Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  ‘Please, madam, stop . . .’

  ‘I don’t speak English,’ said the lady.

  ‘You quite clearly do!’ I wailed, my hands in the air, but she was gone.

  ‘Excuse me . . .’ I said, to a teenager who walked straight past me.

  ‘Excuse me . . .’ I said, to a man who did the same.

  ‘Please . . .’ I said, to someone else. ‘Just give me a second . . .’

  Can you imagine the sheer, bloody frustration? No one was listening to my very important message. I was becoming angry. I had to calm down. I had to play this cool. And maybe I had to ditch the sign.

  I started to fold it up, but as I did, I heard the voice of an angel, directly behind me . . .

  ‘What does this mean? This “Join Me Swiss”?’

  I froze. Oh my God. Someone was interested. I couldn’t blow this. What should I do? Should I play it straight? Or should I wrestle them to the ground and go through their wallet for passport photos.

  ‘Hello . . .’ I said, turning round to face a youngish man, in a large brown coat. Did he look like a joiner? It was too early to tell.

  ‘Hello,’ he said back. ‘I was just wondering what your sign meant.’

  ‘You’ll think this sounds odd,’ I said, in as moderate and casual way as I could. ‘But I need a Swiss person.’

  The man smiled.

  ‘What for . . .?’ he said.

  * * *

  Have you ever been so happy that you went out and bought a man you’ve only just met a fondue? I have.

  I’d thought, a day or two previously, that the moment I got my final joinee would be something of a sad one . . . but it was now utterly joyous. I was so incredibly grateful to Christof for agreeing to join me that now here we were, myself and my 1000th joinee, in Adlers on Hirschen Platz, sharing a big yellow fondue and two cold beers. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so incredibly comfortable, relaxed and rested as I did just then. This time I’d done it. Beyond a shadow of a doubt (though I kept going through the maths in my head . . . 999 + 1 . . . yes, that’s definitely 1000) I had achieved my goal.

  ‘Do you understand what this means?’ I said, beaming. ‘Do you have any concept of what you’ve done?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Christof. ‘But I’m glad I’ve done it!’

  What a brilliant joinee. If I’d thought to bring a party popper, believe me, I’d have popped it there and then. And before you ask, Joinee 1000 is an opera singer. He attends Zurich University. He enjoys tennis. Each of these facts I adored . . . not because I adore opera, or university, or tennis . . . but because this man, this brown-eyed, brown-haired, brown-coated man, was my saviour. His photo was in the box with the others. And, at the end of the meal, he walked me up Bahnhof Strasse, to the station, and helped me to find a train that would take me near Mosnang, and the end of my journey.

  * * *

  Sixty minutes later, after I’d watched the fields and villages and toy towns of rural Switzerland chug happily by, I was standing in my great-uncle Gallus’ village. It was late afternoon, and cold.

  I had the box in my hands. There was no way I was losing sight of it.

  I started the walk to the old farmhouse, and suddenly remembered Hanne. I wanted her to know I’d done it. That, despite everything, at least I’d done this. I got my phone out and texted her.

  I HAVE NEARLY FINISHED! TEN MORE MINUTES! ANY CHANCE OF GETTING BACK TOGETHER AFTER THAT?

  As I made my way down my great uncle’s road, her reply arrived.

  NICE TRY. X.

  Oh well. Hanne had always said that if things got bad between us, she’d dump me somewhere neutral. I just hadn’t thought she’d meant Switzerland.

  I passed a sleeping cat and found the house. Still unkempt. Still wooden. Still silent. No one had moved in yet, so I felt fine about walking into the rickety wooden toolshed, and finding myself a small shovel.

  From there, I climbed over a fence and walked on, into one of my great-uncle’s now neglected fields.

  This, I suppose, is where he’d have put his hundred joinees. The hundred people he’d wanted to live on his land. The hundred people he’d never got.

  I walked, for a couple of hundred yards or so, and found a suitable spot. I dug a hole.

  I wrapped my box of passport photos in a plastic bag, and I laid it carefully in the ground.

  I covered it up, patted the earth down, and smiled.

