Prank callers or prank hotlines?

I WRINKLED MY NOSE in disgust the moment I inhaled the wisp of air polluted by gas leaking from a tank. The bottom part of which had a crack. Mild friction caused some sparking around that part. That could spread to a wildfire. The slightest movement could cause the tank to explode, explained my brother-in-law. Like the clanking of two Coke glass bottles.

My sister called up the personnel who delivered the liquefied petroleum gas (LPG) tank, out of worry that her husband could have predicted the nearby future. If the tank explodes, the rest of the other tanks would too, our house on fire. And then our home would burn to ashes. We’re lucky enough if no one gets hurt. But who would have liked losing a home? No one of course. Unfortunately the personnel informed my sister that they have no offices today. Okay. Forgivable. Instead he, the personnel, advised my sister to drive the tank to someplace. Somewhere in a marangle, a place of hectares of vacant lot studded with bushes and grasses and some trees. A place I could well call the woods. Or maybe a meadow. Apparently he might have forgotten that we live in the capital city and finding grassland could have been time-consuming. If you drive the tank with you, considering the scorching heat, you risk your life. Die in a car explosion. Considering that we are inexperienced life rescuers. Unprofessional.

Unprofessional, inexperienced life rescuers. That last thought made me conjure up something we needed. Something, or someone, who could help us. Professional life rescuers. 911. When I was a kid, I’ve seen on TV how 911 rescuers helped American residents during emergencies. From life-threatening problems with a kid’s life at risk to simple ones that involved rescuing a dog trapped someplace. Can I reach 911 calling from the Philippines? I have never tried. And even before I bothered dialing today, one thing that crossed my consciousness was proximity. We needed help from people nearby. From the authorities. The gas provider―or at least the man who delivered the gas tank to us, who spoke on behalf of their store―said they couldn’t help us. Who could help us then? The police? No. 911 was still the best resort I had but I’ve conjured up again another emergency number I used to hear between commercial breaks. In case of emergency, call 117. Yes. 117! That’s it. And so I called. Two or three consecutive rings, and a bored female voice answered, “Hello, 117. What is your emergency?” “Hello! There’s something that worries us about a possible explosion in our house caused by a gas tank delivered to us…” I tell the whole story I knew. “Kailan pa yan na-deliver sa inyo?” (Since when has the tank been delivered to your house?), she replied. “For a moment please,” I answered. And I asked my mother and my sister to feed me the information. I stated the date, last Monday, and then I gave our location and all needed data.

There was a soft humming over the line and, with an increased voice pitch, she questioned, “Monday pa na-deliver ngayon niyo lang napansin?” (It’s been delivered since Monday and it’s just now that you noticed that it’s leaking?) Did I call for a sermon here or for help? Toning my voice, I explained that my mother lives with my sisters and nephew. Women and children. We’re talking about women and children here. I remember that particular bracket in the society who gets special treatment in different places. For different services and helpdesks. There were about a dozen of gas tanks in our house and determining the one that leaks could be a challenge for women and children. Especially the problem tank had not screwed up on the visible surface. The culprit was at the bottom part of the tank. Identifying the problem requires lifting, I explained. Unless my sisters are superwomen, I don’t think they can afford to lift.

“Bakit ngayon lang kayo tumatawag? Sarado ba yung office nang nag-deliver ngayon?” (Why are you reporting this just now? Is the office of the LPG provider closed today?), she asked again. Which made me think my explanation slipped by her. She might have dozed off. If memory serves me, I explained to her the entire situation. The moment I called. Including the discussion between my sister and the LPG store personnel. Including the fact that the LPG provider’s office is closed. I didn’t want to be consumed by annoyance so I just restated the situation. “So ano’ng gusto niyong mangyare ngayon?” (So what do you want to happen now?), the woman said on the line afterward. With all respect on the tone of my voice, struggling to be calm, I explained that we need help. To get the gas tank away from our home. Or to prevent it from exploding. And avoid other houses in our subdivision from being devoured by fire as well. Then she reiterated to me that I should call the office of the LPG provider instead. That 117 is a number to call only when you have police concerns. Police concerns. Crimes. Okay. My concern is “out of their scope.” I didn’t want to run in circles. I knew the help we needed couldn’t come from 117. Discussing things with the phone agent, or whatever her role is, was pointless. I said thank you and ended the call politely. Why on earth did I even try calling 117? It was a nice experience though, really. I googled 117 then and found out that it’s the emergency telephone number in the Philippines, managed by the Department of Interior and Local Government (DILG). Also called Emergency Network Philippines (ENP) and Patrol 117, the name used by the Philippine National Police, where the number originated. It was my fault I didn’t search Google before dialing.

Calling this emergency number today, it made me feel sorry. Sorry that the tax I’ve been paying go to people like them who work for the government that way. I apologize for paying my tax every month, maybe it was too small, not enough to have their snacks paid for a day. I am very sorry. That the woman I talked with needed to respond and behave that way. Somebody give her lunch please. I apologize because I might have been very stupid for raising to them a concern that I never knew was out of scope. At work, I also know what out of scope means. Something that’s not on the contract of employment, something that’s not in the statement of work. Something I or the company is not being paid for. But I also know that there are certain things that are out of scope but really demand attention. Really need to be addressed the soonest possible time. Those things that may require a redrafting of the statement of work. A change order. I know when to break the rules on my contract. When to sacrifice. To push my limits. To exceed what is expected of me. But that woman knows different. I shouldn’t have expected much.

The last paragraph on Google says that the majority of 117 calls are prank calls. No wonder. I’d want to avoid calling this hotline again. I was just a sincere caller. Though stupid, I was a sincere one.