The Defenestration of Bob T. Hash III

by David Deans

  Some assorted examples:

  a) At the airport shop in Prestwick, Bob could have bought himself a brand-new set of Waverley persimmon-shafted blackthorn woods with tartan cozies, a full set of Rob Roy irons including the famous “Black Duncan” mashie, a Ballantyne Club-Pro mutton-crested golf bag with sporran holders, half a dozen MacGregor clan peat-resistant polyhedric golf balls, a packet of indomitable Abbotsford golf tees, a wee tartan Tammie, and an Old Morality hip flask. (=but did not)

  b) Matilda could have taken up the pianoforte/xylophone/lute, etc. (=would now be an internationally renowned concert pianist/xylophonist/lute minstrel, etc., but didn’t, so is not)

  c) Mrs. Thomson went to the ball. She could have danced all night.

  d) Oops! I should have posted that manila envelope.

  e) Dan should have taken up Spanish lessons before he arrived in Madrid. (=it was imprudent of him to set off linguistically unprepared. On arrival in Madrid he decided he wanted to go back to Belmont to take that course of lessons after all)

  f) Mrs. Novák was going to have a quick bath before her guests came for dinner—but did not. (=barefooted, wrapped in a nice toweling bathrobe—discovering the carp in the bath)

  g) The dwarf chef should have put processed cheddar cheese in the croque instead of Gruyère. (=the opinion of roving globe-trotter and bon vivant Bob T. Hash III)

  For irredeemable and unalterable events, cast in marble and lost to the mists of time, the past simple is to be preferred. Note that in English there is no “remote past” form: no grammatical distinction is made between something that happened five minutes ago and something that happened, say, during the late Cambrian period, epoch of cuttles.

  “There exists indeed a breed of grammatical construction for which…”

  65

  Case in point, I could have left that manila envelope alone in the out tray without looking inside it. Even better: I should have let the manila alone. I should have let the manila lie there in the out tray till it got taken off by the postal staff. I could have rustled up a cup of coffee and looked out the window with my feet up on the desk instead. But no, like an idiot parrot, I had to fish the thing out. That was the fork in the path. Yes, it’s true—head nodding ruefully—if I’d let that manila alone, none of this course book repair stuff would have happened. I can tell you, if I’d left that manila alone, I’d be living out the life of Riley by this stage. I’d have built a pool in the garden. I’d have taken up Spanish and extended that range of executive toys on my desk—blissfully indifferent to the virus of Bob’s trademark would-be-ubiquitous McLitespeak around me. I would not have this extra workload on my plate (Forward with English!, eighth edition) with its partial eclipse of Matilda, glowing red like the moon or that fluttering flambé femme fatale. And, more to the point, Bob would not now be closing in on me with murderous intentions….

  (By the way, that “There exists indeed a breed of grammatical construction for which…” would appear to be a fragment detached from some larger body of work. One is struck by its air of apparent freestanding integrity. For a long time it had nowhere to go. It has been shoved here for no good reason at all.)

  A solution must be found: either I go back into the past in a time machine and reposition the manila envelope in the out tray, or I kill him off now. Or, vice versa, Bob kills me off. Even as I write this sentence, he’s probably working out the best moment to make a dramatic return, hoping to reclaim the role he not long ago so cynically spurned. I suppose if Bob hadn’t been closing in on my reparation work, I could have spent a few moments telling you about the recurring nightmare I’ve been having lately—germane here on account of its no doubt being the result of a slight congestion of petite trouvaille in my slumbering corrections-yet-in-progress-addled brain.

