The Fandom of the Operator

by Rovert Rankin

  “Because you are so thick,” she replied.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “What does this badge say?” asked the receptionist, pointing to her breast badge. “Does it say ‘electrical supervisor’? Well, does it?”

  “No,” I said. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which must be an anagram for stupid tart.”

  The receptionist stared me pointy daggers. “It says ‘receptionist’. Which means that I deal with matters appertaining to reception. If you wish to know the likelihood of your bulb burning out, you must address your enquiry to an electrical supervisor.”

  “I see,” I said. “And where might I find him? Up on the fourth floor?”

  “Fourth floor?” The receptionist laughed again. “You really are thick, aren’t you? Fourth floor is Stores Requisition Documentation, Stationery Outgoing and Sales Division. You’ll want first floor annexe, Electrical Supervisor Services.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I think I’ll just mooch up there now, then,” I said. “Get a crate of bulbs in, in case I have a really high burn-out day.”

  “Bulbs have to be requisitioned singly.” The receptionist rolled her eyes heavenward. “God, you are so thick.”

  “Then why are you calling me God?”

  “You’ll have to sign this,” said the receptionist, producing a clipboard with a bright white document clipped to it. And a wee biro dangling down on a string.

  “And what is this?” I asked.

  “The Official Secrets Act.”

  “Whoa!” I said. “I’ve never seen one of those before. Let’s have a look at it.”

  “You can’t look at it,” said the receptionist. “You just have to sign it. At the bottom, where it says ‘signature’.”

  “I think I’d like to read it first.”

  “Are you an anarchist?” asked the receptionist.

  “Why? Is there a job going in the Anarchy department?”

  “Just sign the form,” said the receptionist.

  “And what will happen if I don’t?”

  The receptionist laughed once more.

  “No, don’t tell me,” I said. “You can’t answer that question. If I want an answer to that question, I’ll have put it in writing, possibly on a pink docket, to your legal division on Floor 32.”

  “Correct,” said the receptionist. “So please sign the form.”

  I really should have read that form. I should have, I really should have. Because in a future that was not too far distant, only a few short hours distant, in fact, the fact that I had signed the Official Secrets Act was going to cost me very dearly indeed. But you know what it’s like. When a form is put in front of you, especially one with lots of small print, you just can’t resist signing it, can you? It’s a forbidden-fruit kind of thing, isn’t it? The temptation to get yourself into all sorts of really big trouble just by flourishing a single signature. I didn’t really want to read it anyway. It looked very boring. Although it would have wasted a bit of time, which wouldn’t have been all that bad. But I did have a bulb to switch off. Especially if I was going to earn enough money to save some up and buy a motorbike. Which I had now definitely decided to do.

  “There you go,” I said, signing the document with the wee biro on the string and handing the clipboard back. “In for a penny, eh?”

  The receptionist peered at my signature. “Cheese,” she said. “Gary Cheese. That’s a pretty stupid name, isn’t it?”

  “You’ve really blown any chance you had of having sex with me,” I told her.

  Mr Holland came out of his office to welcome me. He escorted me to my little booth the next door along, reacquainted me with my duties, in case I had forgotten some of them, patted me upon my shoulder as I sat down upon my chair, wished me well and departed, shutting the door behind him.

  I looked at my wristwatch. It was now seven-thirty of the early-day clock. I really should have been home in my cosy bed. But here I was. Here in this – I sniffed – smelly little room. It smelled of wee-wee, not ozone. Waiting for a light bulb to go on. Oh well, it was a living.

  I leaned back, put my feet up on the table, took out my book and settled down to chapter one.

  At eight forty-five my light bulb went on. So I switched it off again.

  It came on once more at eleven-fifteen. Again at twelve-twenty, and at one o’clock I went for lunch.

  At one-o-five I was back at my table.

  “Have you gone insane?” cried Mr Holland, who had collared me in the corridor. “Leaving the bulb booth unattended!” Veins stood out on his neck. His face had an unhealthy glow.

