I ASKED the housegirl to go to Carbon for fresh meat and fruits and she did. After her purchases, she was on her way to the jeepney stop with her basket when one of the Carbon boys walked past her and, in a flash, grabbed the basket from her grip.

“Pagbantay gyud ana nila!” shouted an onlooker.

There are also those boys on Junquera St., somewhere in Colon, and they’re all over the city!

I was in a cab when we stopped during a red light. In the wait, someone outside tried to open the door to my side but it was locked. He quickly moved to the front, which was not locked, and started to enter.

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The driver pushed him out but there was another boy to his left who also opened the door on the other side. The boy to his left quickly reached out for the driver’s money box, then still in a flash, both ran away. I didn’t realize I was the endangered audience of a street scene.

The driver, with an iron bar in his hand, was finally able to get out from the car, but the boys were gone.

“Mga rugby boys na,” he said. He had a wry smile, knowing that the rest of the vehicles around us in that stop light saw him “fight” the boys off. But I saw his thinning, graying hair; he couldn’t have put up the kind of fight these boys could’ve put up, pushed by an addictive industrial glue called rugby.

I used to associate the word “rugby” with the kindly man who fixed old sandals for a bit of a fee my nanny gave.

Now, it’s a different story. The rugby boys don’t eat, don’t sleep; something goes wrong with their sense of reality. They rob to buy more rugby.

After that experience with the rugby boys, I wouldn’t miss a ride without telling each driver, as soon as I got into a cab, to lock the doors, especially during a stop light.

Another cab driver said that exactly the same thing happened to him in another street. “Modus na nila, ma’am,” he said.

But his foot was still on the gas so when two guys opened the doors, the driver simply pushed forward where there was little space out front, making the two bums lose balance. They fled. The cabbie also finally got his iron bar from where he hid it but, lucky for the bums, they were gone.

The other street boys who rob, or beg and you give (or else!), you can also call them rugby boys. Do you notice those boys who stand by the line of empty cabs and pretend you, as potential passenger, would never have had a cab ride without their help?

They stand there where the cab also waits, then when a passenger, like you comes, they open the door for you and expect the driver to give them money for that. It’s like I am walking down the street and this boy comes with a hello, as if to say, “That’s my street you’re walking on, welcome, for a fee.”

Why do you give them money for opening your door to a passenger? I asked a driver once.

“Timan-an nila ang taxi, unya suyakan,” he said matter-of-factly. Or with a sharp object, the street boys quickly rip across the body of the car to destroy the paint.

But why blame an industrial glue on the tricks boys play on others and destroy their own chances for a good life? One Efren Peñflorida, 28, decided to save himself by saving others.

The idea of teaching street children where they are didn’t seem real to some. The Dynamic Teen Company project Efren formed, referred to as “pushcart classes,” may sound funny to others. DTC teaches basic reading and writing to children in the streets, in slum areas, even in dumpsites and cemeteries where the children also live, including lessons on how to brush their teeth.

After 12 years, the man behind DTC, Efren, has been nominated as one of the 2009 CNN Heroes, with a chance to become the CNN Hero for 2009, if you vote for him on the Internet before Nov. 19.

(ecuizon@gmail.com)