  In this nightmare, I could have told you, I am still Bob T. Hash III and I still work in the Acme office on Main Street—the difference being that my colleagues and I no longer seem to share the same language. My Please, Miss Happ, when we’re ready, if we could just take that dictation and my Hey, Jack, did you get a chance to read that report of the quarterly sales figures? fall on double Dutch ears. A small crowd of colleagues gathers around me, like I’m some kind of freak show. Oh, not with any menace or anything, no medieval cudgels or flaming torches (bearing in mind, apart from anything else, I’m in theory, still their boss)—more a with a sense of well-meaning curiosity, prodding me with gentle questions. Probably they’re asking to be told what to do. I’m ready for that dictation whenever you’re ready, Mr. Hash, rendered in some weird exotic foreign babble-tongue. And I think to myself in this dreamworld why can’t they just learn McLitespeak and be done with it? Don’t they know life is too short (especially if your name happens to be Bob T. Hash III)? My colleagues stand around me in a circle, taking turns trying out different languages on me (even though they might just have been on holiday someplace or taken up a night class in it) like they’re playing some kind of competitive game of who can guess which language I’m speaking. Since no one guesses correctly, none of them wins and they return to their desks.

  By the inscrutable logic of dreamworlds, I realize that the English language has somehow been reduced to a withered, dialectical rump, spoken only by a remote enclave of insular, illiterate, umbrella-brandishing, bowler-hatted, octogenarian goatherds—and by me—and is on the brink of demise. In order that communication between myself and my colleagues can be restored once more to the free-flowing exchange of ideas and mellifluous understanding it once was, it is decided that I be steam-enrolled on a total immersion, fast-track, Pap intensive in Pap-trap McLitespeak (levels 1–2). (My protests that it is they who should be taking language courses, not I—since they’re the ones who’ve decided, collectively, apparently overnight, to all start speaking in another language—fall, of course, on deaf ears.)

  Luckily they’ve got nice new tables and chairs in the classroom and a smiling secretary at the front desk who says hello in the language of your choice just like at Acme! I learn fastly! Picking up not only the lingo itself but absorbing the mores and customs of a strange and distant people, as if by osmosis. Miss Porlock, if I might single her out, having picked up her towel, is particularly full of praise: “Bravo, bravo. Fastly, fastly, Bob T. Hash the third. Bravo, bravo. Fastly, fastly, Bob T. Hash the third!”

  But true to nightmare scenarios, it seems no matter how well I progress in my new language in one night’s dream—and I do feel, along with Miss Porlock, that I’m making good headway—when I have the same dream the following night, I find I’ve not retained even the most basic smattering of the new language I was doing so well in. I must enroll once again, back to lesson one, page one, “This is a book. This is a chair….” But of course by next night again, that progress too, like Martin Finnegan’s whiskers, all down the drain….

  I wake. The dream is over. (If this had been happening to Bob—as I suspect it was meant to—then one could see a certain Dantean taste-of-your-own-medicine logic to it.) To show for my night class efforts I have nothing but the odd logofied Biro, or pamphlet telling me how easily I will pick up the new language—sad souvenirs brought back from my dreamworld. (Well, that or maybe just inadvertently brought back from the office in a CEO’s pocket?) It’s just after six fifteen on the digital alarm clock. The grapefruit sun will be rising out of reed-bordered Duck Pond on the outskirts of Belmont.

  I lie there on the cool silken sheets, listening to the dawn chorus, an arm draped languidly over Matilda’s frilly lace-trimmed apple pies (tried on in the lingerie department of the department store on an alas expurgated Question Tags section). No need to worry about us there, darling—we speak the same language….

  “Oops, is that someone inside the wardrobe?”

  66

  Tendering a Resignation

  “I can’t go on. I must go on.”

  Sometimes we find ourselves in a situation we no longer deem tenable and as a consequence believe we are unable to continue.
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  Note to the instructor: Ask students to think of a position from which they would wish to resign. For homework get students to write a letter to the relevant personnel department (human resources) requesting formal termination of the relevant contract and the severance of all ties (“to whom it may concern…” “more time to spend with Mr. Hash’s family,” “pursue outside interests,” etc.). Next lesson have students read out their letters in a loud clear voice—from a precarious dais or improvised pedestal for dramatic effect—to the rest of the class. Students should be encouraged to use upbeat language and tone in this exercise. Teacher shows class picture of gold watch and commemorative chain. A small brass band and sponsor’s bunting can be arranged on request.

