WHAT’s on your fingertips now, thanks also to them.

“Yan, sales ko na mga yan,” a man of about forty said as he was pointing to the last five copies of your favorite local daily.

That was Kong Noel, of Mabalacat, and works as a newspaper vendor near KFC in Dau.

Along with him where fruit vendors of many colors and kind—seasonal or not, ranging from ponkans, Fuji apples, rambutan, and lately, lanzones. There were also a line of street food vendors, also in variety from fishballs, squid balls, and anything round made of starch and cooked in boiling vegetable oil, tasty while still hot, with all its mess.

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In Angeles City, there are five newspaper stalls just in one street: Entierro. One is steps away from Bale Herencia, the other is below the stairs of KFC, while two are beside the Holy Rosary Church and in front of it is the stall of Atsing Conchita, the good Samaritan we have mentioned the last Palm Sunday, who instead of busied herself to selling her newspapers, volunteered to take care of her sick neighbor’s trade.

While people may be grateful to journalists, none may have thanked the invisible hand that scatters the printed world: the newspaper vendors.

The life of such vendor is not as easy as we think, and they probably have the same income as the struggling newsman. Maning Yanga, 70, for example, has to wake up as early as four or five in the morning to catch his copies and would sit there in his small stall the whole day, passing common people who might be more interested in turning on their televisions to see and hear their “glamorous” broadcast reporter.

But still, either this job means martyrdom or a living. For a newspaper vendor, it might be both. Consider this:

“Migising kang maranun kayi namung karitak sasali,” Atsing Conchita narrated, “Kayi dati tin kaming makanyan (names a paper) ngeni ala na, ot eda kami deliveran para makapisali.”

And then she paused, only to sadly resume, she said, “Enaka man basta basta manalwa obra dahil ala ka ring pera.”

Atsing Conchita later adds cigarettes and chewing gums and candies to induce her income. Being near to Ministop is more of an advantage, many students would rather buy retail than an expensive pack in a 24-hour convenient store.

Mang Maning has one different perspective in this venture. He said, “Eh matwa naku eh, kaya kayari ku meg-abroad at me-over age, migtinda naku mu dyaryu kesa ala kang gagawan.”

Mang Maning is the serene-looking old man we see at the sidewalk of Entierro, which is very near the attractive church.

He added, “Keni kasi malapit pisamban, pag ting misa bawi ka. Madakal sasali kayari, lalu na pag Domingu.”

Mang Maning has five children, all of which have their own families. He used to work in the Middle East as a painter to construction sites until he reached the fitted age to work.

Today, he has every daily, weekly, local and national copies displayed -- and for sale, in his stall from the very minute you buy your pandesal to your log out in the office.

“Maditak mu panakitan pero okey mu, at least eka gagawang panakitan keng marok,” he added.

Elswhere, it seemed that the newspaper vendors have agreed with their prices, adding P2 for a local paper and P2 up to P4 for a national broadsheet. They also share the same agreement to the deliverers, most of which under “consignment”, which means, only the copies sold shall be paid the other day.

A lucky day, most would agree, could save their day.

Nevertheless, except to Mang Maning, the “lucky” day may not always be Sunday.

And yet, and yet, their chronicles are real enough. And to think that we put so much faith in the power of media, their job could only be amazing. Sure, life is hard and with all the hardship that is seen on the front pages, they are seeing it first-hand, they are feeling it, in fact.

For a while, they just have to sigh, like us, of any kind of news, be it good or be it bad.

But then thank the heavens up above and the papers beside them that at least, they have made a living -- decent, dignified, although difficult, even if it turns back a little.