THE PUNCHLINE IS AT THE END
Entry No. 3
Two months have passed since Emma left for Japan. Bert received neither a letter nor a call. He would have been worried sick if not for a friend who told him that Emma’s doing fine. The friend told him that she received a letter from Emma. Wondering why he did not receive one, he just tried to convince himself that maybe she’s still adjusting to her new work. Maybe she’s busy. These are the thoughts that crossed his mind. As hard as he might want to believe, he knew that he was lying to himself.
Bert’s performance has been deteriorating along with his hope that he would personally hear from Emma. One day, his boss warned him, again, to “clean up his act.” Fewer customers laughed at his jokes and fewer attended his shows. At times, he would pause in the middle of the performance as if he forgot his next line. Then one night, try as he did to become funny, he was booed by the crowd; something that he had experienced for the very first time.
From the back of the stage and into the dressing room, he could hear his boss shouting curses at him.
“What the hell is fucking wrong with you!” the stage manager cursed.
Somehow, he couldn’t care less. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket.
“Just one more performance for you,” the stage manager was leaning on the mirror of his dressing room. “You know how things are.
Just one more performance. Next Wednesday, you better be funny or you’ll be losing your job.”
“What’s the catch?” he asked, acting indifferent about the whole matter.
“The catch is, you must make everyone, including me, laugh at your jokes. I can’t let you work here unless you do your job. And that’s final,” his boss slammed the door behind him. Bert sat inside the dressing room for almost three hours before he came out of the club.
He felt numb, confused - but he had a plan.
Instead of practicing for his performance on Wednesday, he went to a friend who makes balloons. There, he revealed what he wanted to happen. At first, his friend hesitated on the favor he is asking. Bert explained that the plan would save his job. After a lot of convincing and reasoning, his friend agreed with a condition that he would not be responsible for anything.
What was on Bert’s mind then? He felt that fate is pushing him to his limits. He felt that destiny is playing a very cruel joke on him. Down on his luck, the departure of Emma pushed buttons inside him that even he did not know existed. As he felt the heat rising from his arm, he formed a fist. He threw a punch in the air. He was angry.
Bert knew that he must do something otherwise he’d go crazy. The balloons were just part of his plan. His plan was to avenge his fate. His plan was to explode his anger amidst all the laughter.
Feb 7, 2003
Feb 6, 2003
THE PUNCHLINE IS AT THE END
Entry No. 2
Bert and Emma were engaged to get married next year. After getting off from work at the club, he would enter this cafeteria that opens at three in the morning. This is where Emma works. After a couple of times that Bert ate at the place, he noticed this waitress who had small lips, delicate jaws, full breasts and eyes that actually smiled. He found her very attractive, scolding himself a couple of times because he hadn’t noticed her before. With a simple ‘good morning’ that later turned to ‘hello’, a relationship was formed. He asked where she lived and got off at work earlier so he can fetch her at the cafeteria. To make the story short, they became a couple.
Emma quit her job because of a new opportunity waiting for her. It’s been a week now. She’s waiting for another week and she’d be off to Japan.
Bert argued with her, not giving his permission for Emma to work overseas. He had heard of tales of women being dragged into prostitution. He could not accept her reason that it all depends on the individual involved.
“If you have faith in me and trust me,” she said, “then you’d let me go. I’ll be a waitress there. The same job I had the day you first saw me. I’d only be earning bigger.”
With that, he shut up. He knew that he would never win the argument. He also knew that she needed the money to help her folks back at the province. Bitter to his taste, he accepted the fact that they might not get married next year, or ever for that matter.
Reaching Emma’s apartment, Bert went straight to their room. He found her sleeping. He got dressed and did not wake her up. As he sat beside the bed, she murmured, “You’re early.”
“The show finished early,” he reasoned.
“Could you get me a glass of water,” she was half-awake.
Bert went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Coming back, Emma was packing some of her clothes. She’s been doing that for a week now, packing things that she said she’d bring to Japan. He lay in bed. When she was finished, she also went to bed and cuddled beside him.
“Bert,” she said, “Before I go away, I would like you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?” somehow he could not find some sleep.
“First of all,” she said while leaning on his chest, “I don’t want you to cry.”
Like all instances when he is not sure of his answer, he was silent.
“Second,” she continued, “I want you to be always happy for me.”
He did not know what to say. He just nodded.
“Promise me that,” Emma sounded pleading and commanding.
“Okay, I promise,” Bert finally managed to say.
During the rest of the night, they did not face each other while lying in bed. Both of them pretended to be asleep.
