Yes Man

by Wallace, Danny

  I climbed out of bed, my head thumping, and leaned down to pick up the scroll. It felt strangely heavy, but then so did my whole body.

  I unravelled the paper and saw … my God … what was this?

  It was something which utterly horrified me. Utterly and completely. It was an unexpected and hugely confusing image.

  It was an expertly crafted charcoal portrait of me and a tiny dog.

  Suddenly the memory shot back to me: A street artist we stumbled past on the Leidseplein had asked me if I wanted my picture done. And I had giggled and shouted yes! But only—and I remember being very specific about this—if he would draw my dog as well. What dog? he’d said. Why, the little dog on my shoulder, I’d said.

  And now here it was, the physical evidence of a barely remembered drug trip, which involved me wandering around Amsterdam with a tiny, happy dog on my shoulder. I think in my head it could even talk.

  And not only that—but lord, it gets worse—I had photos too! Photos! Twenty-four of them! Either Jahn or myself must have bought the camera as we moved from bar to bar and landmark to landmark, happy and laughing thanks to the explosive effects of the Amsterdam mindbomb and some heavy duty lager!

  I looked again at the portrait in the cold, blue light of morning. What the hell was I supposed to do with this? I’d paid good money for it—I wasn’t throwing it away. But I couldn’t exactly take it home and give it to my mum as a lovely gift, could I? How was I supposed to explain the dog? Did I just say that I hadn’t noticed it was there? Should I say it just snuck in at the last minute? It is somewhat ironic that a portrait that came about just because I said yes, should so effectively illustrate the sentiment “Just Say No.”

  Much more of the night I can’t tell you. I wish I could, but I can’t. I have not seen or heard from Jahn since that evening, and I still do not condone the use of mind-altering illegal substances in any way (even if they’re, you know, legal). I’m just telling you what happened, in the hope that maybe some young kid out there will read this and never have to have his portrait done with a miniature imaginary dog.

  So here’s my public-service announcement: If you’re thinking of getting into drugs, and you want help, I have two photographs in particular I can show you. One is of me in downtown Amsterdam, pointing at a bus that I am sure has big, pretty eyes. And the other is of me lying on my back in the middle of the road with my arms outstretched as I tried to tickle the moon.

  I refrain from publishing those photographs here only because no mother deserves to see that she has raised a moon-tickler.

  I returned home to London, satisfied that—thanks to my dealings with Albert Heijn and the world of the mindbomb—saying yes had at least taught me two vital lessons.

  Three, if you count the fact that no man should ever walk a cat.

  * * *

  SELECTED EXTRACTS FROM THE DIARY OF A YES MAN

  July 18

  There was a most incredible question in the back of a Metro I found on the Tube. In a little, boxed-out advert, were the words, ARE YOU BRITAIN’S MOST GERMAN-LOOKING MAN? An advertising agency was casting for Britain’s most German-looking man and asking whether if you were, you’d like to be on TV. I thought about it for a few minutes as I rode the Tube. Was I Britain’s most German-looking man? I tried to remember what I looked like and decided that, yes, I could probably pass for a German. My glasses could easily sit on the face of a more European man than myself. Maybe I was exactly what they were looking for. Maybe when I walked into their production offices, they would say, “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but you appear to be an actual German. I think you have misunderstood our advert. We are looking for British people who only look like they’re German,” and then I would smile, knowingly and gradually it would dawn on them, and they’d say, “Really? Could it … are you … Gentlemen! Call off the search! We have found Britain’s most German-looking man!” Imagine if I got the job! What would the people at the BBC think of this? What would they think when I walked into the office, threw my keys to the floor, and said, “Keep ‘em! I’m off to be Britain’s most German-looking man!” I imagine some of the girls would probably swoon. God, it’d be brilliant, being Britain’s most German-looking man. I have left a message and look forward to hearing back.

  July 19

  I was reading the East London Advertiser, when I noticed a colourful article, posing the following question: “Are You Animal Crackers?”