  “I was going off for my lunch,” I told him. “One o’clock is lunchtime. Everyone knows that.”

  “You brought sandwiches, surely?”

  “Do you mean to say that I don’t get a proper lunch hour?”

  “Aaagh!” went Mr Holland. “The bulb’s gone on. Switch it off! Switch it off!”

  I reached out a languid hand and slowly switched it off.

  “Phew,” said Mr Holland. “That was a close thing. Now, do not leave this booth again until it’s time for you to clock off.”

  “I never clocked on,” I said. “No one told me about clocking on.”

  Mr Holland shook his head sadly. “Then, that’s cost you half a day’s pay, hasn’t it? As this is your first day, I will break protocol and clock you on now myself. Although it’s more than my job’s worth to do it.”

  “I’ll be for ever in your debt,” I said bitterly. “But actually I need the toilet, so I’ll have to pop out anyway.”

  “Didn’t you bring a bag?” asked Mr Holland.

  “A bag? What are you talking about?”

  “Your predecessor, Mr Hurst, was so dedicated to his profession that he had a colostomy bag fitted. Paid for the operation out of his own money. Or her money at the end. It was confusing. But you should think about doing the same. It can be agony holding it in until home time.”

  “I have no intention of ‘holding it in’ until home time,” I said. “I need a pee and I need it now.”

  “But you can’t leave the bulb booth unattended.”

  “Then you sit in until I come back.”

  “I can’t do that. It’s not my job.”

  “Well, I’m going to the bog, whether you like it or not.”

  “You’d risk five years for a pee. Good God!” Mr Holland threw up his hands.

  “Five years for a pee? What are you talking about?” I crossed my legs. I was getting desperate.

  “You signed the Official Secrets Act, didn’t you?”

  “With a flourish,” said I. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because it states quite clearly in the ‘Terms of Employment’ section that, should you leave the bulb booth unattended during your duty period, you will have committed a crime against the state. The punishment is a minimum of five years’ imprisonment. Although upon all previous occasions the court has dealt out far sterner sentences than that. Mr Trubshaw got forty years in solitary. That was during the war, of course. I think he served as a good example, which is probably why Mr Hurst had the bag fitted.”

  “What?” I said. “What?”

  “Hold it in, boy, if you value your freedom.”

  “No,” I said. “Hang about, this can’t be right.”

  “Who’s to say what’s right? I’m not a philosopher, I’m a technical manager.”

  “No,” I said. “This is ridiculous. Absurd. And what about when I need a replacement bulb? I’d have to leave the booth then.”

  “You’d call out to me. I would then initiate a temporary override procedure.”

  “Well, initiate one now, while I go and have a pee.”

  “Good God,” cried Mr Holland. “You’d take me down with you. Have you no morals at all? Are you a total degenerate?”

  “In a word, yes. I quit this stupid job.”

  “You can’t quit.”

  “Then, fire me.”

  “You can’t be fired. You sign
ed the Official Secrets Act. And you can’t take any days off sick, either. You’ve taken the job for life.”

  “I’ve what? I’ve what?”

  “Don’t shout,” shouted Mr Holland. “I have very sensitive hearing. Had my aural cavities surgically enhanced so that I could hear a request for replacement bulbs being made through the partition wall. You only have to whisper, really.”

  “I’m not whispering. And I’m going to wet myself in a minute.”

  “I’m very sorry about that. I’m sure it will be very uncomfortable for you. But there’s nothing I can do about it.”

  “Bring me a bucket, or something.”

  “Sorry,” said Mr Holland. “A bucket is out of the question. There is no procedure for buckets. You can’t get a docket for a bucket. It’s unheard of.”

  “So I have to wet my pants and go without lunch and if I leave this booth for even a couple of minutes or dare to take the day off, I can be dragged away to prison? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “In a word. And to save us all a lot of time and heartbreak, yes.”

