In His Body

G Search: Typing… How to get rich? (instantly) 

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I don’t know why, but it’s not my fault I was born poor, right? Yes, we’re struggling with money, but deep down in my heart and mind, I know I want to get rich—at least escape poverty. As rich as the celebrities, the business tycoons, or even those Chinese merchants selling Chin Chun Su face cream—claiming it’s imported, though everyone knows it comes from China. Or like those kids born to filthy-rich parents, where wealth is handed down like an heirloom. If they slack off at some fancy university, their folks simply ship them off to the U.S. That’s how easy it is.

Almost every poor person like me dreams of becoming rich—or at the very least, breaking free from hardship. But for me, right now, it feels impossible. My life turned upside down ever since my parents passed away. May their souls rest in peace. All they left me was our tiny rented home and a debt of fifty thousand pesos to Aling Helen.

And here I am again—jobless. I’d just been fired from Burger House near Weston Village because I burned a customer’s burger patty. Double patty with cheese and egg, and I managed to mess it up. He complained, and just like that, no job for me. I’ve gotten used to it by now—always getting fired. The longest I’ve ever stayed in one job was a month. Most of the time, it’s days… sometimes only a day before they let me go, all for mistakes that weren’t even that catastrophic. Most of my life has been wasted searching the internet for jobs I wasn’t even qualified for. It’s not like I’m bragging, but I graduated from college—with Latin Honors. Cum Laude. I’m not lazy. I’ve just thinking that I’ve been cursed with a bad luck. I can’t do anything about being born unfortunate.

You see, I realized that having connections makes getting a job so much easier. Just like in life—when you’re rich, people notice you. But when you’re poor, like me, you’re invisible. Few people even want to be friends with you. Only fellow poor folks will reach out to help. If you’re wealthy, people speak to you with honeyed voices—soft, sweet, affectionate. But if you’re poor, it’s all sharp stares and silent judgments, as if they can read your mind. The truth is, when you’re rich, money does all the talking. Just drop thousands of pesos and you’ll land your “dream job.” Instant. No delay. Hired.

For the poor, it’s blood, sweat, and tears—and even then, it’s often not enough. Degree or no degree, skillful or resourceful—it doesn’t matter. You still lose. That’s the system in this country. And facing that reality is painful. Bitter. Infuriating.

I let out a deep sigh as I stared at my old, secondhand computer—an ancient hand-me-down from my cousin. Damn thing’s still running Windows 7, while everyone else is already on Windows 12 with their shiny new laptops. It feels prehistoric, ready to give up at any moment. Every few hours I have to bang on it just to keep it from shutting down. But who am I to complain? This rusty machine is all I’ve got.

Typing…

G Search: How to get rich in a single day and be noticed by everyone? Easy money. Must be powerful—instantly powerful.

Click.

LOADING...

NO INTERNET CONNECTION.

“Damn it,” I muttered. I’d run out of data. Tsk. Then suddenly, the lights went out. A blackout. My stomach dropped. Of course—it was the due date for the electricity bill today. Where the hell was I going to find money now? I lit the stub of an almost-burnt-out candle, the tiny flame barely brightening my small living room. I glanced at my phone—battery low. I couldn’t even use the flashlight, or else it wouldn’t last till morning.

So I headed outside, making my way to Aling Helen’s store. She had always been my lifeline, like a second mother. Whenever I had nothing to eat, I would run to her. And she always welcomed me—probably because she had no children of her own. A spinster, yes, but kind-hearted enough to treat me as her own. I hadn’t even spoken yet when she called out, “Oh, Celio. Let me guess—you’ve been cut off again? The electric guys came by earlier, asking where you lived. Of course, I told them I didn’t know—even though I do.” She grinned mischievously. “You really are something, Aling Helen,” I chuckled. “I was hoping to—” But, as always, she cut me off. “Borrow money? Here, take this—one thousand pesos. Pay me back when you can.” I couldn’t help but smile. She really was a lifesaver. Without her, I wouldn’t survive.

