Telling Stories

by Geoff Palmer

  Struggle is useless, he has her pinned, choking. She can still hear the music from the bar, yet it seems lost and distant now. She could die here, she suddenly realises, resisting to the end — or at least while consciousness and strength remain. One other chance; perhaps her only chance.

  She moves a little to accommodate the probing fingers. He reciprocates the movement but it is a ruse and her raised knee is like steel propelled by lightning. He gasps, clutching himself, falling forward, face nuzzling her like a careless infant. She thrusts him back and he spins away to the opposite corner, grazing his face on the rough brick wall and landing against a dustbin.

  She is suddenly calm and icy clear; the shakes and tears will start later. She straightens her clothing and finds her fallen handbag, never once taking her eyes from the doubled, groaning figure on the ground. She backs out of the alley into the lighted lane and walks quickly towards the street.

  • • •

  Speech to be delivered to MVDI,

  May 28th

  --Rough draft--

  As I was DRdriving here this morning, I started thinking about how much we have in common, you and I. For one thing we regularly fight it out for bottom place on the 'Least Trusted Professions' list -- provided those insurance agents bastards don't beat us to it!

  For another, our business is selling listening to our customers and doing the best we possibly can for them. Whether it's policies or Porsches, new laws or a new Lexus, blueprints or Buicks, statutes or Subarus, it's all the all too often same thing.

  And third, we're frequently often called on to portray some knackered old banger that's been twice round the clock as the freedom machine the customer's been dreaming about.

  But you didn't come here today to find out you're as big a shit ratbag as I am. (You probably know that already!)

  No, the theme of this meeti conference is 'Driving into the Future', and I was thinking about that as I was driving in today. At first it sounds like a glib, cover—all sort title that makes all this [indicate the auditorium, etc.] respectable and serious, when in fact it's just an excuse to get away from the wife and kids for a couple of days, have a booze-up and claim it on expenses. But that, let me assure you, is not the case. (Or at least if it is, no one's invited me!)

  No, seriously, that is not the case.

  Talking to your chairman Dr. Selkirk this morning assured me of the seriousness of the debate, the seriousness with which you people ladies and gentlemen are approaching the issues here, and the seriousness with which you are treating them.

  It's a great title that "Driving into the Future", isn't it? It's not "Cruising into the Future" or "Drifting into the Future", like so many of us do or even "Puttering into the Future on the Back of a Moped". It's driving. 'Driving' implies taking control, having a destination, an aim, and going for it. That's the difference between a good salesman and a mediocre one, between a good business and a mediocre one, between a good politician and a mediocre one. You're not sitting on your backsides saying, 'Well, maybe next year ...' You're planning, setting goals, having an agenda, a target, driving towards it, not being carried along with the rest. I admire you for that. And this is coming comes from a man who knows what he's talking about, a man who's spent a good deal too much of his career sitting in the back seat with someone else at the wheel. Occasionally your directions will get through, but more often than not they're just ignored. At ht that point you only have two choices: get out of the car, or take over the steering.

  So what we're you're addressing in the next couple of days is the future direction of your industry which, in no small way, is the future direction of your country too. For what has more revolutionised this last century than the motor vehicle? Where once there were once dirt tracks and bridle paths, there are now six lane motorways. Cities, communities, whole countries depend on motor vehicles for their very survival. And the revolution's not just been physical, but social too. You're judged more by what you drive than what you are. Think of the mobility, the freedom the car gives us. Think of how we use it every day, almost without being aware of it. Instead of living and working within our cities as we once did, we now live in remote satellites and commute between the two. The result is empty, soulless towns that become unsafe after dark and huge, soulless suburbs. Then try to imagine life without it.

  And behind this association, behind every one of the hundreds faces I see here today are twenty, fifty, perhaps a hundred or more others, directly dependent for their livelihoods on what you people do. I'm talking about the manufacturers, the importers, the mechanics and panel—beaters. And beyond them, the road—makers, the bridge builders, the designers and engineers. And beyond them the oil companies, the transport companies, and the geologists, and the banks and the finance houses beyond them... Why, you've got a hell of a weight on your shoulders. And that's Somsomething else we have in common.

