Oh god! Wag!
Moments later he walked in and just stared at me.
“What the hell’s happened to you?”
“I got … a haircut.”
“Let me see,” he said, and reluctantly I let him.
“What do you think?” I said.
There was a slightly awkward pause.
“So you decided to get a mullet.”
I nodded, a bit self-conscious.
“It appears that way,” I said.
“Right,” said Wag. “Only … well … I’ve got a mullet.”
Bollocks. He’d noticed. He’d noticed that we’d both got mullets.
“Yes …,” I said. “I suppose so …”
“So, now we’ve both got one. We are two men, both with mullets.”
I smiled awkwardly. Maybe that would trick him into thinking this was a good thing. I don’t know if you’ve ever turned up at a party, wearing the same top as someone else. It’s much the same when it appears you have specifically attempted to base yourself on someone else’s entire look.
“Well … mine’s not really a mullet,” I tried. “I mean yours … Yes, that is a mullet. And a fine one. But mine isn’t a mullet. Not really.”
“Well, what is it? It looks the same as mine.”
“It really isn’t the same as yours. Believe me. It’s mulletesque, certainly, but it’s really only a very small mullet. If anything, it’s a mullette.”
There was a long and cavernous pause.
I cleared my throat.
Somewhere a floorboard creaked.
I could see deep concern in Wag’s eyes. I thought about what Ian had said. I thought about how this must look to a man who already suspected I had a crush on him.
“It doesn’t mean I want to have babies with you,” I said.
Another substantial pause.
“I have to go now,” he said.
I walked into my flat that night and immediately found my glasses. They were on the floor next to the sofa.
Minutes later Ian sent me a text message.
WAG JUST PHONED. HEARD ABOUT YOUR NEW IMAGE. LOOK WHO’S STALKING!
Oh God.
Still. Wag wouldn’t have to worry about me for a while. I was off to Scotland the next morning, after all, and looking forward to it. My train was booked, my socks were packed, and I couldn’t wait to get up there and begin my important BBC duties.
But I was feeling chirpy for another reason, too. I’d returned home that evening to find a small white box outside my door. A small white box that had made its way all the way from Tucson, Arizona, to my flat in London’s glamourous East End. I’d ripped it open and found a world of wonder within: a video, a CD, some incense, a small laminated clip-on badge, and a book of handy speeches.
At last … I was a minister!
The reverand Amy E. Long from the Universal Life Church had sent me everything I needed to set up a church of my own, including a small sign, which I could stick on my car, that read: THE DRIVER OF THIS CAR IS A LICENSED MINISTER ON OFFICIAL BUSINESS! This was great! Now I could break the law, whenever the urge took me! Thank you, God!
I even had my own certificates of marriage, commitment, and baby naming to hand out to people after my special ceremonies! I could name babies! I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited. But what would I name them? Was that my decision, or the parents’? Could I just walk about, naming them as I saw fit? That would be brilliant.
“I name thee Mister Chubby!”
“But his name’s Tim!”
“Not anymore it’s not. And that other one next to him—let him forever be known as Chao Lee, Child of the Stars …”
Parking wherever I wanted, naming whoever I chose … I would be a maverick minister on the edge.
I wanted to know more about the Universal Life Church, though, and so sauntered over to my computer and fired it up.
Ten minutes later, and I’d decided I was going to buy a cassock. I was feeling deeply spiritual. But this was to stop the very second I checked my e-mail.
I was pleased to see that I had one from Lizzie. But I didn’t understand it.
To : Danny
From: Lizzie
Subject: RE: soho ho, ho, ho
Danny,
Okay! I believe you! So get me a ticket, then!
xo,
L
Eh?
What was that supposed to mean? She believes me about what? She’d clearly sent an e-mail to the wrong Danny…. I hadn’t asked her to believe anything….
I nearly deleted it, but then stopped in my tracks. I studied the subject line. Soho ho, ho, ho? And it had RE: before it. It was a reply. She couldn’t have hit Reply and mailed the wrong Danny….
But what was she replying to?
When was the last time I’d e-mailed Lizzie? And about what?
Oh, God, what had I done? My cheeks started to burn.
I knew that feeling, and I hated it—the feeling that creeps up on you, side-by-side with a hangover, the feeling that you may have started sending e-mails at the worst possible time to be sending e-mails … when you were drunk. E-mails that, at nine o’clock on a Monday morning, may have lost some of their Saturday-night vibe. E-mails that were hilarious or fascinating when they left your flat at four in the morning, but which had somehow lost their appeal or relevance the second they flew down the wires. What had I written? What had I said? Had I poured my heart out? Had I proclaimed undying love? Had I bored her to tears?
No. No, I couldn’t have.
I found my Sent Mail folder.
Oh, shit.
Shit, shit, shit.
I had. I had sent her an e-mail. I had sent her an e-mail at 4:26 that morning…. I’d mailed her after stumbling in from that Soho clip joint after a night of careless and determined Yeses …
I clicked my e-mail open and held my breath, readying myself for the worst. And I instantly saw that it was pretty bloody bad.
To: Lizzie
From: Danny
Subject: Soho ho, ho, ho
Lizziiiiiiie!