  You may like to use some of the following situations. Please bear in mind that while typical, the list should not be considered exhaustive.

  a) As executive tycoon and CEO of a major importer of spare components for dishwashers, you feel that your talents are largely underutilized. In a letter to the board, request truncation of contract as with immediate effect, explaining that it is time to move on and seek out fresh challenges more in line with your abilities and natural ambition….

  b) Under your tenure as production manager at the Caxton and Tally-ho! printers plant, print runs of shoddy teaching material have been widely distributed on a worldwide scale…

  c) As production manager at Jackdaw Asbestos Inc., you have allowed badly maintained and rusty equipment to slow down levels of output, resulting in a sustained loss of retail orders. Despite recent warnings, you have shown little enthusiasm for turning things round….

  d) As customs and baggage officer at Belmont International Airport, you are responsible for the shifts during which, among other things, two sets of golf clubs have been sent spinning round the world in the wrong direction, and a potentially dangerous parrot smuggler has managed to pass through customs undetected….

  e) You have been having a rampant affair with Bob’s wife.

  You were right, Jack, that new temp we employed is just not up to the job. I’m expecting her resignation letter to plop into my in tray any day now!

  67

  This exercise might provide another clue as to why Bob went to the bother of disguising himself as Señor Gonzalez on the way to the airport. While he’d been “working” on his version of the resignation section above, I had watched Bob write a letter of resignation himself, no doubt with the idea of testing out the effectiveness of his own templates for the course book exercises, but also—as his collection of miscreant persiflage piled up—with the idea of testing out an intuition he had about the kind of grip the Belmont picture book had on his own freedom of movement. By submitting a sort of draft hoax of a resignation, Bob would see the sort of reaction he’d get if he ever tried to resign in earnest. Expressing in his letter a sudden, unforeseen disenchantment, using in its composition an amalgam of the templates outlined above, Bob sent off his letter of resignation, and waited.

  He envisioned the board being thrown into some kind of shock at the news that he, Bob T. Hash III, should even be thinking of resigning: a call to the boardroom for an informal chat and a brandy. Equally, he might have anticipated a laughing Jack Smith (R&D) coming into his office, letter open in paw, having caught its spirit of harmless prank: “Sure thing, Bob! You know if we ever need to write a new course book, we sure could use some of this stuff!” He expected it might take about a week for people to work out whether he was being serious, or sarcastic, or just a wee bit of both.

  However, the very next day, the letter, apparently unopened, was back in Bob’s in tray. Perplexed, he sent it off again: probably just some mix-up in the mail room. But again, a day or so later, the letter bounced back, again apparently unopened. This was strange. Bob stared at the envelope with a kind of horror and a feeling of entrapment. For in that dumb rebuff there was a point-blank refusal even to consider his request.

  Bob realized that if ever he did want to stop being Bob T. Hash, he was either going to have to wait for the institute to decide his services were no longer required (with the “keys to Belmont” in his possession, this might now be a very long wait) or he was going to have to quit in some dramatic way of his own devising (such as passing himself off as Señor Gonzalez and flying off to Acapulco with Miss Scarlett).

  Meanwhile, with regard to my own compositions (maintaining my vigilant 24/7 bulwark, like the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dam), I have made a point of writing to Mr. Gleason, the printer’s assistant, apologizing once again for the unforeseen delay. I have reminded him that I am still working on those “eleventh-hour emendations.” I have told him I’ll have the definitive manuscript off to him the very second those amendments have been safely installed—assuring him it will be a matter of days.

  68

  The Good Samaritan: A Skit

  In despair that his Forward with English! now lies in ruins, Mr. Hash is standing on the fifth-floor ledge outside his office window, preparing to throw himself off. Before climbing onto the ledge, Mr. Hash took the precaution of dialing the suicide hotline and, making use of the office extension cable, has brought the receiver with him onto the ledge, where he now stands amid bemused pigeons.

  Student task: You are a volunteer at the Samaritan switchboard and have just received the distressed gentleman’s phone call: your job is to persuade Bob to climb back into his office and get back to work. Student might like to be thinking of reasons why Mr. Hash should remain of this world, both general reasons and reasons specific to his particular predicament. You might also like to be thinking of alternative, less messy methods of killing himself—sort of backup suggestions should your first line of reasoning be rejected.