  “Aaaaaaaaagh!” I went.

  And not without good cause.

  And then I wet myself.

  11

  There was something in the way that Sandra laughed that really got on my nerves. It had taken me nearly an hour to walk home, ducking in and out of alleyways to avoid being seen. What with the big wet patch down my trouser front and everything. And I was ravenously hungry and she said that it was my turn to make dinner.

  And everything.

  “Stop laughing!” I shouted. “This isn’t funny. This is dire. Terrible. Catastrophic. I’m in big trouble here.”

  “It will teach you to read documents before you sign them in future.”

  “I don’t have a future!” I stormed up and down the sitting room.

  “You’re dripping on the carpet.” Sandra laughed some more.

  “I’ll write to my MP,” I said. “This is inhuman. It’s nothing short of slavery. This is the nineteen seventies. Is this what all our student protests have brought us to?”

  “What student protests? You never were a student and you never protested against anything.”

  “I marched for Gay Rights,” I told her, as I plucked at my damp trouser legs.

  “You just went along hoping to get shagged.”

  “Yeah, well, all right. That’s why most of us went. But that’s not the point. I can’t be treated like this.”

  “So what do you propose to do?”

  “Have a bath,” I said. “And have something to eat. And go down the pub and think about what to do.”

  “Still, look on the bright side,” said Sandra: “at least you’ll be on a regular wage now. Do you get paid holidays? We could go somewhere nice.”

  “Holidays? I never asked about holidays. Perhaps I don’t even get any holidays.”

  “I don’t know what you’re complaining about,” Sandra said. She gave me an encouraging smile. “You have a job for life and it’s not exactly taxing, is it? You can read your silly detective books, do an Open University course, learn a second language. Your days are pretty much your own to do with as you please. As long as you don’t leave your bulb booth, of course.” And then Sandra sniggered a bit and then she laughed a lot more.

  “I’m going for a bath,” I told her.

  “You do that,” said Sandra. “And, darling …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s a bit dark in the bathroom. You can switch the bulb on, if you like. A change is as good as a rest, eh?”

  And then she laughed a lot more.

  I bathed and I dried and I dressed in clean clothes and I stuffed my face with food. And then I went to the pub alone in a very bad mood indeed.

  I went to the Shrunken Head. They have music there on a Monday, and every other night too. The Graham Bond Organization were playing that evening. Jeff Beck was on lead guitar.[15]

  Harry was on the door, wearing a smart tuxedo.

  “You dirty rotten swine!” I greeted him. “You got me into this mess.”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Harry. “And what mess are you talking about?”

  “Forget it,” I said, making my way inside.

  The Shrunken Head was a horrible dump. But then, all music pubs are. It’s a tradition, or an old charter, or something. The furnishings are always rubbish, the beer is always rubbish and overpriced. And there’s always trouble and people shooting up in the toilets and an overall sordidness of a type that you just don’t get anywhere else.

  I loved the place.

  I elbowed my way through the crowd of youths and edged towards the bar. These were the days before black T-shirts had become an acceptable form of gig wear. These were still the days of the cheesecloth shirt. You don’t see cheesecloth shirts any more – which is a shame, because I really liked them. No shirt fits like a cheesecloth shirt. Really tight across the shoulders and under the armpits, where they soon get a big stain going. And the way they pulled at the buttons, leaving those vertical eye-shaped slits so your chest and belly showed through. And those huge floppy collars.

  And everything.

  I’ll say this for the seventies. People really knew how to dress back then. I’d looked hot as a mod. And later as a hippie, but I looked my best as a seventies groover. My platform soles were three layers high. And would have made me the tallest bloke in the pub if everyone else hadn’t been wearing platforms too.

  The landlord in those days was Kimberlin Malkuth the Fourth, Lord of a Thousand Suns. His given name was Eric Blaine, but Eric Blaine possessed a certain gift. It was a gift that was his own. The gift of the True Name Knower.