  I read on. “If you are,” it read, “then your pet’s mug shot could win you one hundred pounds and the coveted title of Advertiser Pet Personality of the Year!”

  There were already some strong contenders, such as Bobbles of Mile End Poad, and Pippy of Stebondale Street. Neither seemed to have much personality One was just a dog someone had put some sunglasses on, and the other was just an overweight cat (I suppose they thought it was bubbly).

  Well, I instantly knew one thing. Yes, I was animal crackers. Definitely. but I didn’t have any pets to think of. I would have to get one, if I was going to ensure neither Bobbles nor Pippy robbed me of the title.

  July 20

  Today I saved eight pounds on a pair of “great fit practical elasticated denim jeans.” The ad said they were only £7.99 with free delivery. They have a drawcord-style elasticated waist—the kind that grannies or the clinically obese use—and they are machine washable.

  I will never, ever wear them.

  July 21

  Someone has put a sign outside my block reading, INTERESTED IN SQUASH? I NEED A SQUASH PARTNER—COULD IT BE YOU? Despite never having placed squash in my life before, I buy squash raquet, and then phone the man, whose name is Bjorn. We agree to play squash this weekend in Bethnal Green.

  July 22

  I read in the Standard that the UK Trichological Association in London are giving free hair examinations to all men. I decide to have my hair examined. I arrive at the clinic, and a man behind a big desk tells me what they do there, and it soon becomes clear that he is eyeing me up for a hair transplant. I’m not sure where he wants to transplant my hair, but he keeps looking at my head. He asks if he can just quicky examine me, and I let him. He stands over me with a big magnifying glass and prods about a bit before saying, “Yes, you are definitely in the early stages of male pattern baldness.” He gives me such a fright that I can actually feel my haairline recede another millimetre. I am going bald! He made that happen! It is all part of his clever trick! He gives me some leaflets, and I go home and stand in front of the mirror for an hour with a comb and a ruler. The bastard was right. It is receding a bit. Wish I hadn’t said yes. Then maybe this would never have happened, and I would have had the hair of a child forever.

  On the way home I was stopped ty another charity worker from Help the Aged. I think they have begun to target me.

  July 23

  Haven’t been able to find a pet yet. Thought about buying a fish and sending in a picture, but this is a personality competition. I’m not sure how much personality it’s possible to garner from a photo of a fish. It’s not like anyone’s ever looked at a goldfish and thought, “Now there’s a crazy character!”

  So in the end I took a photo of my my neighbour’s cat and sent that in.

  Squash with Bjorn didn’t go too well. I was hoping to rely on some kind of latent, natural squash talent, but it wasn’t there. I don’t think I’m his ideal partner. He has said he’ll call me.

  July 25

  My spam e-mail offers me more drugs. I am offered Propecia (for hair loss) and Prozac (for depression). I feel you can’t really take the first without the second. I order them both.

  July 26

  I have just realised that if I win the Advertiser Pet Personality of the Year competition, and my neighbours find out, I will have quite a hard time explaining the fact that I decided to enter their cat into a beauty pageant. Particularly as I don’t know them. It would be an odd way of meeting. “Hello. I live next door. By the the way, I have entered your cat in a competition.”

>   So I sent another photo that I found on the Internet. It is also of a cat, but this one is wearing a tiny hat and a wig and will definitely beat next door’s cat.

  I have named this new cat Stuart, because hardly anyone ever names cats Stuart, and that must really upset a lot of people called Stuart.

  July 28

  The Propecia arrives. The Prozac arrives with it. I read the Prozac’s list of possible side effects. Extreme fatigue. Listlessness. Constipation. Nervousness. Joint pain. Excessive sweating. Lack of concentration. Memory loss. Poor sexual performance.

  I imagine you would have to be quite depressed for any of this to be an appealing alternative.

  I try one pill. I feel a bit floaty for about ten minutes, but that might be because I haven’t eaten. My Knee joint hurts a bit now, but I don’t thinK it’s the Prozac.

