#58 Short Story
When do we understand?
When does refusing to understand become normal?
When did misunderstanding become the norm?
The last light of the day broke. It was already evening when the vendors—still almost full of their stocks, unsure how to manage what remained—continued shouting for help.
Come here! Best quality! Best service! Good choice!
And so many other jungle-sounding howls and tweets and roars of bloodthirsty—poor, meek, kind‑hearted souls who only wanted to live, dream of a better tomorrow, and maybe, at the very least before they met their last, leave a mark. Something—anything—that could give meaning to their living.
Most of them were religious.
Not far from them were the bruisers—the true savages—who meant nothing but harm to these pitiful souls, if that even was the proper adjective. These evil predators preyed on those who only wanted to live. They had already gotten their pay for the day in that tiny corner of the world, a street so quaint, and so they moved on to the next.
“Those thugs,” said the lady in guise, her face still fresh with vibrant color and knock‑off hues—a mask she wore almost every day of her life, except on her days off duty.
“Oh! How delightful it is for them,” said the man of cold goods, covered in sweat even though the items he handled were frozen and cold. “To smooch off others’ hard‑earned toil while they collect this… these… what do they call it again?”
“Protection fee? Goodwill obligations? Volunteer taxation? What else could you label such unlawful collection?” said the man of half knowledge, clearly out of place yet still there to sell bread. Among everyone else, only he spoke of politics and a bit of law. He had not finished his studies. He couldn’t.
“Hush!” said the lady in guise. “People might hear. What would happen if it reached the ears of the broken media?”
“Bah!” replied the man of half knowledge. “Let the world hear, for all I care. That’s the truth.”
“Easily said when you’re not from this part,” said the man of cold goods. “Try voicing your concern when they’re here. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
The man of half knowledge stopped his usual serving—paper bag, bread, knife, fillings—the routine he had done for so long. An act he learned when he once found no more hope for his country, long left to the swine kings and queens of murder.
“Someone has to,” said the man of half knowledge. “I may probably— but I’m certain they’ll get found out.”
“Then what?” asked the lady in guise.
“Ha! Do you know who gets pinned if even their reputation gets tarnished?” asked the man of cold goods.
“Do they even have anything left untarnished?” asked the man of half knowledge—unfortunately unheard.
“It will be us,” said the lady in guise. “Us, who already have a place here.”
“Unlike you nomads who keep traveling,” said the man of cold goods, “you just go elsewhere—hide, and like mice, stay hidden until there are no more cats.”
“Our place is here!” he continued angrily—not explicit, but implied, his voice now louder. “If they get mad, either they find you or they vent it on us. Oh! For the love of Chri—”
“So what did the ones who hold true authority have to say?” asked the man of half knowledge.
“Those imbeciles in uniform are just the same,” said the man of cold goods, his eyes wandering back and forth. Too late to unsay the hatred sipping out. “They’re useless to us. Just adorned men and women of many unknown achievements when voting starts—and after that, no more. Just names.”
“Then why did you vote them?” asked the man of half knowledge. “Was it because of the looks? Or was the pay for that one day worth it, without comparison to the entirety of seasons changing while they’re seated?”
“How dare you accuse us of—” the lady in guise was shocked.
“Oh! But it’s an open secret of our culture,” said the man of half knowledge mockingly.
“Hush! Not everyone’s like that, I know—” the man of cold goods lowered his tone.
“But that’s the truth,” whispered the man of half knowledge.
“If you want the truth,” the lady in guise said as she closed in on the two men and whispered, “those hooligans as well as the swines are at each other’s throats. Us—the vendors and the rest—who only seek peace, get caught in between the crossfire.”
The two men looked at her straight‑faced. They already knew the story.
The man of half knowledge resumed serving patrons passing by. The man of cold goods checked his stock. The lady in guise grew annoyed.
She felt annoyed.
“What?” she burst out. “No reaction?”
“About what?” asked the man of cold goods, his voice stoic.
The man of half knowledge finished his last serving. He took a deep breath before standing up. He sighed.
“For someone who’s grown roots here,” he said, “you know—you’re the one who spread hers too short and too few.”
“Are you insulting me?” asked the lady in guise.
“Oh, shut it. Such a pity if you really don’t understand where he’s going,” said the man of cold goods.
“Let me say this, at least, as advice,” said the man of half knowledge. “There are open secrets best left unmentioned—more like unwritten rules. You don’t go telling them to everyone, because everyone already knows.”
He handed the orders to his two favorite patrons of the street. Slinging his carry bin over his shoulder, he smiled at them both and started walking away.
Not far off, he looked back and saw the two eating the quaint delicacies he had handed them. His eyes bulged. As if on cue to some unseen power, the man of cold goods gave him a quick look. The man of half knowledge sharply pointed elsewhere.
He scurried off.
And not far after, the swines of different flavor came.