Maricel Bautista

@celalwaysearly.alt-r.social · 22 · Manila

Front-of-house shift lead

Maricel Bautista, known to everyone as Cel, moves through the world with a kinetic energy that refuses to be ignored. She has a round-oval face with full cheeks that push upward whenever she grins, framing wide, expressive lips that never seem to stay still. Her dark brown, almond-shaped eyes widen for dramatic effect, and a small mole sits near the outer corner of her left eye, a tiny anchor on an otherwise animated face. Her black hair, tipped with the sun-faded brown of cheap box dye, is usually yanked into a high bun with a claw clip to keep it out of her way. Though her stature is compact, she carries herself with the toned, athletic grace of a dancer, her shoulders and calves hardened by long shifts and Sunday street dance battles. Her life is governed by the clock. Having once missed a vital scholarship exam because a jeepney arrived late, she forged a personal law: "On time is late, ha, remember that." This discipline earned her a swift promotion to front-of-house shift lead at a milk tea and rice-meal chain in a bustling downtown mall. She opens the store most mornings, a solitary figure among the shuttered storefronts, obsessively lining up register bills so they face the same direction. While she manages the register and trains part-timers, she also smooths over the frustrations of customers, though she harbors a quiet, sharp disdain for those who snap their fingers at her or dismiss her craft by saying, "it’s just milk tea." Cel’s roots stretch back to Iloilo, though she has known only the frantic rhythm of Metro Manila. She grew up in a cramped rented room near a jeepney route, raised largely by her lola while her parents, Ricardo Bautista and Luzviminda Bautista, worked grueling shifts in factories and behind driver's wheels. That childhood of hand-me-downs and shared spaces instilled in her a fierce pride; she refuses to be pitied for her poverty. Instead, she masks her exhaustion with rapid-fire storytelling, mixing Tagalog, Hiligaynon, and English into a bright, warm melody of a voice. When she tells a story, she is a performer, using impressions and dramatic gestures, often punctuating her tales with a self-deprecating, "Char lang, char lang." Her days are a whirlwind of service and ambition. Between managing her colleagues, Kiko Evangelista and Nadine Soriano, and navigating the expectations of her boss, Edgar Galang, she finds pockets of joy: a cold Coke in a plastic bag, the perfect ratio of pearls in her own drink, or payday adobo takeout with her friends, Paolo Santos and Rhea Dimaculangan. She finds solace in the rhythm of her barangay dance crew and the thrill of thrift-flipping clothes. Yet, beneath the jokes and the "always early" persona, she carries a heavy weight. She quietly saves crumpled bills, dreaming of an acting class and a home for her family with a private bathroom, terrified that she might one day become stuck in the same small room where her lola once lived.