  August 1

  I have invented something new! I was in the video shop, trying to find a Jet Li film, when I noticed a sign asking people to rewind their tapes before bringing them back. I realised that was a Yes moment I’d have to remember for later, but worried that I would forget. And that was when it came to me—the Incredible Automatic Self-Rewinding Video Box! It works simply and effectively. Once the box is closed, a small magnet triggers the engine, and the tape rewinds as you walk home. It is foolproof and excellent. I sent it off to the patents and trademarks people today.

  I wonder if Su Pollard is available for the ad campaign.

  August 2

  I have begun to feel very guilty for entering a stranger’s cat into a competition. No matter. The hundred-pound cash prize will make it all worthwhile, although I will probably have to spend it on buying a cat to stop any tricky questions.

  Also today I have begun the long and rocky road toward fulfilling an ambition I have never actually had—to be a nurse!

  The University of Rochville in America is looking for new recruits for its on-line nursing degree. Apparently I will not need to study or learn anything about nursing. The degree is based on my life experience—from previous Ph.D.s or doctorates (of which I have none) to experience of home nursing (of which I have none) right the way down to “viewing habits.” I have set the VCR for tonight’s episode of Holby City. I can’t believe I am going to be a nurse! I entered my details onto the Web site and paid the four hundred dollars in full, using one of my new “types” of credit card. I am nearly a doctor! Brilliant!

  August 3

  Bjorn the squash man still hasn’t called. He definitely said he would call.

  Why are men such bastards?

  Chapter 9 In Which Daniel Upsets a Stranger

  Now, people often talk, almost embarrassingly loudly, about the power of positive thinking.

  Take me: I’m usually quite a positive thinker. I tend to think things will generally work out okay If I was stranded on a desert island, and I saw a boat on the horizon, but the boat didn’t see me, I wouldn’t get all in a fluster and a huff about it. “It’ll probably be fine,” I’d say. “I bet they’ll probably be back in a bit.” At least then, I’d die happy.

  There are others who take a more rigorous approach to positive thinking and dedicate their entire lives to the practice. I once read an article about a lady called Jessica who’d read a self-help book about positivity and found it to be so inspiring that she bought a caravan in Cumbria and moved there immediately. She’d be free to spend her days wandering around, thinking positive thoughts and spreading happy vibes. According to Jessica, just thinking positively could cure your illnesses, revive your love life, and get you a better job. Which is great, if you like taking career advice from a woman who lives in a caravan.

  “I’ll give you an example,” she said. “If we keep repeating something good over and over, then eventually it will become the truth. If you just keep on insisting to yourself that you are a wonderful person, and that your marriage is amazing, it will be true.”

  A handy tip for battered wives everywhere, there.

  For me I had discovered that it’s not necessarily positive thinking that changes your life, but positive doing. Now, to be honest, my trip to Amsterdam hadn’t been quite as successful as I’d hoped. But that didn’t mean it was a failure (note the positive thinking, there). It was just another example of letting go, of going with the flow, of letting life lead the way. Sure, it had led me into a bit of a culde-sac, but I’d had fun. Fun I would otherwise have missed out on.

  Yeah, so I’d wanted to prove Ian wrong. And no, I hadn’t returned home with twenty million dollars, despite endless positive thinking, but instead with a sore body and a portrait of me and a dog. Ian, of course, would say that this meant the whole endeavour was doomed to failure. Me, being both a positive thinker and a positive doer, would not. I was sure it was all for the best. And I was sure that one day I’d find out how. One day I might even meet supermarket magnate Albert Heijn, and we’d have a good laugh about it all.

  My phone rang. It was Brian of the Starburst Group. He said that his friend Pete, who knew a lot more about Maitreya than he did, had agreed to meet with me, and when would be convenient? I told him to suggest a time. He did. I said yes.

  “Danny?”

  “You must be Pete.”

  “Come in.”

  I did as Pete asked and stepped into his flat.