  Now think about the car's themselves? The beauty you bought for $30,000 a couple of years ago is now worth only ten. When you come to sell that "Classic vehicle of timeless elegance" you discover it's "Not a popular model". If it's manual "It's a pity it's not automatic" and if it's automatic, well "They're practically impossible to get rid of secondhand these days." "Is that a dent? Did I say ten? Sorry, I meant nine." Here's what I suggest you do next time you try out a car you're thinking of buying: drive off the lot, go down the road to another dealer and say, "How much will you give me for this, cash?"

  But we can take it, can't we? The weight? The responsibility? Of course we can because we're driving into the future.

  And there's something else we both have in common. Before we can provide our very best service, we have to listen, we have to question, we have to find out just what the customer wants. Not what we think, what they think. How many here have sold a Porsche to a little old lady who only wanted a runabout? And Or a sports car to a family ea of nine? (Christ! That is a lot of hands!) And that's the key to our business, yours and mine. If you we can give 'em what they want today, they'll be back again tomorrow.

  So I say to you, to take up the challenge this conference presents you with. Look at where this industry's going in ten, twenty, one hundred years. Plan now, because the journey starts today.

  AndBut finally, there is one more question I want you all to ponder deeply: What will you give me for my clapped-out Toyota?

  Thank you very much.

  Saturday, May 16

  Quite honestly the last thing I felt like today was brunch with Pid and Betti, but we'd arranged it ages ago and by the time I finally staggered out of bed and tried to phone them to put them off, they'd already left. I tried Pid's mobile but just got an annoying message to say it was out of range or switched off. All I could do was get dressed and wait for them to toot. I know Betti likes to stop off at various shopping malls on the way into town so they'd probably been gone for hours anyway.

  They were over an hour late. I should have known and just stayed in bed a bit longer, but when someone says half past eleven I take it they don't mean a quarter to one. I'd hung around the flat like a lemon, tried to call them about another dozen times and frittered away what was left of the morning waiting for them until there was a knock at the door.

  'Hi, Steven, sorry we're late. Got a bit tied up, eh.' ,

  Betti made a big fuss about my face and wanted to know all the details. I told her how I'd slipped on the stairs coming out of The Hideaway. Actually it was only a few scratches but it looked worse because of the iodine.

  'Drunk, eh?' she said.

  'Yes, a little.'

  As I followed her to the car she murmured, 'Don't mind Stuart, eh. He's in a bit of a grumpy 'cause I've been dragging him round the shops.'

  Oh great, I thought. Stuart's 'grumpies' make Vlad the Impaler look like a circus clown.

  Betti was driving and, apart from a curt 'Steven' to me, Stuart sat steaming in the passenger seat. I had to clear a space in the back for myself amidst a welter of bags and boxes from clothes shops ar
ound the region and cheered myself up with a dig, 'Been shopping then, Stu?'

  Pid grunted. Betti promised to show me everything later then started prattling on about my face.

  'I've been trying to phone you,' I said, to change the subject.

  'Left my phone in my car,' Pid grunted. 'And Betti forgot to charge hers. Again.'

  Betti glanced at me in the rear vision mirror. A long-suffering look.

  'Where are we going?' I asked.

  'She wants to go to La Truffe.'

  'You don't mind, eh? I know you were there the other week, but I haven't been for ages.'

  'We won't get in now,' Stu grumbled 'If we'd had my car I could have phoned ahead.'

  He snorted when Betti found a park right outside and sloped around in the background while she gave John/Jean-Paul her usual effusive greetings.

  'We're really really really late John, eh. Sorry. It's all right if you can't fit us in now ...'

