Chapter 5: Purveyor of Practical Miracles
My shop.
Just saying the words in my head felt weird, ambitious—and surprisingly right.
It wasn't a full-blown karinderya yet. Not even close. But it was mine.
Marikit had been a godsend, walking me through the surprisingly painless bureaucracy of Sarimanook Town Hall. A small registration fee—two Pilak that made my frugal heart wince—and a signature on coarse parchment, and just like that, it was official.
They gave me a modest patch of land in the heart of the public market. Right now, it was just six feet of banig mat held together with equal parts willpower and kapal ng mukha.
Day One.
Pepito Espiritu.
Purveyor of Practical Miracles.
At your service.
---
Last night, I'd made a quick, jittery trip back to Pasig.
The cottage Lola left me—another one of her odd, well-timed gifts—felt like it hadn't changed since she passed. Same creaky floorboards. Same faint scent of mothballs and guava leaves. Her altar was still there, neat and quiet in the corner of her room.
I paused in front of it, feeling more like a lost grandson than an up-and-coming merchant.
I took out the beautiful seashell Marikit had given me—a swirled little thing that looked like it had trapped a storm mid-spin—and placed it beside her photo in a clean glass. It gave off a faint scent of ocean breeze and old summers.
> "Apo, ano na namang kalokohan 'yan? Mag-ingat ka."
I imagined her voice scolding me with fond exasperation.
> "I got this, La," I whispered. "Trying to make you proud."
---
Back in Sarimanook, the morning air hit me like menthol.
I'd ditched the hoodie for a plain tunic and trousers—still Pepito, just… market-appropriate.
I didn't have a cart, signage, or any kind of traditional setup. Just a brightly colored picnic mat and a lot of preparation.
With a snap, I unfurled the mat and quietly began arranging my wares. A few familiar items, all neatly packed and ready:
Instant noodles in every flavor known to mankind
Canned sardines stacked into a proud, shiny pyramid
Lighters lined up like tiny plastic soldiers
Potchi candies resting in a wooden bowl
No smoke, no mirrors—just good old-fashioned supply meeting demand. Don't ask where it all came from. Just know that when Lola gives you tools, you use them.
I adjusted the layout, cleared my throat, and mentally flipped the switch into vendor mode.
> "Pasok mga suki! Bili na kayo! Bagong dating—legit, mura, walang patong!"
Then I heard the familiar pat-pat-pat of quick footsteps.
"Kuya Pepito!"
Marikit jogged over, braid bouncing behind her and a woven basket hugged tight to her chest.
"Morning, Mari," I said, smiling wide. "First visitor of the day. That means you're my good luck charm now."
She giggled. "We ran out of eggs, so Mama sent me to the market. But when I saw your blanket I had to come over!"
Her eyes scanned the goods, delight blooming across her face.
"Whoa… it's like a mini sari-sari store just sprouted from the ground!"
"Accurate," I said. "Now proudly featuring an invisible inventory system and vendor-level logistics."
I reached into my pocket and pulled out a Potchi candy, handing it to her.
"Really?" she blinked. "You're just giving it?"
"First customer privilege. Take it, or I'll go full drama mode."
She grinned and slipped it into her pocket. "I'm gonna make you a thank-you bracelet," she said, holding up the shells in her basket.
"Deal. I'll even throw in a can of sardines if it has beads."
She laughed, waved, and skipped off to continue her errand—basket swaying like it carried treasure maps and moonlight.
As she vanished into the growing morning crowd, I let myself take a moment.
The sun was warm on my face. The air smelled like grilled isaw and roasted peanuts. Somewhere nearby, someone had started playing a bamboo flute.
And then—my first real customer approached