November 4, 2019 - 1:05 PM

Back from lunch. That new Japanese place in High Street is so not worth the price. My sisig from the food court yesterday was better. Kuya Frank, the guard, was just telling me about the new milk tea shop that opened near Uptown. "P180 (one hundred eighty pesos) for a large, Jenna," he said, shaking his head. "Grabe." (Intense/Unbelievable.) I mean, he's not wrong, but I'll probably still try it this weekend.

The lobby is dead. It's always dead between 1 and 2 PM. Just the hum of the AC, which is always set to "Arctic." I'm logging a few parcels that came while I was out. One is a heavy black document tube with a red wax seal, going up to the 36th floor. That's the "Executive" floor. Not my business, don't want to know. My job is to log it, scan it, and have the internal courier pick it up.

1:15 PM

Oh, great. It's him again.

I remember this guy from a few months back. The reporter. He looks worse now. His shirt is rumpled, and he looks tired, like he just got off a bus from the province. He definitely doesn't fit in with the BGC crowd.

He comes up to the desk, trying to look confident. "Hi, I need to speak to someone in Public Relations about the Luzon project."

I give him my best customer-service smile. "Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"No, but I was here before. I have new information and I need an official comment-"

I already know the answer. "I'm sorry, sir, but our PR team isn't available to see anyone without a scheduled appointment."

He sighs. It's a really tired sound. "Look, can you just tell them Miguel Reyes from the Meridian is here? It's important. It's about... it's about the site in Laguna."

"Laguna." Ugh. That's the big one. The one that's causing all the "internal" meetings. I nod, my smile feeling stiff. "Please take a seat, sir. I'll see if anyone is available."

I call upstairs to Ma'am Jess in PR. "Ma'am, that reporter, Mr. Reyes... yes, him... he's in the lobby. He's asking about Laguna... Okay. I'll tell him."

I turn back to him. "Someone will be right with you, sir."

1:35 PM

He's been waiting for 20 minutes. He's terrible at sitting still. He keeps standing up, looking at the stupid corporate art on the wall, then sitting down again. He's checking his phone, which looks like it's five years old. Kuya Frank is watching him, but not in a "you're a threat" way. More in a "poor guy" way.

The elevator dings. Here comes Ma'am Jess, our PR head. She's in her full armor today-sharp blazer, hair pulled back so tight it must hurt, and that bright red lipstick. She clicks across the marble floor, smiling that smile that doesn't mean "I'm happy," it means "I'm in charge."

I go back to typing, pretending to sort emails. But I'm listening. This is the most interesting thing that's going to happen all day.

I hear his voice, low and urgent. "...labor exploitation... hushed-up accidents... headaches... this sterile fog that the locals are reporting... a military checkpoint..."

Checkpoint? Okay, that's new. I thought it was just a construction site.

Ma'am Jess doesn't even blink. Her voice is so smooth and calm. "Mr. Reyes, as I'm sure we've stated, Duo Corp and our parent, FAILTECH, take our community partnerships very seriously..."

She's giving him the standard lines. I've heard her practice them on the phone. "...'Localized Prosperity' initiative... in full compliance with all DENR and DOLE regulations..."

Then I hear this gem: "The 'hum' you describe is simply the sound of progress. The 'fog' is natural morning mist, common to the region."

I almost choked. "The sound of progress." That is brilliant. I'm going to use that on my landlord when he complains about my music.

The reporter is not having it. "It's not. And what about the military checkpoint? The turrets?"

Turrets? Seryoso? (Seriously?) Okay, now I'm really listening.

Ma'am Jess's smile gets a little tighter. "We take the security of our proprietary technology and our personnel very seriously. We have no further comment."

And... scene. That's the line. "No further comment." That's the corporate way of saying "Get out."

She nods at him, turns, and clicks right back to the elevator, not a single hair out of place.

The reporter just stands there for a second. He looks... defeated. Kuya Frank steps forward, all polite. "Sir, this way po." He escorts him out.

1:45 PM

The phone rings. "Thank you for calling Duo Corp, how may I assist you?"

God, that poor guy. He has no idea what he's walking into. Turrets? Headaches? He really thinks he's going to get a straight answer?

My Tita Lorna's family is from Laguna. I remember her complaining at our last family dinner that her cousin's kids were always sick, and the doctor said it was "just the air." I... huh.

I shake the thought out of my head. Nope. Not my problem. I've got rent to pay here in BGC, and it's not cheap. My 13th-month pay is coming up, and I'm using that bonus to go to Boracay in January. This job pays well, the benefits are good, and all I have to do is smile, answer the phone, and not ask questions.

That guy is bringing a balisong (butterfly knife) to a tank fight. Kawawa naman. (What a pity.)

The phone rings again. "Thank you for calling Duo Corp..."