This afternoon I dropped by the branch of Land Transportation Office in Las Piñas to check on my car stickers which should have been issued in April when it was my turn to register.

A long line snaked around Window 10 for the stickers. Someone said there’s a special lane for seniors, and I went to that window. I thought all I needed to show was the Official Receipt, but the teller said I needed to show her several items, and she didn’t bother to slow down so I could follow. I gave her my LTO file folder, asking her to riffle through the pages and see what things she needed to see. She said she didn’t have the time, but what was I to do, I didn’t catch her instructions because she was speaking inside a counter with a glass divider, she tried to use the mike but she dropped the idea, it only created noise. All I could do was to try to understand what she was trying to tell me.

I said how could we talk when I could barely hear what she’s saying. She said for me to give her photocopies of the docs in my folder but again, I didn’t know what she wanted. She was asking for the photograph of the vehicle being checked at the Smoke Emission Center but I couldn’t find that in my folder. Finally I delivered a little speech in our native tongue:

“I thought we are your bosses,” I said, looking at the throng gathered outside the counters. “But what are you doing,” glancing at the woman behind the counter, “you are making our lives difficult! You told us to return for our stickers, and when we do you ask for the same documents that you already cleared, but how could we have Official Receipts if you haven’t cleared us yet? Don’t you pity these people who have to fall in line all over again, only for you to ask for the same proof of registration, something you have already done when we registered?”

And there’s this man in white uniform brandishing a shotgun, coming to me, looking at me as if I was a troublemaker.

“And you come to me with a gun?”

“Let’s go po to inside.”

“Well don’t come to me with a gun, don’t you know we are your bosses?”

He apologized by lowering his voice.

I went with the guard and turned a corner, hearing clapping behind me. The bosses had applauded my speech.

I waited for the guard who went inside the offices. I told another guard not to speak to me while holding a gun, like I would create havoc, repeating that the people are the bosses of government. “Sorry po,” he said, “but the gun is part of our uniform.”

Inside the manager’s office, I explained that they needn’t require us to show proof of registration other than the O.R. I said I joined Ninoy’s funeral march from Sto. Domingo Church in Quezon City to Manila Memorial Park in Sucat in ’86. I fell in line for eight hours to see Cory in repose in Manila Cathedral. I said I invested so much time and effort so that we will have a government that will serve the people so they had better be careful with the way they treat us.

The manager said okay, could I photocopy my O.R.?

I went to a separate office for the photocopy. The lady manning the copier asked me if I was the man who talked loudly outside Window 10. And without waiting for my reply, she said, “Oh yes, gray long-sleeved shirt! You’re the one!”

And then the people inside the room congregated around me with smiles on their faces. “You’re right, sir,” a woman said. “Those people are unreasonable. We already have many complaints.”

The woman with the copier said, “Were you really angry at that time? Or were you acting?”

“I am a good actor,” I said, and she gave me a high five and returned with my fist.

We both laughed heartily.

I said that’s my style, hit and hug, hit and hug (suntok-yakap).

“What can I do?  They won’t act if I don’t inject drama,” I said.

Going back to the manager’s office, I got my stickers. Yes, that easily.

On my way out, I pitied the people who were still on line. At least, I thought to myself, I showed them how to complain and get results.

Oh, my poor countrymen, when will government employees begin to serve the people who pay their salaries?