  According to Eric, the names we are given at birth – the surnames we inherit from our parents and the Christian names they choose for us – are not our real names. Our true names. The names that we should be called.

  It didn’t make a lot of sense to me at the time, but it did to Eric, or, rather, to Kimberlin Malkuth, Lord of a Thousand Suns, as he was known, having changed his name by deed poll. Because Eric had had a revelation (possibly involving the use of hallucinogenic drugs back in the sixties) whereby he became aware of his true name and the fact that he had the ability to recognize the true names of others, just by looking at them. It could be argued that, as the landlord of a pub, this might have put him in a certain peril with more truculent patrons, who might well have taken exception to him renaming them. But it didn’t.

  This was, and is, after all, Brentford. Where tolerance is legendary and minds are as open as a supermarket on a Sunday.

  And also, and this may well have been the big also, the names the enlightened landlord bestowed upon his oft-times bewildered patrons were so noble and exotic that few were ever heard to complain and most, indeed, revelled in their new and worthy nomenclatures.

  “Lord Kimberlin,” I hailed him. “Pint of fizzy rubbish over here, when you have a moment free.”

  “’Pon my word,” said the landlord, casting an eye in my direction. “If it isn’t the Honourable Valdec Firesword, Archduke of Alpha Centuri.”

  “That’s me,” I said. “Any chance of a pint, all-knowing one?”

  “Coming right up.” Lord Kimberlin did the business and presented me with my pint. “Haven’t seen you for a while, Archduke,” he said to me. “But you’ve come on a good night. Not only is Quilten Balthazar, Viceroy to the High Grandee of Neptune, playing here tonight but Zagger To Mega Therion, the master bladesman of Alphanor in the Rigel Concourse is on lead guitar.”

  “Should be a show worth watching, then,” said I, accepting my pint and paying up promptly.

  “You’re not kidding there,” said the landlord. “And what a crowd in to watch, eh? See there the Baron Fidelius, slayer of Krang the Cruel?”

  I followed the direction of the landlord’s pointing and spied Nigel Keating the postman.

  “And with him the Great Mazurka.”

  I spied Norman from the corner shop.

&
nbsp; “And there is the legendary Count Otto Black.”

  I glanced over my shoulder and there was Count Otto Black.

  “But …” I said.

  “The exception that proves the rule,” explained the barlord.

  I took up my pint and pushed my way back through the crowd to chat with Count Otto, whom I’d known since a lad.

  The count’s family had been émigrés during the Second World War. They came from some place or other in the wilds of Europe that had “vania” on the end of it, but I could never pronounce it properly, having been poorly educated and always having a note that excused me from geography on religious grounds. The count’s father had been the other Count Otto Black – the one who ran the Circus Fantastique, with which my Uncle Jon used to perform.

  The count worked as a packer at Brentford Nylons. In fact, it was he who’d alerted Sandra that there was a vacancy coming up there. She’d been first in the queue and now was the employment officer at the factory. In charge of future hirings. A sudden thought regarding my present circumstances entered my head. But the bar was noisy and the thought left as quickly as it had entered.

  “Count Otto,” said I. “Hello.”

  The count stared down upon me. He was very tall, the count. Always had been. Even when he was small, he was tall. Tall people so often are.

  “Gary,” said Count Otto. “I hear that you’ve taken employment once more. Tough luck, old fellow. You have my sympathy.”

  “I need it more than you know,” I said.

  “I think not,” said Count Otto. “I’ve heard that you’ve taken the bulb man’s job at the telephone exchange. You really need all the sympathy I have. It’s yours; take it with my blessings.”

  “I’m in the dog muck,” I said. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “You should look on the bright side,” said the count. “It will soon be Saturday.”

  “I think I need a bit more than that. How am I going to get out of this?”

  Count Otto shrugged. “I’ve no idea at all,” said he. “If you paid a little more attention to what goes on around you, you’d have noticed that you were the only applicant for that job.”

  “The dole office sent me,” I said.