Entry No. 2
Bert and Emma were engaged to get married next year. After getting off from work at the club, he would enter this cafeteria that opens at three in the morning. This is where Emma works. After a couple of times that Bert ate at the place, he noticed this waitress who had small lips, delicate jaws, full breasts and eyes that actually smiled. He found her very attractive, scolding himself a couple of times because he hadn’t noticed her before. With a simple ‘good morning’ that later turned to ‘hello’, a relationship was formed. He asked where she lived and got off at work earlier so he can fetch her at the cafeteria. To make the story short, they became a couple.
Emma quit her job because of a new opportunity waiting for her. It’s been a week now. She’s waiting for another week and she’d be off to Japan.
Bert argued with her, not giving his permission for Emma to work overseas. He had heard of tales of women being dragged into prostitution. He could not accept her reason that it all depends on the individual involved.
“If you have faith in me and trust me,” she said, “then you’d let me go. I’ll be a waitress there. The same job I had the day you first saw me. I’d only be earning bigger.”
With that, he shut up. He knew that he would never win the argument. He also knew that she needed the money to help her folks back at the province. Bitter to his taste, he accepted the fact that they might not get married next year, or ever for that matter.
Reaching Emma’s apartment, Bert went straight to their room. He found her sleeping. He got dressed and did not wake her up. As he sat beside the bed, she murmured, “You’re early.”
“The show finished early,” he reasoned.
“Could you get me a glass of water,” she was half-awake.
Bert went to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. Coming back, Emma was packing some of her clothes. She’s been doing that for a week now, packing things that she said she’d bring to Japan. He lay in bed. When she was finished, she also went to bed and cuddled beside him.
“Bert,” she said, “Before I go away, I would like you to do me a favor.”
“What is it?” somehow he could not find some sleep.
“First of all,” she said while leaning on his chest, “I don’t want you to cry.”
Like all instances when he is not sure of his answer, he was silent.
“Second,” she continued, “I want you to be always happy for me.”
He did not know what to say. He just nodded.
“Promise me that,” Emma sounded pleading and commanding.
“Okay, I promise,” Bert finally managed to say.
During the rest of the night, they did not face each other while lying in bed. Both of them pretended to be asleep.
Feb 5, 2003
THE PUNCHLINE IS AT THE END
Entry No. 1
The only thing on Bert’s mind right now is a wish that he’d be able to survive another night of performance without breaking down. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulder as he straightened his American suit. His girlfriend once asked him if he ever felt that what he’s doing is more than a job, but a mission.
“The task of making people laugh is no small deal,” she would often say smiling. “It’s not a laughing matter.”
He admires the way his girlfriend believes in him. More often than not, she would have more faith in him than he himself does. He would reply that it really is no big deal; he’s a performer like any other person who performs as a source of income. Like a singer that people pay to sing, or an instrument player that people pay to see them play, his medium is just different from the rest. The goal and job description still remains the same: entertain the audience.
He checked on his face on the mirror of the dressing room. He knew that the paleness emanating from his face is not because of the face powder he’s required to put on. It’s like a mask or a make-up to stand-up in the crowd, to make him more noticeable in the spotlight. His hands were also sweating profusely, an involuntary sign of nervousness he has since he was a child. The sweat from his eyebrows were dripping like he’s about to go into war without a gun. It all punctuates his fear.
But what is he afraid of? He has done this more than a couple of times, each with successful results. The fact that he no longer feels funny is what he’s most afraid of.
The stage manager knocked on the dressing room. “Ten minutes,” he yelled.
He stood and went to the backstage. There, he scanned the audience. There were about a hundred guests or so tonight. It is a large crowd compared to the previous nights. And this does not include the waiter, and the women whom you could ask to keep you company (GRO’s or guest relation officers).
“A hundred drunkards,” he thought. He willed that everything would be fine. Wiping the sweat from his palm, he inhaled deep. Feeling the pocket of his suit, he felt the cigarette sticks he knew he would need.
The dance number is almost over. Scrambling on the stage was the emcee.
“Let’s give them a big hand of applause,” the emcee yelled.
“And now, for the kind of entertainment that this club has been known for,” he continued. “Someone to tickle our funny bones. Someone who could also tickle your fancy.”
The audience laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here he is. The funny and the witty, fresh from a sanitarium in the north,” the audience again laughed. “Bert ‘The Punchline’ Salinas!”
There were applauses from the crowd especially from the waiters and the GRO’s. It a conspiracy actually. To make the customers feel that that the performance is great, the first ones to laugh at a joke or clap at an introduction are the GRO’s. It helps, he has to admit. It sets the mood. Though tonight, it made him more nervous.
“The expectation would be higher,” he thought.
Frantically waving his hands, he entered the stage. As part of the routine, he would chase the spotlight, which would deliberately avoid him. He would chase it down the stage then the spotlight would settle on a customer. Holding a microphone with one hand he would shout, “Hey you’ve got the wrong guy.”
He would sit right next to the startled audience and say, “I guess I haven’t started yet and you think you could take away my job,” all part of the act, he would look serious to the delight of the crowd.
“What?” he would start making fun of the customer under the spotlight, “So you think you’re funny? If holding the hand of the lady beside you from under the table is funny, I think you’re wife must know. Welcome to candid camera”
People would then reciprocate with laughter as well as the customer whom the practical joke was on. He would then say, “Fix the light. I need to work here, Mac,” referring to the lightman. The spotlight would then fix on him. “Thank you sir. What a lovely company you have.”
He would then go back to the stage, pretending to trip at the stairs. More laughter. On centerstage, he would perform the act he’s been practicing in the mirror for the last few weeks. Every week, there must be some new materials to present otherwise it would be the same thing over and over again. He prepares very hard for every performance. He’s an amateur compared to stand-up comedians who made it big on television. Frankly, he’s confused on whether he’d like to have this job as a career. He’s twenty-six. He feels that he’s just playing with time. He’d still be able to make his dreams come true.
The pressure mounting on him to become funnier on each performance is taking its toll on him. He’s running out of funny situations that he could think of. Add these to the fact that there are problems that he must face, like everyday living for example. With all these things running on the back of his mind, he felt that the audience’s laughter is not the same as the first day of his act.
He was a very good comedian. He could stand on the stage to crack jokes for thirty minutes or so, not tiring, unwavering. His audience being part of his jokes, always complied to the punchlines he had. He was witty. He could think of a funny line in an instant. But tonight, he only performed for twenty minutes. He felt he was suffocating. Loosening the collar of his suit, he inhaled for clean air but got cigarette smoke instead.
“I guess that’s all folks,” he said. “You’ve been a great audience. You’ve ensured my pay for the week.” He was smiling.
Entering the dressing room, the stage manager followed him. He was a big and burly man. He was not smiling.
“There are some folks that wants you to join them in the lounge,” his boss said.
“Not tonight,” he replied.
“I’m gonna be frank with you. I did not like your performance. There were too many bashing. Hell, these people came here to relax not be harassed.”
“They found it funny, didn’t they?”
“That’s not the kind of entertainment we want to show here. What? You want to start a reputation?”
Bert pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and started to smoke.
“I’m giving you time to clean your act,” it was a warning, an ultimatum and an order at the same time. “I’ll cut you off the list and don’t even think if I can do that or not.”
The stage manager got off the room. Bert stood in silence. He knew that there had been too many insults he had thrown at the audience. He also knew that next time, people might not find it funny. He got dressed and went to the bar. After taking two cans of beer, he declined an invitation from one of the customers to join them. Excusing that he’s got to go somewhere, he started towards his girlfriend’s apartment.
Entry No. 1
The only thing on Bert’s mind right now is a wish that he’d be able to survive another night of performance without breaking down. He felt the weight of the world on his shoulder as he straightened his American suit. His girlfriend once asked him if he ever felt that what he’s doing is more than a job, but a mission.
“The task of making people laugh is no small deal,” she would often say smiling. “It’s not a laughing matter.”
He admires the way his girlfriend believes in him. More often than not, she would have more faith in him than he himself does. He would reply that it really is no big deal; he’s a performer like any other person who performs as a source of income. Like a singer that people pay to sing, or an instrument player that people pay to see them play, his medium is just different from the rest. The goal and job description still remains the same: entertain the audience.
He checked on his face on the mirror of the dressing room. He knew that the paleness emanating from his face is not because of the face powder he’s required to put on. It’s like a mask or a make-up to stand-up in the crowd, to make him more noticeable in the spotlight. His hands were also sweating profusely, an involuntary sign of nervousness he has since he was a child. The sweat from his eyebrows were dripping like he’s about to go into war without a gun. It all punctuates his fear.
But what is he afraid of? He has done this more than a couple of times, each with successful results. The fact that he no longer feels funny is what he’s most afraid of.
The stage manager knocked on the dressing room. “Ten minutes,” he yelled.
