Quickly, I scratched away …
ONE.
One! Pah! I laugh in the face of one! I had twenty-five thousand of those now!
FIVE.
Gah. Not good enough.
But the next one …
FIVE THOUSAND.
Five thousand!
My God! That can’t be right! What did that mean?
I struggled to maintain my composure but failed, and let an odd, slightly feminine yelp sneak out. Could they count? I know that only the first six really counted, but what if there was a loophole of some kind? What if I’d now won thirty thousand pounds?
I tore through the pages once more to find the rules. There was one box with big, bold letters telling you what to do and how to do it. And there was another box, which seemed to stretch out over half the page and had some of the smallest print known to mankind …
I squinted to read it.
“Minimum age” … fine … “claim line” … fine … “three like amounts” … fine … “late claims will not be accepted” … “cards containing printing errors will be void” … “limited prize pool” … fine, fine, fine …
But what about the extra bonus money? Was there anything about that?
“Numbers will be published all week” … I scanned on …
“Claims must be” … I kept scanning …
“Residents of” … I scanned on …
And then I saw it.
“Only scratch the silver panels which match your numbers …”
Hang about … What was that?
“Scratching silver panels which do not match your numbers will void your card.”
I read it again.
I looked at my card.
I thought about what I’d done.
And then I said the word “shit” so loudly that the entire row of people opposite of me looked up.
I hadn’t really known how Hanne would take it at the time. I suspected she might think it was, you know, “typical.” She’d gone bright red for a moment or two, and I thought I might be in line for a lecture, so I’d said, “I’ll still pay for your latte.”
Ian’s reaction had been more instant. He had taken it very badly. To begin with he too had gone bright red, and then he took a breath so deep, I was momentarily concerned he was going to get some balloons out and start crafting model animals.
And then he let rip.
“You … stupid … bloody … idiot!” he said, teeth gritted and eyes angry.
“What?” I said, slightly offended.
“You had twenty-five grand, Danny! Twenty-five grand! And you threw it away!”
He seemed unnecessarily vocal. Perhaps he thought I owed him twenty-five grand or something.
“I can’t believe what you did! How do you lose twenty-five grand?’
“I didn’t read the small print.”
“You didn’t read the small print,” he said matter-of-factly with his hands in the air.
“Yes,” I said. “The small print telling me to only scratch the numbers that I had.”
He crossed his arms and shook his head.
“Why didn’t you only scratch the numbers that you had? Why do you think they had numbers?”
“I don’t know. There was another panel there, which said, ‘Void if removed.’ I figured that so long as I left that one untouched, I could scratch whatever I liked! I was just too tempted. I was sitting on a Tube train, and I couldn’t get off or tell anyone I’d won, and I just did it!”
“But even though you scratched too many panels, you still had the winning numbers?”
“Yes, and I tried to explain that to the lady on the claim line, but she didn’t want to know! She told me that the rules were there in black and white. I told her that the rules were also in the tiniest writing known to man and tucked away where I couldn’t see them! To be honest I don’t know why they’d introduce such a pointless rule.”
“To stop people like you from winning their money! Oh my God, man … you threw it away!”
“I didn’t throw it away; I just made a mistake. But look, that’s not the point, because …”
“What do you mean that’s not the point? What other point is there? You had twenty-five thousand pounds in your hands, and you threw it away! So much for saying yes to stuff. Well, I hope you’ve learnt your lesson….”
But Ian was wrong. There was a lesson to be learnt, but not the one he thought. And it was a valuable one. I tried to explain it to him.
“The point is, mate, I won that money. I won twenty-five thousand pounds!”
He looked confused.
“No, you didn’t.”
“Yes, I did. I won it!”
“But you lost it again!”
“Forget that bit.”
Ian looked like he was about to burst. “No! That’s ludicrous! How am I supposed to forget that bit? You’re saying all this like there’s a lesson to be learned! There’s no lesson here! There’s no advantage in not having won that money! There’s just a tit called Danny Wallace!”