She wasn’t rich—her tiny store barely kept her afloat—but she still helped. Like I said, only the poor truly help the poor. The rich? They flaunt their charity on vlogs just for views and profit. “Thank you, Aling Helen. I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I told her. “Don’t mention it. I can’t let you starve—your mother would come back and haunt me.” She laughed, handing me food. “Here, take this spaghetti. I brought it home from Manoy Toto’s fiesta. And here—lechon. Fry it, or make it into stew—your choice. At least you’ll have something to eat.” Then she added, as if remembering, “Oh! Almost forgot. Andrew, Manoy Toto’s son, told me they’re looking for a waiter at that fancy nightclub… what was it called? Ah, Club Valor! Yes, that’s the one. Owned by the Weston family—the son of Governor Rafael Weston himself. I’ve seen him on TV. Try applying there, hijo. Who knows? You might finally land something permanent and decent. Just… promise me, stay away from trouble, okay?” I smiled, nodded, and thanked her again before heading home with my food.

Later that night, after eating, I scrolled through my phone. Turns out my data wasn’t gone—just weak signal. I searched for Club Valor.

Typing…

G Search: Club Valor owner and hiring details.

Searching...

Club ValorNightclub in Weston District 📍Weston District, Metro City 🕘9:00 PM – 5:00 AM 📞+63 917 999 8888 🌐clubvalor.com

About Club Valor is an upscale nightclub owned by Caeg Rafael Weston, son of Governor Rafael Weston. Known for its bold and masculine aesthetic—steel interiors, black marble, and dramatic lighting—the club has become a hotspot for the country’s elite.

Offering VIP lounges, world-class DJs, and signature drinks inspired by legendary warriors, Club Valor is more than a nightclub: it’s a symbol of power, prestige, and influence.

🔗Apply Now – Waiter at Club Valor 👉clubvalor.com/careers/waiter-hiring

Position: Waiter 📍 Location: Club Valor, Weston District, Metro City ⏰ Shifts: Night Shift (9:00 PM – 5:00 AM) 💼 Employer: Club Valor – Weston Group of Enterprises

Job Description: Club Valor is seeking professional, service-oriented waiters to join our elite hospitality team. Responsibilities include attending to guests in a high-profile nightclub environment, ensuring luxury service standards, and maintaining the prestige of Club Valor.

Qualifications: • Male or Female, 21–30 years old • With or without experience (training provided) • Strong communication and interpersonal skills • Neat, presentable, customer-oriented • Willing to work flexible night shifts

Apply now.

Maybe… this was it.

At least I could breathe a little easier if I landed this job. Night shifts? I was already used to those—most of the restaurants I’d worked for had me on 24-hour shifts anyway. Without hesitation, I sent in my documents to their email address. With a final click, I leaned back as the candlelight melted away, leaving the room in darkness. And in that silence, I drifted off to sleep.

The next morning my phone suddenly rang. I knew immediately it wasn’t my alarm — it was the ringtone for a notification.

1 Email NotificationSubject: Response to Application for the Waiter Position

To: Mr. Cecelio D. Catacutan, Jr.

Dear Mr. Catacutan,

Good day!

We are pleased to inform you that we have received your email, you have been hired as a Waiter at Club Valor. Congratulations and welcome to our team! We are confident you will be a valuable addition to our staff. As part of Club Valor you will play an important role in ensuring excellent service and creating memorable experiences for our guests. You may start your shift tonight at 9 PM.

Sincerely, Human Resources Department Club Valor

Woah! I couldn’t believe it. Oh! They didn’t even give me an interview for selection? This has to be Aling Helen’s doing — could this be a scam? Wait — why am I doubting when I researched this last night; the site I sent my application to looked legit. Are they that desperate for waiters that they hire on the spot? Whatever. Fine. This time I’ll make sure I do my job right. No more bad luck… I hope. I sighed, feeling oddly nervous when I should’ve been celebrating — companies rarely hire immediately without an interview. Club Valor was one of the few that did.

Inhale, exhale. That’s what I kept thinking as I stepped out of the club. Damn, this place is beautiful. Can you imagine? It’s actually a three-story building and the lights—such a rocking ambience, even from outside. It had been a long time since I’d been to Metro City. The trip from our place in Diman Village takes about three hours by bus, and with traffic it drags even longer. I need to find at least a small boarding house nearby.

“Are you Cecelio D. Catacutan Jr.?” I was startled and I looked at a man who had stepped out of an elegant doorway. “Ah, yes. That’s me. Just call me Celio,” I said, offering my right hand to shake his; he took it. “Andrew! You can call me Drew,” he replied with a smile that made it seem like we’d been friends for years. He was the one Aling Helen mentioned — the son of someone she’d met at a fiesta in the neighboring barangay.