  ‘There you go, Gallus,’ I said. ‘All of them. One joinee for every man, woman and child in your village. They’ve all joined you.’

  I stood up.

  ‘We did it.’

  I looked around for someone to be proud in front of, but I was alone.

  There was a perfect silence.

  CHAPTER 29

  KARMAGEDDON

  11. And Daniel said, Peradventure shall Join Me be called instead Join Him.

  FOUR WEEKS LATER, on a cold December afternoon, I was standing at the bottom of Oxford Street, in a light rain, awaiting my joinees.

  I had called a meeting.

  Our first.

  A Join Me-et, if you will.

  Or ‘Karmageddon 1’, if you won’t.

  At 2pm precisely, I raised a sign above my head. I wonder if you can guess what it said.

  I had no real idea of who would turn up that day; of who would brave the weather just to come along and say hello to some bloke most of them had never met; the bloke they’d called their Leader.

  I soon would.

  ‘Hello Danny,’ said a voice to my right. I turned around. All seven of the Newcastle boys had turned up. Each wore their ‘Join Us’ T-shirts, and a smile. Their Greek tans had faded somewhat, and they were soaked through, but here they were! After a seven-hour journey! I was touched.

  ‘Hey!’ I said, delighted. ‘You came!’

  ‘Wouldn’t have missed it, mate,’ said Patrick, and I wanted to hug him, but I didn’t get the chance. Joinees Jonesy and Cobbett were suddenly there. Then Joinee Gaz arrived, fresh off the coach from Oxford. Joinee Glanville followed moments after, with his mum, who’d brought a passport photo and wanted to join too. Then Joinee Whitby turned up, with Joinees Jess and Jenni. The Vis à Vis boys jumped off a bus to be there, and soon I was utterly surrounded by joinees, new and old.

  I was tap-tapped on the shoulder and turned around.

  ‘Hello, Danny,’ said a man with a goatee beard and an accent. ‘I’m Wilfried. I got the email you sent out. I came from Belgium to be here.’

  My God. A man I’d never met before – a perfect stranger – had travelled all the way from Belgium just to say hello to his fellow joinees.

  ‘And you said in your invite that you would buy everyone a beer, too,’ he said.

  Bloody Belgians.

  Soon more joinees were upon us. Joinees from Devon. Two from Scotland. Three from Manchester. Dozens of others.

  Thrilled, I led my people on a march up Oxford Street, spreading good karma, handing out fliers, and doing random good deeds for complete strangers, until Great Portland Street, where we found the Horse & Groom, in many ways the spiritual home of Join Me. I’d booked the function room, put some money behind the bar, and within an hour there were fifty of us, laughing, joking, making new friends.

  ‘Someone’s just told me this is some kind of cult thing,’ said the worried-looking woman responsible for hiring me the room. I’d grown weary of calling Join Me a collective by now. I reasoned it was time to call a cult a cult.

  ‘Yes, it is,’ I said. ‘In fact, it’s a suicide cult. This will be our first and, indeed, our last meeting.’

  At 4pm, the Vis à Vis boys, wearing two ‘Official Join Me Band’ T-shirts I’d had made for them, got their instruments out, and I sang, quite badly, the official Join Me song. The barman, Mark, looked very confused by what he was now witnessing. I cleared my throat, welcomed my joinees . . . and then prepared to tell them the news. The news I’d spent the last few weeks deliberating over.

  ‘My joinees
. . .’ I said. ‘My people. My proud and noble warriors of goodness.’

  I looked around the room. Happy faces, crowded around pub tables.

  ‘I . . . have something to tell you. It’s not an easy thing for me to say, and I wish I didn’t feel I had to say it, but believe me . . . I feel I do. It concerns the future of Join Me . . . and . . . well . . . my place in it . . .’

  A few of the happy faces had slowly turned into strangely serious ones. I noticed Joinee Jones swap a concerned glance with one of the Newcastle lads, but I continued . . .

  ‘The Karma Army has exceeded my expectations in so many ways. It took over my life for a while, and that was a wonderful thing, but on this day, the day of our first-ever meeting, well . . . I . . .’