But I’d already rationalised the whole thing in my head. And I knew I was right.
“Listen to me—it doesn’t matter that I lost the money, Ian. Not in the least! The point is if I hadn’t said yes, I wouldn’t have won it. It’s what it signifies that matters! I said yes to playing football, right? If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have met the bloke, bought the paper, sat on the train, and played the scratch card. I would still be sitting here in the pub with you, but we’d be talking about how this whole Yes thing had ended, rather than … how it begins …”
Ian looked more confused than ever.
“So it begins with you losing twenty-five thousand pounds?”
“No, it begins with me winning it … That’s the point! Yes made me win!”
I was determined. Perhaps, psychologically, it was a survival thing. Perhaps the decision I then made was one of self-preservation. And perhaps the spin I put on the whole thing was there to stop me from sinking back into a world of negativity. But losing that twenty-five thousand pounds just as quickly as I’d won it really didn’t bother me. If anything, it excited me even more.
I’d told myself that I’d got on that Tube train without the money, so I shouldn’t be bothered if I got off it in the same way. Yes had won me that money. Saying yes had made me rich. Fair enough; being an utter twat had made me poor again—but that wasn’t the fault of Yes. Yes wanted me to have that money. It wanted me to do well. And it surely couldn’t be long before saying yes gave me another, similar opportunity, if only I gave it time.
“I’ve got something here,” I said. “Something I want you to look after.”
I opened my diary again, at the back this time, and pulled out a paper napkin.
“You want me to look after a napkin?”
“It’s not a napkin. Not anymore. It’s all I could find to write on. Read it. It’s a manifesto. A Yes Manifesto.”
Ian sighed and read out loud, something he was getting better and better at today.
YES MANIFESTO
I, Danny Wallace, being of sound mind and body, do hereby write this manifesto for my life.
“Oh, you complete and utter—”
“Read it! It’s important! This is about my life!”
I swear I will be more open to opportunity. I swear I will live my life, taking every available chance given to me. I swear I will say yes to every favour, request, suggestion, and invitation—the little things that come my way every day.
I SWEAR THAT HENCEFORTH, I WILL SAY YES WHEN ONCE I WOULD HAVE SAID NO.
I will do whatever I can to achieve Yes. But people who know I’m the Yes Man are not allowed to tell other people or take advantage of my situation. That means you, Ian.
“I don’t need to take advantage of your situation! You’re doomed!”
I waved him on, determined for him to understand the significance of the moment.
This will continue until New Year’s Eve of this year.
P.S. This is not a Stupid Boy-Project. This is a Way Of Life.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Ian. “The end of the year?! That’s months away! You’ll die!”
“I’ll be find”
“What if you get asked to be in two places at once?” he said.
“Then I’ll do my best to make it happen.”
“People will notice! They’ll notice all you ever say is yes!”
“I’ve refined the scheme. I won’t say yes, Berlin is in Scotland, or yes, I am a pregnant mother of two. I will essentially remove the element of dishonesty. But I will say yes to opportunities. To favours. To requests. To suggestions. And to invitations. People will just think I’m … happy.”
“They’ll think you’re simple!” Ian was getting very agitated. “And … oh my God! … What if you do get asked to kill a man?”
Ian’s face flashed a look of fearful concern. I tried to calm him.
“That doesn’t happen in real life, Ian.”
“Him!” said Ian, pointing at an old man in the corner. “Kill that fella there!”
“Ian, that doesn’t count,” I said, glancing at a now rather worried-looking pensioner. “You know what I’m doing—you don’t count—you are automatically ruled out from giving me … ‘opportunities.’ And you can tell no one. Okay? No one. I want this to be a learning experience. A genuine human experiment in happiness and positivity.”
“I can’t believe you’ve thought this through….”
“This is important to me.”
“And what happens when you fail?”
“What do you mean when I fail? How can I fail? It’s only saying yes to stuff! How can you fail at that?”
“It’s saying yes to everything. How can you not fail?”
