Café Mocha
February 26, 2008 (a year ago)
This day could never have gotten any worse.
First off, my life has made a complete three-sixty degree turn: It rained like hell, I’ve been harassed, my birthday got trampled on by the police, and my dad got kidnapped. Now, what? What should a normal, head-on aggressive twenty-three year old, still nearing the top of her game, be doing with a crisis like this? Well, read on and find out.
It was an extra sunny day, and as I was vivaciously doing all my usual errands before I dove into “work” (I don’t really call it “work” because I enjoy what I do so much), leisurely sipping a cupful of Café Mocha with a hint of Hazelnut and enjoying my blueberry muffin while reading the day’s feature article, written by yours truly (of course), from my favorite newspaper, the Herald (again: of course). I’d hate to say it but ever since I got hold of the “Oh-so-there-are-other-sections-of-the-paper-that-don’t-bore-me-to-death” epiphany, I’ve gotten fond of writing feature articles. I loved writing; and luckily enough, I got a job that paid me to do what I already loved doing. Did I already say that? Oh, right. Anyway… it was my birthday so I was extra chirpy and giddy that day. Another ANYWAY… let me take you fast forward through the middle of the morning, so I got this phone call from this mystery guy named “Johnny” who says he’s got one heck of a story that would take my career to the top (like Mt. Everest kind of “top”. Ooh…). He also added that I could meet up with him and do an interview, and oh well, you know the works. It was intriguing so I took the opportune moment and jumped in. So, I arranged to meet up with him together with my most trusted, personal vizier, who is also my makeup artist and love doctor, my assistant, Angie. We met up at a coffee house a few blocks away from my office; he was a tad late so we had to wait a few ticks.
Then HE arrived. He was a strange looking man (Well, he was strange to me, for sure); he wore black, D&G, leather shoes with a black, sloppy trouser that hung weirdly by his hip (which made his huge beer belly hang dangerously over his brass colored belt), a nearing yucky-yellow polo shirt (that I believe was once white), with a red thinly-striped tie. His face was strewn with lines that defined his age and amplified his emotions (which at that point, I could tell, were anxiety and nervousness). He had beady eyes, a long nose, and thin lips which hid sharp, thin teeth. To give a clearer picture, he looked like a possum, minus the extra elongated tongue (Well, maybe he had that too but I wasn’t really sure). He had a yellow envelope tucked under his right arm (You know, the sort of thing that people with secrets, important secrets, do in the movies? Yeah. But I shrugged the idea off.). Then, maybe it was just me, but he seemed to “scurry” towards Angie and me, and sat adjacent me. He greeted us both a nice day and, with no intentions of lollygagging, said what he was there to say. He told us that he had the juice, the evidence to prove the REAL story concerning the current (at that time) head of state, Pres. Miguel “Miggy” Ortaleza, who was currently (at that time) accused of multiple acts of plunder, looting the national treasury (Oh! So THAT’S why he was “scurrying”! To self: duh!). Twenty out of the twenty four members of the Senate filed the case as the opposition and a few of the President’s “businessman cronies” testified against him. They also accused him of being a business tycoon under the made-up name, Romeo Cruz. Recently, a lot of evidences came up that “prove” his grave corruption such as paperwork from banks, establishments, and hotels; also, letters from the President, as Romeo Cruz, to some of his business partners such as, the also alleged in another trial, Julius Gokongwei. Our interview seemed like hours and as the clock ticked, “Johnny” became more anxious, and much as it pains me to recall, he grew sweatier and more possum-like by the minute. Then, BANG! A bullet, came out of nowhere, ran through the window and hit “Johnny” in the head. That afternoon, news broke out that a business tycoon by the name Jonofreno “Johnny” Garcia was shot while sipping a cup at a coffee shop.
That whole afternoon, colleagues tried to interview me while Angie kept saying “No Comment” (this was the reason mine and Angie’s name weren’t mentioned in the news). I was disconcerted and stumped silent the whole time. Then, after Angie and I dodged the media bees, we got home (my apartment) and as I flicked on the lights, slurred screams of “SURPRISE!!!!” and “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” almost ripped my eardrums off. I managed to say, “Oh, booger. I totally forgo–”. Then I blacked out.
When I opened my eyes again, I was on the sofa and my mother, Angie, and some co-workers and close friends were circled around me, all looking worried. “Hon, you’ve been working too much,” my mum said, others echoed. I tolerated them and told them that maybe they were right, I was working too hard. But Angie and I knew that it was the result of the afternoon’s tragedy. I dragged my mother to the kitchen and told her about the incident that afternoon and as she was about to react, i.e. eyes bulging out and all, the phone rang. Mom ran to the other room, took the phone, and spoke to the caller. As the conversation went through, she was sobbing and pleading. I couldn’t hear her through the party noise so I inched closer. Then I HEARD her. My father was kidnapped. The caller was the kidnapper and my mum said they wanted the envelope. I looked back at the envelope at the coffee table… and prayed.
Later that night, after everybody but my mum and Angie went home, I called my boss at the Herald (yes, believe it or not, he doesn’t sleep. So does the news, they say.) I’ve known him since I was a kid and I trusted him, because he was my mother’s brother. I told him all about what happened that whole, fateful day. He did what he could to help. He came to my apartment, waited with us by the phone, and help plan everything. He spoke to the kidnappers, set up a trap with a cop that doubles as his best friend, and met with the kidnappers at a deserted place. I, my mother, and Angie, waited where we were (my apartment, by the phone). A few hours later, my uncle, his best friend, and some other cops came back… with my dad. We all were crying and hugging by the time I remembered the reason behind all that happened. I carefully dragged my uncle to the kitchen and asked him about the envelope and what he did to it. He said it was all taken care of and told us all to take the night’s rest and wait for tomorrow’s news…
True enough, news broke out the next day that the court residing the President’s case decided, because of new evidence, that President Miguel “Miggy” Ortaleza was NOT guilty.
I silently prayed. I said my thanks and all… then a tear fell on my shirt. I hadn’t noticed I was already sobbing…
DELETE BLOG ENTRY?
YES or NO?
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NOTE: This is a fictional story i wrote for my MC class. Which, i wasn’t able to submit because of a certain professor who threw a temper tantrum and locked the door (reason why i couldn’t get it and pass my paper) JUST because many of us in the class were late and wasn’t abke to EVALUATE her performance the whole semester.! That effin’ B*TCH!
What’s her deal anyway?! we at least have the 15 minute allowance for us to be marked late, don’t we? plus we have the option to go in even if we’re marked absent, don’t we?! Every student has the right to attend his/her classes no matter how LATE he/she may be. NO TEACHER HAS THE POWER TO SHUT OUT A STUDENT FROM HIS/HER CLASSROOM!!!
CURSE THAT PUNY LITTLE PRICK!!
i don’t really get what all the fuss about her is. she isn’t even THAT good of a teacher, not even close. PFFT.!
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