How is australia is austrlia good? Sems like it woul dbe good in australian. Have you met any australians yet hahahaha.
I am havin a great time here in london englan an have just had a night out with wag remember wag he is ok. we ended up in a place, it was a gentleman parlour in case anyone ask you and a moroccan man said get out you tossbag.s
hey listen i an going to the edinburgh festival to work for a bit you would love it their, it is big and funny and loadsa people, why don’t you come, it’ll be brilliant if you come there you could get a train like me. do you have trains in australia.
okay maybe see you in edinburgh its good there let me know you are really cool an pretty an i miss you
danyy
Christ. No wonder I didn’t understand the e-mail from Lizzie. I didn’t bloody understand the e-mail from me.
My first reaction was embarrassment. Embarrassment at my drunken, pointless ramblings. My second was one of sickly realisation….
Because slowly, slowly I was piecing it together….
I had said Lizzie should come to Edinburgh.
And Lizzie had said … yes.
Yes, even though she was in Australia.
But not just yes.
She’d said, “Okay! I believe you! So get me a ticket, then!”
Which was, in effect, a suggestion.
A jokey one, yes, and a silly one, true—but a suggestion nevertheless.
Let’s face it—there was no way in the world that Lizzie could think I was serious. I was a drunk man, suggesting she take a train—a train!—from Australia, on the basis that Edinburgh was “good” because it was “big and funny and loadsa people.”
She was humouring me. In a sweet and gentle way. But still only humouring me.
I paced the flat.
What was I going to do about this?
Okay, okay. Let’s say I did it; let’s say I got her a ticket. She would never in
a million years get on the plane. Why would she? She hardly knew me. She’d almost known me, once, but that was months ago and miles away. She was on a different continent now. She had a different life now. And anyway, with Wag and Hanne, I already had two people who thought I was obsessed with them. I wasn’t trying to make up the set.
What should I do?
What if I got her a ticket and on some mad whim she did come? What then? Why spoil a beautiful friendship? Sure, something could have happened, once, but not now. And if she turned up, and we didn’t get on anymore, well, what then?
It was stupid. It was stupid. It was so bloody stupid.
But it was a suggestion.
No. Sod that. A ticket from Australia, for God’s sake! And she’d probably want a return one! I couldn’t afford that. No way. They were … how much were they?
I scrambled onto the internet and did a search.
Five hundred and forty-five pounds! Minimum!
I can’t go around spending a minimum of five hundred and forty-five pounds on girls Fm not even going out with! I can’t even go around spending a minimum of five hundred and forty-five pounds on girls I am going out with!
Somewhere, sometime, I would have to draw a line with this Yes thing. It was starting to cross financial and emotional barriers. And not just mine—how would Lizzie feel about this? It’d be a hell of a lot of pressure to put on her.
So it was simple.
I couldn’t do it.
I sighed.
I had failed.
I would tell Ian in the morning. I would tell him that he was right. That I was afraid. That there are some things you just can’t say yes to no matter where they might lead.
I zipped up my bag, put my credit card-sized ministry ID in my wallet—just in case there were any baby-naming emergencies in Scotland—and, with a heavy heart, popped the wallet in my pocket.
And then … I took it out again.
Something had caught my eye.
A silver, shiny, gleaming credit card.
A new type of credit card.
A virgin, unsullied, never-before-used type of credit card. With a substantial credit limit. And six months at 0% APR.
I took it out, and I looked at it.
Chapter 13 In Which Daniel Receives a Very Pleasant Piece of News
Edinburgh crept up on me outside the window of the train. I packed away my book and notes and tucked myself into my jacket.
The book, which arrived that morning, was called Embrace Yes: The Power of Spiritual Affirmation and had been sent to me anonymously by, I guessed, the Challenger in a bid to encourage me to stop my Yes-related nonsense and come to my senses. My heart sank as I’d opened it up. There had been a note with the book, saying, simply “Maybe you can pick up some tips.” I’d read as much of it as I could without going insane—the back cover describes it as “a journey to the very heart of acceptance and aliveness through affirmation,” and “an opportunity to meditate and reflect on the aliveness of affirming reality and to live with the attitude of Yes.” I figured that was an attitude I was already living with rather nicely, thank you, and stopped reading to concentrate on who might have sent it to me.
I’d compiled a list as we’d trundled through Berwick-upon-Tweed.
Suspects
Ian (he may have been cleverly bluffing)
Brian and the Starburst Group
The man on the bus/Maitreya/the Baby Jesus
Elias Brown (if he is psychic or something)
People who might have it in for me
Hanne’s new bloke, Seb (?)
The man I beat up (sort of) in that club
Hanne (for ruining her date)
Wag (who may think he’s copyrighted the mullet)
Ian again (chance for him to punish me, if he ever comes up with something)
But try as I might, I couldn’t quite see any of them fitting the bill.
It was a crisp and brisk August afternoon as I stepped off the train and into a taxi. I stared out of the window as we drove from Waverley Station to the Travelodge I’d book myself into for the next couple of weeks.
