Yes Man

by Wallace, Danny

  “Yes … but also … not”

  I looked at my watch. Five o’clock. That would give me just enough time to go and get my food. I could pop down to the Tempting Tattie on Jeffrey Street and be sitting, satisifed and alert, in what she had now decided to assure me was a frankly hilarious play minutes later. I folded the flyer and popped it in my pocket, thanked her, and was just about to stand up, when from another angle I heard the words: “Hello. Are you looking for a show to see?”

  * * *

  Oh my God.

  Dear God, the leafletters.

  I had managed to make it out of the Pleasance Theatre with only six new flyers stuck in my pocket, but now, approaching the Royal Mile, I saw them.

  Leafletters. Everywhere. Like a wide and rampant pack of wolves.

  I had forgotten what Edinburgh was like. For one month the entire world descends upon the city for the largest arts festival on the planet. There are literally thousands of shows to see, each one usually performing more than twenty-five times. That’s a lot of tickets that needed to be sold. And that’s a lot of leafletters trying to sell them.

  The desperation in the air was palpable. And for miles around, all I could see were leafletters … leafletters with leaflets. There were leafletters dressed as dogs. Leafletters dressed as ballerinas. One leafletter who appeared to be dressed as a giant, grinning apple. And they were closing in. It was like the nightmare of the charity bib people in London—but without the oh-so-lovable excuse of “doing it for the children. Sorry, I mean the commission.”

  “Are you looking for a show? Ten past eight at the Assembly Rooms. It’s about—”

  “Looking for a show? Clowning and Russian dance! Six forty at the—”

  “Would you like to hear about my play? It’s a powerful one-woman piece about—”

  I was striding quickly down the Mile, my head down and my hands out, taking every leaflet that was offered to me, stuffing them in my pockets and watching any free time I might possibly have had disappear before my eyes. I was beginning to realise that if I wanted to get through this festival alive, I was going to have to be very, very careful about where I went and at what time of day. I could be the first person killed under the weight of a thousand leaflets. I decided I’d need to sit down with my diary and work out how to see as many of the shows I had leaflets for as possible. And then I would need to work out a system of not actually taking any more leaflets. And how was I going to explain my choice of shows to the BBC? Was this what they were paying me for?

  Finally I made it to the Tempting Tattie. I had a baked potato with cheese. And then I went to watch a play about the lighter side of rape.

  * * *

  It was late. I was in the bar of the Assembly Rooms, catching up with Tom.

  “Good day? What did you see?”

  I took a deep breath.

  “A disturbing play about betrayal and death; a powerful one-woman piece about the search for identity in an identityless world; a clown; and a late-night close-up magic show by an inept Dutchman. You?”

  Tom counted in his head.

  “Ross Noble.”

  I had worked out my professional itinerary for Edinburgh fairly quickly, and I was feeling quite pleased with myself. I’d noticed in the Scotsman that they had a daily list of “Five Recommended Shows You Really Must See.” This, I decided, would be my system. I would see whatever they recommended, time slots permitting, while at the same time working my way through the leaflets I already had. And I’d also worked out my new system for avoiding the rampant terrorism of future leafletters. Sure, it wasn’t quite in the spirit of being the Yes Man, but neither was spending eighteen hours a day in tiny, black rooms, watching American students adapt Shakespeare to Bhangra. So what was my system? I bought a pair of cheap, black headphones from Argos and permanently had them in my pocket. Upon spotting a leafletter, I would pop them on, people would see me coming, realise I was immersed in a world of loud and inpenetrable music, and leave me alone. It couldn’t fail.

  It did.

  “What did you see today?” asked Tom the next night, once more propping up the bar at the Assembly Rooms.

  “A play about famine, a ninety-minute monologue about a pension book, a Canadian dance troupe who were clearly hungover, a man who just sat there and said we should think, the ‘Oxford Revue,’ and a Bhangra version of Shakespeare by some guys from Nevada.”

  I was tired, and I looked it. “How about you?”

  Tom held a ticket up. “Adam Hills.”

  Oh.

  “How about tomorrow, Danny? Anything on?”

  “Yep,” I said heavily. “I’ve got my tickets already. Seven shows. Five of them Scotsman-recommended. First one’s at ten.”

  “Seven shows,” said Tom, under his breath. “Goodness.”

  “And you?” I said.

  “I dunno,” he said. “I thought I might have a night off.”

  There was, of course, another reason for throwing myself into the Edinburgh Festival with such gusto. While I was sitting quietly in the back room of a pub watching Bavarian physical theatre (“Crucial,” said the Times), I couldn’t be out there roaming around, getting myself into too much trouble. And, more important, I couldn’t be in an Internet café, risking the wrath of the Challenger and, well, the rejection of Lizzie.

