Clicking Knees and Lost Consciousnesses - A short story revolving around jeepneys and a mind trying to escape.

Red light.

Green light.

Clutch pedal, primera[*].

Segunda[†].

Diesel fumes.

Clutch pedal, tersera[‡], gas pedal.

"BWADADADAAA...", goes the deafening, tired and off-balanced roar of my jeepney[§]. Mine and a hundred million others on the roads of Metro Manila. All in symphony with the yelling of street vendors selling their wares. Wares of cigarettes, newspaper, hard candy, sampaguitas[**], questionably sourced cold bottled water and magical herbal contraceptives. All in symphony with church bells clanging - selling to the masses. In symphony with underpaid cops' whistles extorting - blackmailing motorists. In symphony with the late morning street side drunks sizing up the females walking by. In symphony with the relentless heat, swelter and smog. In symphony with the bright colors of life and decay, hope and despair, slow pain and dragging suffering.

Swerve left.

Cut to the right.

"Here's my fare!", in Tagalog says the guy on the far end of the bench seat that runs the length of the jeepney. He hands forward coins. Ritually, it gets passed forward by the other passengers like a church collection plate minus the worthless service provided. I reach back with my right hand. A familiar pain shoots from my right shoulder. It's been there since forever. My left hand's on the wheel. Eye on the left mirror - cut left. Coins drop in my palm. I snake my hand back, look at the coins. I eye the guy who had it handed to me on the overhead mirror.

"Where's this for?"

"Not far."

"I didn't ask how far. I asked where.", I barked.

"Not far. At the Rotunda."

It really isn't that far. He gave me the correct fare. I still hate it when they do that, though. They could just tell me off the bat where they're going. Sons of Bitches.

People wear me out like knuckles on a grindstone.

Red light.

Green light.

Clutch, primera, gas pedal. "BWADADAAAA....BWAAAA..."

The clutch pedal is a tiny, shiny nub. It used to be a big chunk of metal with a thick piece of rubber on top of it. Now, it's just a small, thin piece of metal. Flat like a blade. Eroded by the day in, day out mashing of my tsinelas[††]. Like how a stream smooths out a rock down to a pebble.

Brake.

Clutch.

CLICK.

There's another familiar sound and pain. My clutch knee is my metronome. Every click brings me back on track. Back to how little cartilage I have left. How many times I've come. And gone. How I've gotten nowhere with my forsaken life. No escape. Not even a minute. My metronome reminds me.