“Nonsense. I’ll keep showing you my diary. I’ll keep you updated on everything I do.”
“But you’ll never do it!”
“I will!”
“If ever there was a time for a drunken bet, it was now….”
“No. No bets. This is more important than that.”
“Fine. But if I find out you’ve been saying no, then …” He looked at me with steely determination.
“Then what?”
“Then I’ll think of something. And you’ll take your punishment like a man.”
“Fine,” I said.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine,” I said.
We both sat back in our chairs. I thought about what a pity it was that we didn’t have American accents, because that would all have been a lot more dramatic if we had. I think Ian was probably thinking the same.
And then he said, “Pint?”
And I said, “Yes.”
Chapter 5 In Which Daniel Receives Word from the Sultanate of Oman
Let there be no doubt about this whatsoever.
By carefully crafting my Yes Manifesto, I knew I’d just made the most important decision of my young life.
This was big. Bigger than A-Levels. Bigger than university. Bigger than leaving Argos, a shop, when I was fifteen. And just like leaving Argos, it was exciting; I had no idea where it could lead. There was no discernible target to speak of. What was I aiming for? What did I hope to achieve? There was no one else involved; no bet, no rival, no one to impress or beat but me. Yeah, so Ian had talked vaguely of a punishment—but that was just macho posturing. This was the ultimate in self-help. A key to getting out more. To random meetings with random people doing random things … I was no longer in control. I could no longer make things happen. I could only agree to them. I could literally only agree to them. Some people will claim to be the type of person who just can’t say no. Now, so could I.
I awoke at about nine, a day into my life of Yes, and wondered whether today would be the day I’d pop into BBC Broadcasting House and try to get some work done. I decided it probably wouldn’t. I still had too much to do. Too much to say yes to. Once the novelty had worn off, and I’d got into the swing of yes, then I’d pop into work. For now I’d claim to be “working from home.” You can do that when you’re a freelancer.
I flicked my computer on, made a cup of tea, and checked my e-mails. There was the now-usual array of spam messages, urging me to look at their Web site, or yelling at me about mortgage deals and low prices (thankfully, none of them had resorted to just asking me to buy their stuff). But then as I clicked onto the next one, I was startled and confused.
Because the next thing I read was a desperate call for help.
To: Danny
From: SULTAN QABOOS
Subject: URGENT BUSINESS TRANSACTION
THE PALACE-MUSCAT
P.O. BOX 632 MUSCAT PC 113 OMAN
ATTENTION PLEASE,
I TAKE THE PLEASURE TO GET ASSOCIATED WITH YOU AND DESIRE TO INTRODUCE MYSELF, REQUESTING FOR YOUR EXPERT ADVISES AND IMMEDIATE LINE OF ACTION.
I AM OMAR, SON OF THE MURDERED SULTAN, SULTAN OF THE SULTANATE OF OMAN.
Jesus! I had just received an e-mail from the son of a sultan! I didn’t know whether to curtsy or to bow! What was the son of a sultan doing, e-mailing me? How did that happen? And how did he hear of me?
I CAME TO KNOW YOUR EXPERTISE AND PROFESSIONALLISM IN BUSINESS FROM MY FATHER, AND AM THUS CONFIDENTLY WRITING, THAT YOU WILL ACCEPT MY REQUEST TO PROVIDE YOUR EXPERTISE PROFESSIONALLISM IN BUSINESS.
My professionallism in business? What professionallism in business? And is that really how you spell “professionalism”?
I ASK YOU TO KEEP THIS CONFIDENTIAL. I AM TO TRUST YOU WITH MY LIFE, AS MY FATHER DID.
What?
MY FATHER WAS LAST NIGHT MURDERED BY HIS POLITICAL ENEMIES.
What?!
NOW THOSE SAME ENEMIES ARE ATTEMPTING TO TAKE CONTROL OF HIS FINANCES. I HAVE BEEN ABLE TO SECRETLY TAKE $40 MILLION AND INTEND TO FLEE THE COUNTRY.