“Uhm. Hi. Nice to meet you, Drew,” I said, tapping his shoulder. I wanted to tell him about Aling Helen, but we were already inside the club where the music and pounding bass hit us full force. We had to shout to be heard. I was blown away by the nightclub’s interior. Women in panties and bras were dancing on stage. Rich kids flocked here. My jaw dropped at the establishment’s glamour. Even most of the VIPs wore such fine clothes — some in corporate suits sipping wine. That wine must be expensive — probably pricier than I am. Tsk.

We moved away from the center to what they called the E-G, the Entertainment Ground. “Ah, Celio—by the way, I’m assigned to be barista tonight, so you’ll be the one taking and serving the orders for the Agilas here,” he said. I frowned at the word “Agilas.” Who are they? “Agilas? Who are they? Groups or—” Drew cut me off. “We call our VIPs ‘Agilas.’ But I’m telling you, just a friendly advice — those Agilas…” He pointed to three older men in blue corporate suits, enthralled by the dancers. “…be careful around them. You don’t know who they really are. Do whatever they want, right away. They’re the type who stick to the Governor. Cross them and you’re done. It’ll be like you never existed. I’m not trying to scare you, just giving you some warning nor advice. Now go change — we need you immediately!” He smiled and winked, handed me my uniform, and I hurried to the employee room to dress.

Being a server is tiring. But there’s nothing I can do — it’s a decent job. Would I give up now? After serving several VIPs tonight? Drew waved his hand and motioned me to come to the station. “Watch the station for me, please… erm. I can’t hold it in,” I could see the sweat on his brow. “Hold what in? Are you okay?” I asked. “Shit! It’s about to explode. Just serve what you need to serve. I need to poop. Bye.” He clutched his stomach, then his backside.

Damn. I had no idea about all these drinks. Minutes passed and Drew still hadn’t returned. I checked my watch when a VIP approached me, looking like he was about to vomit from a drink after drink. He wore a leather jacket and despite being plastered with alcohol, he still had a certain swagger. He was the only VIP who didn’t look much older like the others from earlier; he looked about twenty-five — maybe my age. His face seemed familiar, like a celebrity I’d seen before. Tisoy, for sure — undeniably handsome with a hooked nose. As for me… well, I have a Pinoy nose that’s okay. His cheeks were flushed crimson but his masculine looks still stood out.

“Hey you! Give me… give me a Mortini,” he slurred. I froze. My first night and I’m already blowing it? “Ye-yes… sir. Ah. I’ll serve you a martini,” I stammered. My God — what is a martini? “NOW! I want mortini now!” he roared. Mortini — martini — where are you, Drew? “Sir, uhmm. Please have a se—seat for a w-while. Uhmm, I will… will serve the Mar… uhm Mortino… uhmm, Mortini right away, Sir.” My lame excuse. He suddenly shouted again, louder. “I said…NOW!!! Why aren’t you making me Mortini? Do you know who you are serving? Huh? Fuck! FUCK!” Fortunately, the club’s sound was louder than his screams, so only we and a few nearby guests could hear him.

He stormed into the station where I was standing and grabbed my ID to look at it. “Ha! You’re fucking new? Do you know who I am, huh? You know what, you’re a piece of fucking shit! Now. give. me. my. mor. tini!” he snarled. God, these rich people. I was about to explode with anger, clenching my fists, ready to punch him. Entitled bastard!

“You know? You are trash. I don’t know why you’re here. You don’t even fit here! People like you should be thrown in the garbage. You’re fi…” I didn’t let him finish. Why? I punched him in the face without any hesitation — full force. If I was going down, at least I’d take him with me. He didn’t even cry out; he collapsed on the station floor and lost consciousness. A red welt bloomed on his right cheek. When he fell, his government ID tumbled out of his leather jacket pocket. I picked it up and… holy sh*t, kill me now. I shook with fear. I couldn’t believe it. Shit! The man I’d knocked out was my boss — the one wearing a black leather jacket, the guy who wanted a mortini is the one and only Caeg Rafa Weston.

P.S. Help me, Lord!

[Playing Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen]