Who's Afraid of the Editor?

by Vilma Severino, Editorial Adviser, The New Builder 1984

Rocky C., the editor, made it clear that this article would be for a limited space only. Yes, my dear readers, I, of all people, had been commissioned to write a space filler. If you think I was one who would storm out of the office in anger, you are right. I left the editor in a huff and refused to talk to him for days. I had seen the guy vulnerable before those other girls who made “tampo” to him and I thought this particular strategy might work out fine in my case too. When he failed to bring up the matter again, it dawned on me that he meant what he said. The following morning (after nights of fuming), I placed this article on his table before him. When he let go of his widest grin, I thought I wanted to kill him. My dear editor had just robbed me of my sense of self-importance.

Now, don’t get me wrong. Rocky and I have always been in good terms. Not once has our relationship been marred by any friction or conflict. Ours is a loving, harmonious relationship. He would dish out his orders and I would obey. He would tell me his jokes and I would giggle. As to our conversations, they are always varied and therefore quite interesting. You see, Rocky and I have many things in common – the Beatles, deadlines, poetry, the Major, books and Basil. We both have doting mothers and an ever increasing number of female friends (his own list gets longer and longer, he once boasted). We both have our own share of fiascos in our respective love life. When work in the office is light, Rocky would talk to me about all these. For hours and hours. And I would listen and listen.

After John Lennon was shot to death, Rocky spent sleepless nights listening to Beatles songs. He wept in bed and refused to eat. He vowed to campaign for love and peace. He even went as far as falling in love with a Yoko Ono look-alike. After he had recovered from all these and was himself again, he went to the chapel and prayed for John’s soul swearing he’ll be a Beatles fan forever. Once in a bookstore, I chanced into a big poster of the fallen Beatle. I stopped, gazed and gazed again. The guy and my editor look alike! Off course Rocky blushed when I lied to him about this. I told him he was handsomer.

Erica Jong once wrote that poets fall in love to write about it. Count the number of poems Rocky has written and that’s how may his love affairs have been. His poetic cycle goes this way – he falls in love, he is now in love, he falls out of love, he is now in pain, he falls in love again, and so on. If you want to know in what stage of his cycle Rocky is undergoing now, go get a copy of the September issue of the TNB. Make sure you have your Spanish dictionary with you, otherwise…

Rocky’s closeness to his mother is common knowledge in the office. He worships her, adores her and often talks about her. Now I can’t help wondering how Rocky’s mom would react to this article. Perhaps she’d be asking, why are they treating you like this son? And Rocky would kiss her, would put his arms around her to assure her this is all for fun. If there’s anyone in this world whom Rocky doesn’t want to hurt, it is his dear mom. Plus his many girlfriends naturally. I am the exception as always.

The first time Rocky came around, he was that way with an LCC girl. As to how many there had been before this love affair, I wouldn’t know. What really struck me was that December love note. It read “to my sweetheart_____ of LCC”. For me who has always been private about my feelings, this indeed was a shocker. Besides, who would think the guy would come out in the open about his relationship? If you’ve met Rocky you know what I’m talking about. Erica Jong was right. Beware of the man you think is harmless, he will surprise you. After the LCC girl there were a lot more, perhaps one at a time, perhaps two at a time, perhaps three. I had often wondered how my editor could have avoided the risk of having them all mixed up. Had he failed, I could swear he got himself out of the fix with all ease. What Rocky wants done, Rocky gets done.

That Rocky is the Major’s favorite is quite obvious. When the guy lost his calculator, he was so hysterical nobody dared come near him. For weeks, he was sullen. He sat in one corner unsmiling, a quiet anger all over his face while he ranted about honesty and what has happened to it. The following morning a brand new calculator lay on the editor’s desk. Yes, it was from the Major. Now, the staffers have been trying to tell the big boss about their own losses. Will they be as blessed as Rocky?

Every time deadlines come, Rocky would sit by the door coldly reminding everyone who enters of his commitment to the paper. With a stern face and with eyes that pierce through those glasses, he demands and commands and no amount of teasing and smiling can make him change his mind. Call it his Taurean streak. If there is anything that Rocky forbids in the office, it is not meeting the deadline. On those found guilty, fines are imposed. I was told the editor owes the TNB fifty bucks for non-compliance.

This article has three paragraphs more to go. Here goes the first. When Rocky got hold of this article, he didn’t like it. He told me if I were to write about him, I might as well make it much longer. He use the word “exhaustive” actually. I am available for interview everyday at 6:30, he added. I reminded him this article was primarily intended as a space filler. When he insisted, I started lecturing him about press freedom and how can an editor who has been mouthing the curtailment of freedom of the press be so repressive. The fact that he kept quiet and looked disturbed tickled me no end. Getting even is indeed one of the thrills of life.

First thing in the morning, Rocky gave me the go signal to publish this article the way I wanted it. He prided himself of his sense of humor. He wouldn’t allow publication of this irreverent article if he didn’t have any, he said. And then the punchline. “Besides, I do believe that a put-down humor is a front for great admiration,” he stressed. I looked up from my paper hoping to see that characteristic grin of his when he’s joking. I didn’t see any. Me admiring Rocky? Much as I wanted to protest, I decided against it. I kept my mouth shut and later gave him my sweetest smile. The guy after all is entitled to some illusions in life.

And now for the last paragraph. I have already spent hours thinking of what to write after this first sentence but can’t make a go of anything. Here I sit hopelessly reaching out for something only to be confronted by nothing. Earlier, the editor scolded me for not filling up the space that lay waiting (he is in his blackest mood when he is lay-outing). Write five sentences at least, he ordered. This is it.

Copyright ©1984 The New Builder