How do you secretly take forty million dollars? Do you nick a dollar a week for forty million weeks?
I WILL LIKE YOU TO USE YOUR EXPERTISE AND PROFESSIONALLISM IN BUSINESS TO HELP ME ESCAPE MY MONEY AND INVEST FOR ME.
What professionalism in business?!
ON YOUR CONFIRMING ACCEPTING MY REQUEST IN TOTALITY YOU WILL RECEIVE 25% OF THE MONEY ($10 MILLION).
Okay, say no more; that’s fine, when do we do it?
PLEASE KEEP THIS TOTALLY CONFIDENTIAL. PLEASE I HOPE YOU WILL SAY YOU WILL HELP ME. PLEASE ACT SOON, WE MUST PREPARE. IT IS GOD’S WILL.
OMAR
Good God!
But hang on … let’s put this into perspective.
The son of a murdered sultan was asking for my help. Me! And he was offering me ten million dollars. Ten million dollars if I said yes! That beats twenty-five thousand pounds any day! Already, Yes was planning to make me rich again!
Now, usually, of course, I’d be a little skeptical. This kind of thing rarely, if ever, happens to me. In fact now that I think about it, I can’t remember the last time I helped a sultan. Even a little. I’m not proud about that. It’s just that I’m not sure I’d even know how to do it or what they’d need help with. I’m ashamed to say I know very little about magic carpets as it is, and if you gave me a big curly sword, I’d probably give it straight back to you.
But here was a man in need, so I wrote back …
To: SULTAN QABOOS
From: Da6nny
Subject: Re: URGENT BUSINESS TRANSACTION
Dear Omar, son of the murdered sultan Qaboos, Yes, of course I will help you!
Danny
P.S. Sorry about your dad
* * *
And that was that.
So right now, somewhere in the middle of Cyberspace, my agreement and best wishes were winging their way to a troubled son of a sultan, a man probably cowering under a table in some ornate mansion somewhere with a chair forced up against the door and only a big bald genie for protection. Or maybe he was already on the run. Maybe he was sneaking from village to village, under the cover of darkness, dressed as a peasant woman and fearing for his life! How happy he wou
ld be when he read that I, Danny Wallace, a specky bloke with toothpaste round his mouth, would indeed lend him some of his professionalism in business!
I sat by my computer, eagerly clicking the Get Mail button, hoping each time that the next click would bring a response from Omar. But time after time, all I heard was the mocking dull thud that whoever designed my computer decided would represent the sound of “no mail.” The dull thud of a punch in the paunch. The dull thud of “no messages, why do you bother? Not even other nerds want to write to you.”
But I wasn’t giving up on Omar. I made another cup of tea, found a biscuit at the back of my cupboard, and sat, staring intently at my screen, willing him to write back, willing him to know that it was all going to be okay, willing him to just hang on.
And then I got bored and got on with my day.
I was doing the washing-up when I heard a bing-bong. New mail!
I ran to my computer, fearing Omar was in danger.
It was Hanne.
Danny,
Just checking you’re not too depressed about losing that 25 grand.
Hanne
I replied.
Hanne,
Not to worry. I just agreed to help the son of a murdered sultan, and he said he’d give me ten million dollars.
Danny
I waited around for a bit, but Hanne didn’t reply. She was probably busy.
Aside from Omar, there didn’t seem to be too much happening today. Not much to say yes to. So I decided that today would be the day I’d go in to work, after all.
I was sure I’d find plenty to do.
The first of Australia’s Big Things, since you ask, was the Big Banana.
Erected in 1963 by an American immigrant named John Landi, it was a personal and heartfelt tribute to the banana and was intended to attract visitors from miles and miles around.
It worked.
From all over Australia, banana lovers flocked to the Big Banana to celebrate the world of bananas and immerse themselves in the adjoining banana plantation. It became a symbol of all that was right with the humble banana, somewhere for dedicated banana fans to centre their energies and focus their banana-based efforts.
Yes Man Page 7