  We were in Chancery Lane, and I’d reasoned that as I was here for such an odd purpose, it would probably be less awkward to cut straight to the chase.

  “Basically, Pete … I’m here because Brian told me that Jesus was living on Brick Lane.”

  Pete rolled his eyes and let out quite a piercing laugh.

  “Hah!” he said, “Well, that’s utter bollocks, for a start.”

  I smiled and tried a piercing laugh of my own, but it wasn’t as good.

  “So it’s not true?” I said, relieved that this little piece of strangeness was coming to an end.

  “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, Jesus does not live on Brick Lane.”

  “Good.”

  “No. Jesus lives in Rome.”

  “Oh.”

  “Maitreya lives on Brick Lane.”

  This seemed to be getting complicated.

  “Brian said that as well. But he said Maitreya was Jesus.”

  “No. Some call him Jesus, but he is not Jesus. Jesus lives in Rome. Maitreya used to be Jesus, two thousand years ago in Palestine, but now Jesus is a master as well. Maitreya works closely with Him, but Maitreya is Maitreya, and Maitreya lives in London. So … why don’t you tell me why you think you met him?”

  “What you have to realise, Danny,” said Pete as we sat in his living room, sipping at our Tetley, “is that we can never be sure where Maitreya will show up next. Or to whom. He can be anywhere, instantaneously, and can show up to people of any faith, because, you see, he is all faiths. He showed up last year in Paraguay in front of two hundred Christians. He appeared in front of two hundred Muslims in Morocco the year before. He’s turned up in Japan and Italy and the U.S. and Zanzibar and Poland and just about everywhere else. But never before on a bus to one man.”

  I saw what he was saying.

  “Fair enough. So it couldn’t have been him. I agree. It was just some bloke. Some bloke who said something, which then struck a chord. I think Brian’s just got a bit carried away with this, so …”

  “Well, hang on, Danny. It absolutely could have been him. Because he is here to help all people. He is as likely to touch the life of one man as he is to touch the lives of a thousand. But he does so in a form which they can accept. Which is why he appears to some as Jesus, to others as Mohammed, and to others still as … well … a man on a bus.”

  “But why?”

  “Are you a man of faith, Danny?”

  I shook my head. “Not in the sense that I’d call myself a Christian or a Muslim or anything like that,” I said. “I believe more in … people. The kindness of strangers. Mankind. That sort of thing.”

  “And that is precisely why Maitreya would
have chosen to meet you in the way that he did,” said Pete.

  And that seemed to be that. It was case closed for Pete. He’d decided. I’d met Maitreya, whether I liked it or not.

  “He stands for justice, sharing, and love—no matter what your beliefs are,” he said, offering me a biscuit.

  “That sounds quite nice, actually,” I said, because it did.

  “Hey—I’d love to interview you about your experiences with Maitreya, if that’s possible,” said Pete. “There are plenty of newsletters that would love to hear about it. Is there a number where I can contact you?”

  “Er … well … I’m not sure if I’d be able to tell you much,” I said. “But … yes.”

  I wrote my number down on a small pad Pete appeared to have stolen from The Swallow Hotel in Chollerford, and he beckoned me into another room.

  “Look at this,” he said, and he showed me the same picture of a robed, bearded man that Brian had shown me that day in the restaurant.

  “This was taken in Nairobi. Six thousand people saw Maitreya arrive at the Church of Bethlehem at a tiny village called Kwangware. They do miracles there. They heal people, make mad people sane again, that sort of thing. And one day the minister told the congregation that God had spoken to her and that a very special guest would be arriving in a few moments time. Well, the villagers didn’t know what to expect, but then … then he arrived. Maitreya. He appeared from absolutely nowhere, and he appeared to be almost shining. He blessed them, then got in a car and drove off.”

  “Goodness,” I said. “What kind of car was it?”

  I figured if he said it was a Nissan, something odd was going on.

  “No idea. Now, if you want to know for certain whether that was Maitreya that you met that day, there is someone you can ask.”

  “Who?”