115 seconds. That's all it takes for me to feel completely helpless.
I start tensing before I even reach this intersection. But not because of the traffic.
Wiper boys.
They've built a real system here. When one lane stops, they rotate to the other side. Clockwork, every cycle. The water appears from somewhere. The wiper goes across your windshield before you can do anything about it. And just like that, the transaction has already happened. You didn't agree. You're just the last one to find out.
I want to be honest: I help when I can. But that's not the issue. The issue is the feeling—something forced, something decided for you before you arrived.
I've seen how some of them react to a refusal along Quirino Ave. They brutally scratched the side of the car in front of me. Kids already running by the time you realize what happened. (Hahabulin mo pa ba?)
So now I do my "anti-wiper boy" move before I even get here. I leave a gap between me and the car ahead. The moment they raise the bottle, I turn my wipers on and inch forward slightly.
Hope they get it. Nine times out of ten, they do.
But that tenth time, one of them places their face against my window. Just stares, hoping I'll break. And I look away first. Every time.
They're minors, mostly. So there's no move that doesn't cost you something. Try anything extreme, and I guarantee you'll end up in a viral video before the light turns green.
I'm supposed to be good at protecting people in difficult situations. That's what makes this so frustrating—how strange it is to feel this helpless inside your own car, begging the traffic counter to tick down faster.
115 seconds can feel pretty long some days.