  'For you, ma chérie no prob-lem. I will 'ave zum proles thrown to ze dogs to make room,' he replied in his best French accent, then, to Pid, said, 'Cheer up fuck-face. You look like Betti's dragged you away from your shopping.'

  Saturday brunch was more casual than mid-week and the place seemed a bit more light and lively. Well, everywhere except at our table. Betti's forced cheerfulness didn't help matters. Her credit card wave and 'Don't worry boys, I'm paying' brought a scowl from Pid, and her chivvying 'Come on you two, this is s'posed to be fun, eh' made us both grimace.

  Pid did finally make an effort though. 'Thanks for the speech,' he said. 'Good work. I had it typed up properly and sent it to Barry yesterday morning. He was over the moon. I—we'd like to make one or two changes; just small things, nothing major. And maybe a little more emphasis on "taking over the wheel''.'

  I nodded.

  'That's more like it, eh!' (Oh do shut up, Betti, I thought).

  'So how do you feel about doing more?'

  'I don't know,' I said.

  'What?'

  'I don't know.'

  'Well you'll have to make up your mind pretty quickly. We need to know. It can't be on-again off-again as and when you feel like it. This is a commitment. You didn't have any problems with the speech?'

  'No, it was pretty easy. It's just that ... that I don't know if that's where I should be directing my talents, that's all.'

  'Oh please, don't give me that fucking prima donna shit.'

  'Language, Stuart!' said Betti.

  'I'm not, I just ...'

  'Look, either you're in or you're out. I need to know one way or the other, and as soon as possible. There's a lot riding on this.'

  'Stu-art, he's just thinking about it. Eh, Steven?'

  'What the hell is there to think about? It's a bloody job, not a philosophy.'

  'I'm not sure it's right, that's all. It just seems sneaky ... manipulative...'

  'Oh Christ, spare me the conscience.'

  'It's all right Steven, you're allowed to think about things. I do that sometimes too, eh.'

  'Oh do shut up, woman. I've had your wittering all morning.'

  Betti looked hurt. 'I'm going to powder my nose,' she said petulantly, grabbing her handbag and marching off.

  'Look, what on earth is there to think about? We want you to write some speeches for us.'

  'I'm just not sure that it's right, what you're doing.'

  'What d'you mean?'

  'Well, all the secrecy for a start.'

  'I'd have thought that's obvious.'

  'Why?'

  'What do you think would happen to Barry's credibility if it came out that GGF&T were stage-managing things?'

  'Exactly. That's just what I mean.'

  Stuart scowled. 'So what's the difference between us doing it and him doing it for himself then?'

  'Eh?'

  'It's specialisation, Steven. He could fix his own car if he had the time, tools and inclination, but he doesn't. He pays someone else to do it. It's the same with us. Would you tackle a car engine or a faulty TV?'

  'N ...'

  'Exactly. You'd leave it to experts, trained professionals. In this case, us.'

  'But it's the way you're doing it.'

  'What do you mean?'

  'All this planning and stuff.'

  'Do you think these things happen spontaneously then? That through sheer chance someone is carried away on a wave of popular acclaim? No, I don't subscribe to that. That's for the peasants who buy lottery tickets each week because it's the only way they can think of bettering their lives. It's not about gambling or wishful thinking, it's about effort. And the planning is part of that. You want to be a writer. Do you think a novel will just trip off your fingertips? Without effort, without planning, without a direction, without an aim?'

  'It's just the plotting and scheming ...'

  'They're all doing it, Steven. They're all plotting and scheming. They're all squabbling among themselves. Chasing the big business buck, selling the country down the creek for a bit of notoriety and a place on the board.'

  'What about all this coaching business then? All the rehearsals and power dressing and stuff?

  He nodded at my grazed cheek. 'Did you smarten yourself up for your date last night? Or think about things to say that might impress her? So what's the difference?