  That, probably more than anything, was what concerned me. The Challenger I could maybe take. The fierce, blunt punch of rejection, on the other hand …

  How would she have reacted? What would she think of me now? Had I spoilt things? The facts of the matter were: If Lizzie had written back, my heart would doubtlessly sink. And if she hadn’t, well, there was a chance it would break.

  Suddenly my phone rang.

  “Dan? It’s Ian.”

  “Hello, Ian.”

  “Are you enjoying Edinburgh?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Seen any shows yet?”

  “One or two.”

  “Good. Well, listen. I was thinking …”

  “Go on.”

  “I was trying to work it out. And I reckon I may know who the Challenger is.”

  And, after a moment or two, he told me. And it made complete and utter sense.

  I said good-bye to Ian, got my diary out, and found the scrap of paper on which I’d already tried to solve the case. I added one more line.

  Jason, the bloke from the party.

  Jason!

  Jason, the bloke from Thom’s good-bye party! A man who could easily have gotten my details from Thom! A man who not only knew about my Yeses, but despised them! A man filled with an unquenchable rage that he would be only too pleased to unleash on me! A man who said no for a living; a man who was my opposite! A Lex Luther to my Superman! A No Man to my Yes Man!

  It was Jason!

  I knew just what to do next. I had never replied to Jason’s initial e-mail—the one that sent me to Stonehenge. But I still had it. I could e-mail him back. I could e-mail Jason!

  I was filled with confidence and power. It was time to strike back before he upped the stakes. I found an Internet café just off Princes Street and ordered myself a cup of tea. It was time to check my e-mail and to send a couple of them. I reasoned that if Jason had indeed issued any more demands or instructions, I now possessed the strength to deal with them. The upper hand would soon be mine. For I was about to unmask him. There would be no more hats, no more books, and no more impromptu trips to Stonehenge. There would just be one very embarrassed man in a Lycra Challenger suit.

  But this wasn’t without its emotional risks. Checking my e-mail would leave me wide open to Lizzie. And if she’d written back to tell me I was a tit and I should never contact her again … Well, I didn’t know how I’d handle it.

  I logged in and instantly noticed two things: There was nothing new from the Challenger … but there was something new from Lizzie.

  My stomach turned.

  I couldn’t open it. Not yet. Not first.

  So I
wrote to Jason.

  To : whoisthechal1enger@hotmai1.com

  From: Danny

  Subject: I know who you are

  Hello “Challenger,”

  You can stop now. The game’s up. I know who you are and why you’re angry with me, and I’m sorry, but this has to end.

  Thanks,

  Danny

  But, just to make sure, I also wrote another e-mail to Thom, the man who’d inadvertently introduced me to my nemesis….

  Thom,

  It’s Danny here. The bloke who bought your car.

  Listen, I’m sorry to be brief, but I need you to e-mail me back. I don’t know if this e-mail address still works for you, because you’ll be in New Zealand by now, but if it does, please get back to me.

  I need to get a number for Jason, the bloke from your party. The civil servant. I think I did something to annoy him when I met him, and I think he’s punishing me for it in quite an obscure and weird way. Did you give him my details? Please get back to me asap.

  Danny

  Oh, Jason.

  Was there really any need for this?

  It was my own fault, really. I’d put my experiences with Jason to the back of my mind, hoping they might go away. I had embarrassed myself in front of him by revealing I was living life with what, in his eyes, was blatant immaturity. And, worse, I’d been incredibly insensitive when I’d told him to just say yes more. He couldn’t, could he? He was a man with a huge responsibility. He hated his job, yes, but he’d proved to me that sometimes you have to just bear it, with or without the grin. Sometimes, maybe, you’ll make a decision in life that you just can’t reverse. And because of that, you’ll spend the rest of your days saying … no. Sometimes that’s just the way life is. That’s what Jason had taught me.

  I clicked back onto my list of messages and knew that now was the time I’d have to deal with Lizzie. What would she say? What would a girl like Lizzie say to a show of childish stupidity and apparent borderline obsession?

  I clicked on her name and flinched as I read …

  What?!

  Just that.

  Just that one word.

  My heart sank. But at least it didn’t break.

  I wrote back, “I know. Sorry.” And went to find a pub.

  * * *

  Edinburgh by night is a city of warming beauty.

  The castle, lit up and towering. Parliament Square. The Balmoral—the most impressive hotel I’ve never stayed in—with every light in the window a sign that wealth had come to town. The Canongate Tollbooth, Fettes College, the Ramsay Gardens tenements …

  But I wasn’t bothered about any of it. It could have all been built with LEGO blocks for all I cared.

  I was grumpy and embarrassed, and now regretting the moment I’d decided to take a shortcut through Fleshmarket Close—the only shortcut in the known world which cuts down on distance but multiplies both the time your journey takes and the effort it takes to get there. Finally, breathlessly, reaching the last of the million or so stupidly steep steps, I looked up to see a woman, holding out a flyer.