I tutted to myself. The Challenger was clever, wily. The Challenger was using psychology to intimidate. The Challenger was vindictive and bitter and was taking an active stand against my behaviour. The Challenger had knowledge and was using that knowledge to gain power over me. The Challenger liked Stonehenge.
It was, all in all, a puzzling case, but one that I was determined to solve. It just didn’t seem fair. I’d only been doing this about two months, and already I’d picked up a mortal enemy.
But I also had far more on my mind.
What had I done where Lizzie was concerned?
Well … I’d bought her a ticket, of course. I had to. A ticket from Melbourne to Edinburgh via London. It was there for her, if she wanted it. It was up to her, now. Up to Lizzie. I was taking no more responsibility for having no responsibility. I had simply forwarded her the airline confirmation e-mail, attached a short note saying “Here y’go, then …,” locked the flat up, and headed for the train, my neck prickling with awkward British embarrassment. Another foolish foray into level five completed.
Yes, I’m well aware it was stupid. In fact my trip to see Dr. Molly Van Brain aside, it was perhaps the stupidest thing I’d ever done. The thing is, it would almost have been romantic, had I done it of my own volition. But I knew me and Lizzie were doomed. I knew it from the start. And now I’d spent five hundred and forty-five pounds just to prove it. But a yes is a yes, and in some ways, by saying that one little word, I’d rid myself of a problem. By saying yes to that ticket, I’d made it not my responsibility anymore. I didn’t have to think about it. Now it was her problem to deal with. Now she’d have to sit there and worry about what to do … whether to get on a plane or ignore me forever or break it to me gently or ridicule me to her friends for the rest of her natural Australian life. Getting that credit card out wasn’t as brave as I would like to think it was. If anything, it was typically male—push the problem to her side of the fence. The way inept, immature blokes one day decide to treat their girlfriends badly in the hope that they’ll get dumped before they have to do the dumping.
And as well as cowardly and embarrassed, I felt slightly … I dunno … creepy about having done it. I’d definitely lost any semblance of cool, now. I’d bought a ticket to Britain for a girl I hardly knew. She would now either think I was some kind of misguided man of means or an incredibly lazy stalker. The kind of stalker who’d say to his stalkee, “Um, look, I’m a bit busy at the moment—any chance you could come to me this time?”
It was a ludicrous situation.
But the fact remained … It was her situation.
The thing to do now was forget about it.
So here I was in Edinburgh, in a black cab on my way to the hotel, and for a while, at least, I could pretend my troubles were behind me. Maybe without Ian on my case, without Hanne and Seb to bump into, with no Wag to clash hairstyles with, no Elias or Pete to claim Jesus had been spotted in the Pilau bloody Palace and—fingers crossed—no Challenger to breathe down my neck, I could treat yes just as I had in the beginning. I could start afresh in a whole new city.
“Danny! Take a seat, mate!”
I was in the courtyard of the Pleasance Theatre, and I was with Tom. There was a buzz in the air. The festival was still in early days, and all around us were theatre-goers, journalists, comedy fans, actors, artists, and—mainly—drunkards. The weather had lifted, slightly, and the air was warm.
“So the plan is this: We want to find the next generation of entertainers. You know? But not the obvious ones that there’s already a buzz about. People we can work with. Develop. So see as much as you can. We’re looking for … quirky”
“Quirky. Right.”
“See things you wouldn’t normally see. Shows that no other broadcasters will be looking for. We want to find talent in the hidden places, and then see what we can do with them. Have you got a b
rochure?”
“No, not yet …”
“Here’s mine … Have a look through it, see what grabs you. I’ve got to go to a show now but you’ve got my number …”
“Yep.”
“Okay. See you in a bit.”
And with that he was off. I ambled over to the bar to get myself a pint and sat down to make my way through the brochure and decide how I should go about my day. My mission was to see shows—and that wasn’t a bad mission as missions go. I cheerily opened it at a random page and took in a show’s blurb.
Death is death, but life is death—you are already dead! Or dying from so many things!! Life is a struggle, grief is a pool in which you drown. The insanity and violence of love abounds. The madness of struggle. The conquest of death.
Now, there’s quirky, and there’s utterly bloody terrifying. I didn’t feel this show fitted with the former. I was sure, though, that I’d find something to fit the bill. I flicked to another page.
Together we are yet together we can’t be. Togetherness and the togethered—together they are as one, but Together seeks to explore not oneness, but twoness … a play in two halves, sewn together and shown as one. A physical and metaphorical exploration by Brendan Fealey.
I decided to have a baked potato instead.
But before I could even stand up, someone had slammed a leaflet down on the table in front of me.
“Are you looking for a show?”
A girl with dreads in her hair and glitter on her face looked at me with hope in her eyes.
“Yes,” I said.
“Gilded Balloon, five thirty. We got three stars in the Scotsman”
“Oh,” I said. “Is it quirky?”
“It’s a play about hope, love, betrayal, rape, and death.”
“Right,” I said. “A bit of everything, then.”
“Well … mainly betrayal, rape, and death.”
“Hmm. I’m kind of looking for … lighter stuff.”
“It’s very light,” she said. “It’s very funny.”
“Is it?”
Yes Man Page 24