The Awful, Awful Tale

For too long have we lived in the belief that �The Awful Tale of Wack-Wack� doesn�t exsist. Little did we know that the reason all the one hundered and twenty-five years of search didn�t yield any good result was a simple error.

How can I begin to describe the play of emotions that went through my entire body as the ancient book was handed to me? How can I even begin to describe, for that matter, the book�s appearance?

It was bound in maroon synthetic leather, the kind that they made on the side streets near college campuses. It bore no title either in front or on the spine. It was of a size only slightly larger than that of a letter-sized paper, heavy, though it didn�t look to contain more than five hundred pages.

How long had it been stored in the library? I wondered, for not since the FPJ administration a hundred and twenty years ago did they make books with paper of such density. Then I recalled what it said in the legend. The book indeed was older than the FPJ administration, and if one were to fully believe what the Old say, then the book was written two presidents before �Da King,� and it was during the Erap administration, Erap and FPJ, being friends in show business, from which many politicians since that time came out of.

A shudder went through my entire body as I carried the ancient book in my arms. I nearly stumbled when midway between the table I occupied and the library counter from which I had borrowed the book, the librarian called me to inform me I had forgotten to sign the borrower�s slip.

It was thus that in the library counter and not in the right place in my table that I discovered where all who searched this book before me failed.

�The name of the book?� the librarian asked without emotion, for this was something she did everyday of her employed life.

I opened the book slowly, carefully. The crackly sound of its spine filled the library, bouncing on its walls to echo as if for as long as it had been kept on the shelf. Indeed, in the years that would follow, during the most quiet minutes inside this library, one was likely to hear the reverberations of an old book being opened.

Dust was coughed out of the freed space between the binding and the synthetic leather of its spine, coming off in thick fumes that though choked us and was actually a threat to the asthmatic among the library users, had the scent of the olden days. And it was this scent more than the clamorous bending of its spine that caused heads to turn and wonder at the unveiling of a book older than our fathers.

On letter-size paper indeed it was written�typewritten actually: 10-point type font; single spaced; and with approximately 0.7-inch margins on all sides. The thick, dense pages were now of a light brown color, but there was no doubt it was white on its original printing. On its title page, where the authors imprinted their signatures, was Scotch� taped the remains of a mosquito. And where the adhesive tape stuck on the paper, it was white as though it had just come out of the paper mill.

I leafed through the first pages slowly and carefully. They groaned, and emitted more of the scent of years long gone. 1999 was indeed its printing date, a year before The End, and truly a year when the country was in the ruddership of the first Actor President. Hair on various parts of my body stood on end as I digested this particular piece of information. Nature, too, seemed to share my sentiments upon holding in my hands this important book which for more than a century had eluded discovery. The sky outside was suddenly overcast with clouds, and a strong wind blew from the East.

There were hushed curses from researchers who had their work and photocopies blown to get mixed up with those of others.

As for my librarian, she asked, �When are you going to finish opening that book?�

�Very shortly�� and I looked at her name pin to find out what to call her, �Miss Rumina.� It was only then that I noticed that the librarian standing not more than a meter from me was the proud owner of the most enormous pair of breasts in the university.

Much as I envied, and for some strange, scary, homophobic� reason, enjoyed looking at them, I quickly yanked my eyes off her breasts and back to the book.

On my last turning of the leaves, I had gone two pages ahead of the title page, into the dedication. �In loving memory of Engr. B��, it said, and immediately I felt the humanness of its authors, for like us, they too loved, and at times loved someone so much we take it upon ourselves to dedicate books in their loving memory.

Then, finally, it came to turning back to its title page�and on this particular page lay the evidence of the error of all those who had searched for this book and failed.

To those unfortunate seekers�those who lost their fortunes in search of something they were not destined to find, those who in frustration came close to losing their sanity, and in denial changing their career, those whose flames of hope burned brightly and wouldn�t die even as the only thing it gave them was constant failure, and the scorn of the entire world�to them I gave a silent and hearfelt prayer, to them I dedicated those brief and yet seemingly everlasting seconds opening the title page that attested to their failure.

�The Awful Tale of Wack-Wavk� was computer printed on the title page. It was center-middle-aligned, and in a large, bold font face that was long obsolete. One wouldn�t notice the typographical error at first glance, but it was there. And certainly, the electronic machines never overlooked them, for it was electronic machines that confirmed to the Unfortunate before me that they were searching in vain, there was no book in existence that went by the title �The Awful Tale of Wack-Wack�.

And the machines weren�t lying, because the book that we thought all these long years not to exist was but indexed under a typographically wrong title.




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� author�s note: yes, the narrator is female.

� Jay Santos 2004.