He stood and went to the backstage. There, he scanned the audience. There were about a hundred guests or so tonight. It is a large crowd compared to the previous nights. And this does not include the waiter, and the women whom you could ask to keep you company (GRO’s or guest relation officers).
“A hundred drunkards,” he thought. He willed that everything would be fine. Wiping the sweat from his palm, he inhaled deep. Feeling the pocket of his suit, he felt the cigarette sticks he knew he would need.
The dance number is almost over. Scrambling on the stage was the emcee.
“Let’s give them a big hand of applause,” the emcee yelled.
“And now, for the kind of entertainment that this club has been known for,” he continued. “Someone to tickle our funny bones. Someone who could also tickle your fancy.”
The audience laughed.
“Ladies and gentlemen, here he is. The funny and the witty, fresh from a sanitarium in the north,” the audience again laughed. “Bert ‘The Punchline’ Salinas!”
There were applauses from the crowd especially from the waiters and the GRO’s. It a conspiracy actually. To make the customers feel that that the performance is great, the first ones to laugh at a joke or clap at an introduction are the GRO’s. It helps, he has to admit. It sets the mood. Though tonight, it made him more nervous.
“The expectation would be higher,” he thought.
Frantically waving his hands, he entered the stage. As part of the routine, he would chase the spotlight, which would deliberately avoid him. He would chase it down the stage then the spotlight would settle on a customer. Holding a microphone with one hand he would shout, “Hey you’ve got the wrong guy.”
He would sit right next to the startled audience and say, “I guess I haven’t started yet and you think you could take away my job,” all part of the act, he would look serious to the delight of the crowd.
“What?” he would start making fun of the customer under the spotlight, “So you think you’re funny? If holding the hand of the lady beside you from under the table is funny, I think you’re wife must know. Welcome to candid camera”
People would then reciprocate with laughter as well as the customer whom the practical joke was on. He would then say, “Fix the light. I need to work here, Mac,” referring to the lightman. The spotlight would then fix on him. “Thank you sir. What a lovely company you have.”
He would then go back to the stage, pretending to trip at the stairs. More laughter. On centerstage, he would perform the act he’s been practicing in the mirror for the last few weeks. Every week, there must be some new materials to present otherwise it would be the same thing over and over again. He prepares very hard for every performance. He’s an amateur compared to stand-up comedians who made it big on television. Frankly, he’s confused on whether he’d like to have this job as a career. He’s twenty-six. He feels that he’s just playing with time. He’d still be able to make his dreams come true.
The pressure mounting on him to become funnier on each performance is taking its toll on him. He’s running out of funny situations that he could think of. Add these to the fact that there are problems that he must face, like everyday living for example. With all these things running on the back of his mind, he felt that the audience’s laughter is not the same as the first day of his act.
He was a very good comedian. He could stand on the stage to crack jokes for thirty minutes or so, not tiring, unwavering. His audience being part of his jokes, always complied to the punchlines he had. He was witty. He could think of a funny line in an instant. But tonight, he only performed for twenty minutes. He felt he was suffocating. Loosening the collar of his suit, he inhaled for clean air but got cigarette smoke instead.
“I guess that’s all folks,” he said. “You’ve been a great audience. You’ve ensured my pay for the week.” He was smiling.
Entering the dressing room, the stage manager followed him. He was a big and burly man. He was not smiling.
“There are some folks that wants you to join them in the lounge,” his boss said.
“Not tonight,” he replied.
“I’m gonna be frank with you. I did not like your performance. There were too many bashing. Hell, these people came here to relax not be harassed.”
“They found it funny, didn’t they?”
“That’s not the kind of entertainment we want to show here. What? You want to start a reputation?”
Bert pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and started to smoke.
“I’m giving you time to clean your act,” it was a warning, an ultimatum and an order at the same time. “I’ll cut you off the list and don’t even think if I can do that or not.”
The stage manager got off the room. Bert stood in silence. He knew that there had been too many insults he had thrown at the audience. He also knew that next time, people might not find it funny. He got dressed and went to the bar. After taking two cans of beer, he declined an invitation from one of the customers to join them. Excusing that he’s got to go somewhere, he started towards his girlfriend’s apartment.
Feb 4, 2003
What to do? Oh what to do?
I’ve been rounding blogs on the net lately and I’m fascinated with the ideas of so many people. Much like the underground punk scene, there’s a community of bloggers willing to share their ideas. Basically, it’s largely an online diary where people could let others take a peek on their so-called life. It’s a great idea actually; a form of expression of another level.