  There was total silence. I took a deep breath, looked to the ceiling, and said it . . .

  ‘I am resigning as Leader of Join Me.’

  Gasps. A shocked, shouted whisper of ‘What?’ Even Mark the barman looked surprised.

  ‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘I never asked to be Leader. It was never a title I earned. You lot just started calling me that. And I suppose I got carried away with the power. I let it take over my world. But think about it . . . this has been a dictatorship all along. I was never elected Leader. I never deserved to be Leader. And you know what? There’s someone here today who does deserve it. He deserves to be Leader far more than I do . . .’

  The joinees looked around. They looked confused. Who was I talking about?

  ‘I’m talking about Joinee Whitby.’

  Joinee Whitby – once my most feared nemesis – was shocked and pale. All eyes were suddenly upon him. He didn’t know what to say. But I did.

  ‘Joinee Whitby is a good man. A man willing to put the effort in. When I feared he was out to take Join Me away from me, I was spurred on to greater things. Without my having to ask him, he made badges, and posters, and he even tried to paint a small child’s face with the words “Join Me”. All while I faffed around, not really knowing what I was doing or where I was headed. I want to give Join Me to him. I want him to lead you. But I also understand that by doing that, this will still be a dictatorship of sorts. So . . . I’ve prepared ballot papers . . .’

  As I said this, ballot papers and pens were handed out among my still stunned joinees.

  ‘. . . I want you to think very carefully, joinees, and vote for who you think should be the Leader . . . I know you know less about him than you do me, but seriously. Joinee Whitby is a good person. You’re all good people. You put your trust in something that most of you knew nothing about. You took pleasure in doing your random acts of kindness. There are now just over 1000 of us . . . that’s 1000 random good deeds each and every week that would probably never have happened . . . 52,000 of them a year, and growing, and just because of us!’

  It was precisely what they needed to hear. They let out a huge cheer, and broke into applause, and glasses were clinked, and a few people slapped each other on the back. The warmth in the room was now amazing. Maybe it was because I was standing right in front of the fireplace. Or maybe it was because these people – my people – exuded it. As the applause died down, I spoke, quietly . . .

  ‘The one thing I’ve learnt from this whole adventure is that people in general are essentially good. They’re nice. It’s not like it seems in the papers. Everyone talks about improving the world, and how we could make it a better place. But really . . . this is a good world, and maybe all we’ve got to do to make it a better place is realise that.’

  Maybe I’d pushed it too far with that last bit, because one or two faces in the crowd had started to turn green, so I decided to ditch the Dawson’s Creek-isms and get on with the real business of the day . . .

  ‘Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. Think about this carefully. The Karma Army lives on, all around the world. But it’s up to you how it does that.’

  I looked in as many eyes as I could.

  ‘Cast your votes now . . .’

  On cue, the band started to play the theme tune from Countdown, and I sat down on one of the large leather sofas next to the fireplace, slightly nervous. I looked up to see Joinee Whitby, leaning against the wall, looking just as nervous. We smiled at each other, and I gave him a little thumbs-up.

  In my last official act as Leader that afternoon, I had asked Joinee Bond to be the official ballot security, as he had once been a security guard at a Tesco supermarket in Preston, and was thus the closest thing we had to a policeman.

  I had given my joinees the chance to vote me out and start afresh. To begin again, with a new, exciting Leader; one who actually looked like he knew what he was doing. It would give Join Me a new direction. A new sense of momentum. And it would give me a little time, to recall Hanne’s words, to ‘stop acting like a fucking nutjob’. It was a chance I thought my joinees deserved. I hadn’t made the decision lightly. After I’d returned from Switzerland, people had continued to join me, and I realised I had to make a choice. Continue with Join Me, or continue with the rest of my life.

  ‘Good luck,’ said Joinee Jonesy. ‘I voted for you.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said.

  I looked into my pint. Part of me still really wanted to be involved in all this, no matter how much work it’d be. Part of me still really wanted to be able to make decisions. To lead the people who’d joined me. To always be The Leader. But in my heart I knew I had to do this. Ten minutes later, Joinee Bond was back with the results.

