BOOKISH: Humor Writing

Very few knew Baskin was a writer. His wife, of course. And his dog. He figured he was safe with the dog.

But no one else knew, especially at the office, and that’s the way he liked it. He wasn’t paid to be a writer. He was paid to enter SVX data into the proper generative binomial column. He didn’t quite know what was done with this information. But then again, neither did anyone else.

He sat in his cubicle with a fresh cup of coffee. “Baskin! Welcome back!” Stu Harley called. This was a stab at humor. He had been gone thirty seconds. Harley leaned over the cubicle. “Whatcha writing?”

He immediately minimized the page. He must be more careful. “Nothing.”

In fact, Baskin had just put the finishing touches on a piece bound for Laughingstock: The Journal of Humor. He often wrote at work. You don’t put a keyboard in front of a writer and expect nothing to happen.

Waiting patiently, he endured what Harley considered enlightened conversation.

This included, “Have you seen Wally’s face?” A co-worker had returned from the weekend with a terrible sunburn. “It looks like he stuck his head in a popcorn machine!”

After the man retreated, he got back to work. Time to add a biography. “Mr. Baskin is a writer living in Schaumburg, Illinois. He has appeared in the journals Shibboleth, Monotony, and Not on Wednesday.”

He stood and headed for the break room.

He shouldn’t have been gone so long. Returning, a crowd had gathered in front of his computer, led by Harley, who sat in his chair. They were laughing.

Baskin felt a rush of competing emotions. Did they like his piece? Why did he hide? What was his fear?

He found out soon enough. They weren’t laughing at the article. They were laughing at him. Barb Wickman clapped him on the back. She was an HR manager, a large and powerful blonde.

“Oh, Baskin. You’re so funny. Imagine you, a writer!”

All of them dispersed, laughing. Baskin’s face was red for a long time. But like his sunburned co-worker, it would eventually wear off.