For the past few months, I’ve been thinking a lot on how to make this blog “different.” The truth is, I did not take a hiatus or something. All the while, I was trying on how to concretize this “idea” I have.
First, there really isn’t much to say about me. There are times that I even find myself boring and lazy. I lack the discipline to keep-up with whatever ambitious project I have started. Unless of course there’s a big necessity, or it really perked my interest, I just slide things off for tomorrow. Carpe diem is not my style. I collect zzzzzzzzzz and take things slowly.
The first idea I had in mind was to make this blog a “Question and Answer” website. As it would turn out, this page would belong to the people who would answer the questions I would give. In essence, the questions would be about life in particular. Each day, I would think of a question that I myself might want to ask me. The comment link would serve as response dialogue box, and the tag board, the general comments about the site.
The second idea is more ambitious. I already have some “index cards” on the ideas that I would write; the only thing lacking is the actual writing. We have soap operas on the radio as well as on television. My idea is to do the same on this blog. It must contain all the elements found on a telenovela with little twists, which is basically my writing. The aim of this project is for me to discipline myself into writing at least one entry per two days. That way, I would be “forced” to write, write, write.
Or maybe I could do both. What do you think? The first idea or the second one, or both? Click your comments people. Thanks!
I’ve been rounding blogs on the net lately and I’m fascinated with the ideas of so many people. Much like the underground punk scene, there’s a community of bloggers willing to share their ideas. Basically, it’s largely an online diary where people could let others take a peek on their so-called life. It’s a great idea actually; a form of expression of another level.
For the past few months, I’ve been thinking a lot on how to make this blog “different.” The truth is, I did not take a hiatus or something. All the while, I was trying on how to concretize this “idea” I have.
First, there really isn’t much to say about me. There are times that I even find myself boring and lazy. I lack the discipline to keep-up with whatever ambitious project I have started. Unless of course there’s a big necessity, or it really perked my interest, I just slide things off for tomorrow. Carpe diem is not my style. I collect zzzzzzzzzz and take things slowly.
The first idea I had in mind was to make this blog a “Question and Answer” website. As it would turn out, this page would belong to the people who would answer the questions I would give. In essence, the questions would be about life in particular. Each day, I would think of a question that I myself might want to ask me. The comment link would serve as response dialogue box, and the tag board, the general comments about the site.
The second idea is more ambitious. I already have some “index cards” on the ideas that I would write; the only thing lacking is the actual writing. We have soap operas on the radio as well as on television. My idea is to do the same on this blog. It must contain all the elements found on a telenovela with little twists, which is basically my writing. The aim of this project is for me to discipline myself into writing at least one entry per two days. That way, I would be “forced” to write, write, write.
Or maybe I could do both. What do you think? The first idea or the second one, or both? Click your comments people. Thanks!
Jan 31, 2003
shakesperean attempts
entry no. 1
kung mawawala ka
para akong 'di nagtutbras sa umaga.
kung di ka makita
'wag na lang alisin
mga muta sa mata.
at kung 'di ka makakapiling
hayaan nang mag-amoy saging.
mahal kita. . . .
ganyan ang iyong ala-ala
libag sa balat na hindi mabura.
entry no. 2
sabi nila
mabaho iyong hininga
minahal kita.
sabi nila
kili-kili mo amoy paa
minahal pa din kita.
ganyan pala ang pag-ibig
parang bulutong tubig.
wala ka na. . .
may iniiwan pa ding marka.
entry no.3
wala naman talaga akong alam tungkol sa pag-ibig
kung hindi tuwa. . .pait. . .
pero bakit ganoon
sa kabila nang sakit na dinulot
pilit ko pa ding inaabot
ngiti mong parang langit na may kulangot.
entry no. 1
kung mawawala ka
para akong 'di nagtutbras sa umaga.
kung di ka makita
'wag na lang alisin
mga muta sa mata.
at kung 'di ka makakapiling
hayaan nang mag-amoy saging.
mahal kita. . . .
ganyan ang iyong ala-ala
libag sa balat na hindi mabura.
entry no. 2
sabi nila
mabaho iyong hininga
minahal kita.
sabi nila
kili-kili mo amoy paa
minahal pa din kita.
ganyan pala ang pag-ibig
parang bulutong tubig.
wala ka na. . .
may iniiwan pa ding marka.
entry no.3
wala naman talaga akong alam tungkol sa pag-ibig
kung hindi tuwa. . .pait. . .
pero bakit ganoon
sa kabila nang sakit na dinulot
pilit ko pa ding inaabot
ngiti mong parang langit na may kulangot.
Nov 22, 2002
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