Late Submission

An exchange that may have happened between Sebastian and the gracious and punctual editor of Nkwazi. You know how these conversations always start, right? With hope. False hope:

Editor: Just a reminder, Sebastian, your column was due two weeks ago. (Now, I panicked. So naturally, I did what any professional writer would do in this situation.)

Sebastian: heysFt83F

Editor: Huh?

Sebastian: Sorry, my keyboard was stuck.

(Perfect recovery, right? Flawless. Like a gymnast landing a triple backflip into a pit of excuses.)

Editor: That’s happened the past three times I’ve contacted you.

Sebastian: Yes, it’s a recurring problem. Like arthritis. Especially in the cold.

Editor: Is that why your column is late?

Sebastian: No.

Editor: Then…?

Sebastian: Oh, I was just explaining why I said heysFt83F in the first place. (You see, I’m helpful like that. I answer the questions nobody asked while systematically avoiding the ones they did.)

Editor: Okay. Why is your column late?

Sebastian: Oh, I can’t remember.

Editor: How can you not remember?

Sebastian: I feel like that’s a philosophical question I am unable to answer.

Editor: What’s philosophical about it?

Sebastian: Well, if I could remember what I could not remember, then I would remember it in the first place, and I wouldn’t have to say that I couldn’t remember it. (The circular logic of a man desperately buying time while his career circles the drain.)

Editor: Why do you always do this?

Sebastian: Do what?

Editor: Speak in riddles. And lie.

Sebastian: That seems like another philosophical question.

Editor: It’s not a question.

Sebastian: Really? In my head, you had that questioning tone. The one you’re always using with me. (You know the tone. The one that suggests your editor is simultaneously disappointed in you as a writer AND as a human being.)

Editor: That’s because I’m always asking you where your column is.

Sebastian: And I’m always asking pointed social questions through laughter.

Editor: You make jokes about yourself mostly.

Sebastian: Exactly – I am the social problem. (Finally! Some self-awareness! It only took three weeks past the deadline to achieve it.)

Editor: We can finally agree on something.

Sebastian: That’s a bit rude, isn’t it? (Yes, I was offended that my editor agreed with me calling myself a social problem. The logic is flawless. But then—oh, then—my editor did something beautiful. Something I didn’t expect.)

Editor: Oh no, I was agreeing in the philosophical sense.

Sebastian: What does that even mean?

Editor: Well, if we could agree about what I could not agree on, then I would agree with it in the first place, and I wouldn’t have to say that I couldn’t agree on it. (She was learning. Adapting. Using my own weapons against me.)

Sebastian: That’s gibberish, but I see what you’re doing. You’re funny, aren’t you?

Editor: Well, I’m not a social problem, if that’s what you’re asking.

Sebastian: Ha ha.

Editor: Even your laughs sound sarcastic.

Sebastian: That one was. Hazard of the job.

Editor: I wouldn’t call this a job…

Sebastian: You’re right, I’m not paid enough to call this a job.

Editor: This again? We gave you a branded water bottle.

Sebastian: Youspeltmy name wrong.

Editor: Must be the keyboard. A recurring problem. Like arthritis. Especially in the cold.

Sebastian: You’re wittier than you used to be. You must be reading my column regularly.

Editor: I’m probably the only one who looks out for your writing.

Sebastian: I’m honoured. But I have other fans.

Editor: Do you? You complain that you don’t have any friends.

Sebastian: I’m working on it.

Editor: Like you’re working on your column?

Sebastian: Yes.

Editor: Tomorrow, Sebastian, no later. (And here, faced with an actual deadline with actual consequences, I responded with the eloquence of a true wordsmith.)

Sebastian: F**k.

Editor: Keyboard?

Sebastian: Sure, we can say that.