  ‘The votes have been counted,’ he announced, with incredible Mancunian gravitas. ‘It has been a very close-run election.’

  Close-run. Jeez. I felt a pang of emotion. Was this right? What was I doing? Did I really want to give this away? This is mine . . . this was mine . . .

  ‘I have counted the votes myself, and they have also been counted by an independent body – Mark, the barman.’

  I looked over at Mark the barman. His eyes were giving nothing away. He wasn’t even looking at me. Had I lost? Had I given my collective away? Had I made what I would come to see as a terrible mistake? Had I worked to get 1000 joinees just so I could take my place among them? Was this really for the best . . .?

  ‘With the largest share of the vote . . .’

  Uh-oh . . .

  ‘I am proud to say . . .’

  Deep breath.

  ‘Your Leader is . . .’

  CHAPTER 30

  Dear Danny,

  Please find enclosed my passport-sized photograph. I suppose if I can’t beat you, the least I can do is join you . . .

  Love,

  Hanne

  PS. I heard you won the election. Well done. I still think there’s something very wrong with you, though. xx

  EPILOGUE

  28. And here shall be an end.

  29. Or shall there be?

  WELL.

  There we have it.

  The story of several very strange months in the life of me: Daniel Frederick Wallace. World renowed cult leader. Celebrated philanthropist.

  Or, as someone accidentally wrote recently, ‘celebrated philatelist’. You have my sincere apologies if you bought this book on the basis of that review, and were expecting the memoirs of a noted stamp-collector.

  As you may have worked out from Hanne’s letter, I was indeed officially elected the Leader of Join Me, that day in the pub. I was delighted. A majority of approximately ninety-eight per cent sealed my victory, and the first thing I did was promote Joinee Whitby to Gold Joinee. Partly in recognition of his sterling efforts in the name of The Cause, and partly because he only got two per cent of the vote and I felt guilty.

  But since my adventure ended, I’m happy to report that people have continued to Join Me in their droves. The current number of joinees stands at 6,362. Around 250,000 random acts of kindness have so far been undertaken in the name of the Karma Army . . .

  In other news . . .

  The word of Join Me has continued to spread far and wide.

  The work of the Karma
Army has been featured in hundreds of media outlets worldwide, and in my duties as Leader I have always done my best to confuse and bewilder a series of concerned-looking chat show hosts with my tales of accidental international goodwill.

  And it has become truly international, with journalists phoning up or travelling over from Hungary, Spain, the Czech Republic, Italy, France, Denmark, Sweden, Australia, Pakistan, China, Malaysia, Dubai, Singapore and more . . .

  The other day, in fact, I answered my phone while in Tesco and heard the frankly unexpected words ‘Hello! This is Edmondo Diaz from Radio Colombia! You are live to nine million Colombians!’

  I was a little surprised, I’ll be honest. But at least, thanks to a bit of a mix-up and an odd translation system, the people of Colombia now know the Spanish for ‘No, I don’t own a Tesco clubcard . . .’

  The World Kindness Organisation (WKO), based in Singapore, is currently considering whether or not to make the Karma Army the official kindness movement for the UK and Europe.

  I’m cacking myself, mainly because if it happened, they’d make me wear a tie and speak at important functions in Japan in front of ‘proper’ people.

  * * *

  Joinee Spacetoad’s arm made a full recovery and he is now back to busking on the streets of Paris.

  * * *

  The Bruges ‘Ambassadors’ scheme is now up and running and is a huge success.

  * * *

  The money raised in 2002-03 and 2003-04 for The Raymond Price Fund for Keeping Raymond Price Out of Trouble was donated to Help The Aged.

  * * *

  The bet between Joinees Jonesy and Cobbett as to whether or not Cobbett could visit a pub next to every tube station in zones one and two of the London Underground was eventually won by Joinee Cobbett. He was photographed with a pint in hand in no less than 134 pubs. What a night that must’ve been.

  Because he lost the bet, Joinee Jonesy had to grow a beard. Because he won the bet, Joinee Cobbett was allowed to shave his off.

  * * *