  'There was a famous presidential debate back in 1960 between John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon. It was the first one ever televised. Nixon was tired, his beard stubble showed harshly in black-and-white and he refused make-up. Kennedy was rested, relaxed and tanned. A poll of radio listeners afterwards thought Nixon had won the debate. A poll of TV viewers thought Kennedy had. Kennedy went on to win the election.'

  'But Nixon made a come-back later. The crook.'

  'He never forgot the lesson though,' Pid said. 'Look, they changed the way Maggie Thatcher spoke. Not just her voice but her speech patterns. David Lange had his gut stapled because he was overweight. It's image, image, image ...'

  'Precisely! But what about content?'

  'Who cares about content? Who gives a shit about that? The voters certainly don't when they re-elect a government that's broken every promise they made to get elected in the first place. How many people read manifestos and consider the issues in a rational, balanced manner? How many go to meetings to hear what the candidates have to say, to meet them in person, to judge for themselves? Look, politics has become an extension of the acting profession; the best performers win. You need talent, certainly, but you also need a good manager, a good coach, good contacts, good preparation.' .

  Betti gave him a snooty glance as she returned, sat down and continued her meal in silence,

  'I know what you're saying, but I don't believe in all that. I mean, I don't believe it should be like that.'

  'But it is like that. If you don't like it go out and start pushing for change but for Christ's sake wake up. This is real life not Disney-bloody-land. We wear suits and drive cars but we're still jungle animals. We're still driven by the same instincts that led us to dominate this planet in the first place. The lust for power, position, control, sex ...'

  'But you're sanctioning it.'

  'I'm not sanctioning it, Steven, I'm just working alongside it, working with it. That great herd of animals out there are the ones who sanction it. D'you know what we call 'em? Bewildebeest. They'll moan about things now and then but for the most part they're happy just to plod along behind the herd. Buying the soap powder from the commercial they all profess to hate, telling themselves it's the rest of the world that's wrecking the planet, not us, and at least half of them can't even be bothered to drag themselves away from their TV sets and rugby matches for a few minutes every three years to exercise democratic privileges that half the world is fighting and dying for. D'you know what the main determinant of good voter turnout at an election is? The weather! If Mr Sunshine's about we might just get a truer expression of the will of the people. If not, forget it.'

  'You are. You're bloody sanctioning it.'<
br />
  'I don't sanction it, but I am cynical. You can accuse me of that. And I'm doing very nicely out it, thank you. I made a decision a long time ago that if people were going to behave like sheep, I, at least, was going to be one of the shepherds.'

  'Well, I'm not. You can stick your stupid speeches. I'm not interested.'

  'Fine. That's bloody good. Just leave me in the lurch then.' He looked at Betti. 'You try and do someone a favour, give them a break, try and shake them out of their narrow rut of a life, and what happens? They look around them for the first time ever, shit themselves and rush back to join the herd.'

  'You're disgusting!'

  'No Steven, you're the one who's disgusting. You've got the intelligence to see it but you won't even look. You're still too much of a mummy's boy.'

  'You leave her out of this. You leave our mother out of this.'

  'Oh Christ, not our sainted bloody mother again.'

  'You just shut up about her.'

  'There's another fact you won't face. Come on Steven, our mother was a bitch. You must see that now you're grown up. Yet you're still deifying someone who doesn't deserve it.'

  I was flabbergasted. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

  'Look, Dad lost the shop 'cause she was always pushing him for more takings. She made him lose the business, then she drove him to drink and he was barely in his grave before she was screwing every low-life in the city. All those "uncles". I know you were only a kid, but you must realise now. Two or three uncles a night? Come on!'

  It was the way he said it, the way he spat out that word uncles, that made me realise I hated him, that I'd always hated him. But he wouldn't stop.

  'And that pimp of hers. Warren.'

  'He made her do it.'

  'No, he just got her a better class of customer.'

  'She still put you through university.' I was shaking, I couldn't help myself. Betti stopped eating and the tables around us fell silent. The only one unaffected seemed to be Stuart, who kept eating and talking, who just carried on and on and on.