by Evans Yonson
Cagayan de Oro – Slowly as I click the keys of my Underwood, the ribbon spool comes to a halt. I have to press the ribbon reverse button. This time the black inked ribbon moves from left to right. I love this direction because it looks too mechanical every time I push the carriage return lever to the left. The ribbon also goes to that direction. And I have come to what looks like my last line of this recycled paper. I have used the other side before and I have ran out of clean sheets for my third draft.
Fog fills my room despite the humid air outside. Thanks to that wall fan that my sister gave me last December, I could have gone naked and running. She drops by once in awhile to check on me.
“How’s John?” she asks.
John is my favorite character. He is a comedy writer but his daily adventures makes him more of a cartoonist than a Woody Allen wanna-be. He is single and an English Lit major from a famous state university. He is handsome and what many call, a ladies’ man. Tall. Strong. Muscled. Soft-spoken yet rough. He has never had any relationship save for that lady stalker from his university days. He went out once with her until she became obsessive of his presence and attention. Friends in his literary circle doubts about his sexuality. But he never gave them the chance to ask that question. He avoids them like a Spanish guy evades a raging bull in the streets of Pamplona.
I am now on my last Marlboro Lights stick. I have promised myself to stop when I submitted my second story to my producer. And I just keep on breaking that promise every time I get a call from my agent. She sounds like a stylus on its last revolution of a long playing album.
John takes his phone from his left pocket and clicks it open. He presses a button. He waits for awhile for the other line to answer him.
“Have you got a time for a little chit-chat?” he smilingly asks while sipping his favorite Spanish coffee rich with foam.
The people in the bar looked at John with amazement. It’s been raining outside that people are starting to worry about going home in this autumn afternoon.
I have been trying endlessly to finish this comedy since yesterday. My mother has been complaining, along with the neighborhood roosters, about my qwerty sounds.
Why did John let out a guffaw?