by another tenant during the day. It was next to other publishing houses whose headlines fed the masses' curiosity. 

We were spinners of information.

The people working at the Port Area knew no elements. Even when typhoons smashed into the city, we were there to deliver the news. At this very hour, one would find me standing near the entrance, watching, as suppliers drop unsold copies and hauling tens of fresh prints of tomorrow's stories. Sometimes an aide would introduce me to some of the agents. They say, "this portly lady came all the way from Baguio." I would nod at her to acknowledge her presence. "Other provincial suppliers leave before midnight." 

Back then I didn't pay much attention. I was there pretending to work. I didn't speak much, neither did I bother asking suggestions on how to improve the paper's content. The dispatchers and cashiers knew the drill. They have experienced managers to report to. The numbers would simply fly to my desk the next morning and so life begins, with me wiggling at the center.

Looking back, I thought I knew everything. For Christ's sake, this was what my formal education taught me. Hubris is in the air, and looking at how we sold our products, things will get better. 

That's what my dad always said.

Only now, when I get to stand next to a newsstand and spot the paper whose pages I never bothered to read makes those nights different. I may not have the tools of trade to turn those early mornings to my advantage, but talking to the groundsmen would help.

That's how we learn.

"Look how old the banners are." I said to Butchok this afternoon. I sent him a picture of tabloids laid down on a newsstand.

"Sumuko na si Napoles kagabi pa."

"If it were me and my dad running the paper," I continued. "The banner story would read: "Yaya ni Napoles handang kumanta: 10M PABUYA SA PORK BARREL QUEEN."