  Note: Language instructor may like to have student acting part of Mr. Hash stand on a chair to enhance feelings of vertigo. More advanced students may appreciate more direct variants on the phone scenario where the Samaritan can be positioned either just inside the fifth-floor window (i.e., inside Mr. Hash’s executive office itself) or alternatively standing muddy-footed below the window in an ornamental flower bed. Note subtle differences in tone and attitude between the three approaches and discuss them in class.

  69

  Meanwhile, yet another box of reinforcements has arrived in the staff kitchenette. Doesn’t time fly! From an opened box, bottles of whiz-kid fizz have been transferred to the office refrigerator—no, you first, sir, I insist—icebox (see American English vs. British English). Ahead of schedule one ink-blue balloon has already been inflated and has been affixed—helium/Sellotape/involuntary floating?—to the ceiling. Thanks to my own philanthropic intervention, the above contribution and its ilk have now been done away with.

  Our fifth-floor staff kitchenette is a convivial locus. It has a counter; it has mugs, plates, you name it. It has a cork-based notice board with ads for the Belmont marathon, and details for the upcoming sales figures announcement staff party on Friday. And—look, Miss Happ!—here’s a new postcard from, let’s see where, looks very nice, doesn’t it, ah, yes, as I thought, it’s from Acapulco (feel how the thumbtack’s still warm): “Wish you were here—looking forward to seeing you all at next week’s sales party!”

  Comenius trusts that the very considerable personal risk to his life he runs by making these little commentaries will not be in vain.

  70

  A Dictation: Ordering a Coffin

  To be read out to class by teacher. Select student with recent bereavement (if available) to read out in class after teacher.

  “Last week Bob had to order a coffin. Warren at the office suggested he try Harry Dig the undertakers because when Grandmother Crosby passed away, he went there [comma] and got excellent service. “What you gonna put in there,” said Warren like a cowboy, “potatoes?” Ignoring Warren’s cryptic suggestion, Bob put on his hat and went down to Harry Dig’s on Main Street. [Period—new sentence.] Inside Harry Dig’s, Bob could smell freshly cut flowers as he browsed at the urns. Harry appe
ared from behind a drape of purple velvet. “How’s tricks, Bob T. Hash III?” Harry said, extending a big welcoming, almost mafialike handshake, plus a leaflet detailing special schemes to save up for a coffin. [Open parenthesis] basically the sooner you thought about it the more you were going to save [end parenthesis]. “What kind of percentage region are we talking about here, Jack?” Bob said, even though he wasn’t actually speaking to Jack at that moment. Or even to Harry Dig. He was speaking to the leaflet. But the point was he’d got the term “kind of percentage region we’re talking about” bit in—which would look good in the primer. Bob did a sniff and took off his hat. Suddenly Bob said, “Good morning, I will soon need a coffin,” this time to Harry, who replied that these things sometimes happen. “What’s it for then, a sack of potatoes?” Harry said, if Bob would like to look through the catalogue and price list. Luckily the place had air-conditioning. There were photos of crosses and angels arranged not unlike some menus for foreigners with pictures of the dishes, so you just had to point. Bob said how difficult it was to decide, there was simply just too great a range of choices to choose from! But he gave Harry a clue regarding the sack of potatoes: the coffin was for his twin. “An identical twin?” asked Harry, his interest piqued. “I didn’t know you had a twin.” And Bob said yes it was indeed an identical twin, and I do. “What, did he turn up on your doorstep one day and drop dead on the spot?” said Harry as he took out his measuring tape to take Bob’s measurements in the manner of a tailor and wrote down the numbers. “I’ll take that nice one in the middle range then for those dimensions I gave you,” Bob said. “How soon can you have it ready?” he added, as he put on his hat, familiar as it is in every household, stressing he had an early Monday morning tee-off. “That’s a great air-conditioning system you’ve got there, Mr. Dig, by the way.” “Why, thank you,” said Harry, but then seeing that time was pressing upon time bandit Bob, he continued, “I’ll get onto the casketsmith right away. For that sack of potatoes, or, as you put it, twin. And don’t worry—as soon as it’s ready, you’ll be the first one to know!”