  “Interested in a show?”

  I took her leaflet just as she said, “It’s a play about betrayal, rape, and death.”

  Bugger.

  A short while later I was nursing a pint in the Greyfriars Bobby, a pub named after a small dog of Scottish legend that had lain faithfully on his master’s grave until he too had passed away. It seemed a fittingly melancholy place for me to drown my sorrows. I toasted the dog. By which I mean I raised my glass to it, not that I got a lighter and a spit out.

  Around me were students on a pub crawl, a couple of rugby boys, a smattering of tourists as well as a tall, tanned man, who had just looked up at me and now approached …

  “Danny?”

  I jumped, slightly.

  “Yes?”

  There was something very familiar about this man.

  “Danny Wallace?”

  “Yeah. Hello”

  “It’s Hugh. Hugh Lennon.”

  Hugh Lennon! Hugh Lennon the Hypnotist! Hypnotist Hugh Lennon!

  One of the fantastic things about the Edinburgh Festival is that it gives you the chance to catch up with people you never normally see. I hadn’t seen Hugh Lennon in years—not since we’d had a drink after I’d reviewed a show of his for the Scotsman in …

  Oh, God. I hope I gave him a good review.

  “Great to see you!” he said.

  Evidently I had.

  “How long’s it been?” I said.

  “Must be … 1996? How strange to bump into you here!”

  Hugh is a hypnotist who has the distinction of owning the world’s only hypnotic dog, Murphy. Together they travel the world, hypnotising people together. Like a magic version of Shaggy and Scooby.

  “Murphy’s at the venue,” he said, “so I’d better go in a minute. Just popped in for a Coke and a pee. How are you? What are you doing up here?”

  “Working. Seeing shows for the BBC. You know …”

  “Seen anything good?”

  Probably best to change the subject.

  “So, what are you doing up here? A show?”

  “Not really … I mean, I’m doing a one-off tonight … just the hypnotism and stuff … Hey, do you fancy coming along? It’s a kind of warm-up…. I’m doing the Leeds Festival soon, you see….”

  “Um …”

  “We could have a drink or two after….”

  “Yes. That would be great.”

  I drained my pint, and we left the pub. This was good. Some company. It was quite easy to spot Hugh’s car. It was the one with HYPNODOG written across the side in great big letters. I wondered whether I should attempt something similar with the Yesmobile.

  Hugh’s venue was the back room of a pub on the outskirts of town, and I sat myself down with a pint. Hugh’s in his early fifties now, but has the personality and energy of a man thirty years younger. He travelled to Britain from Mauritius when he was eighteen, and his faint accent and tanned skin add hugely to his onstage mystique. I hadn’t quite been in the mood for comedie hypnotism, to be honest. It’s rare for me as moods go. But as Hugh started his audience banter and got his volunteers and told a few jokes, I started to get into the act and forget about whatever had been concerning me earlier.

  Twelve people were now on the stage—old, young, male, female—and all had fallen under Hugh’s spell. For more than an hour I watched as he somehow crafted a show out of them. And it was hilarious. And felt good. And communal, somehow. I forgot all about what had been troubling me earlier, and laughed a lot as Hugh’s volunteers suddenly thought they were Madonna or invisible or that a tiny duck kept on stealing their drink. I can honestly say: If you’re ever feeling blue or tired or down, try and find a fat Scottish man who thinks he can fly. I don’t know why more agony aunts don’t recommend them.

  But it was what Hugh did in the final few minutes of the show that truly astounded the room.

  “I would ask you all to be very quiet, now,” he said, looking very serious, “as I bring out a very special guest …”

  I knew the story behind this very special guest. One day, many years ago, Hugh came across an old and wise farmer, who talked in mysterious, awestruck tones of a Labrador puppy not like the rest of its family. It kept itself to itself, he said, and had a remarkable ability…. Hugh was intrigued and went to visit the puppy…. The puppy that was later to become … the Hypnodog …

  Immediately the music started up (the theme from 2001: A Space Odyssey). The crowd fell silent as Hugh disappeared offstage and returned moments later with Murphy….

  And ten minutes after that, the crowd cheered as twelve Scottish volunteers lay fast asleep on the stage, having stared deep into the abyss of Murphy’s chocolatebrown eyes….

  After the show Hugh sat next to me with a cup of coffee.

  “Great show,” I said.

  “Thanks. They loved Murphy tonight, eh?”

  On cue Murphy walked into the room,
sniffed about a bit, and walked out again. When he wasn’t staring people into oblivion on stage, he seemed fairly harmless.

  “I lost him one year, you know,” said Hugh. “He wandered off, and I couldn’t find him. It made the papers. The people in Scotland were terrified. The headlines were screaming ‘Do Not Approach This Dog!’ Journalists genuinely thought he was going to be walking around, staring at people, convincing them they were chickens. I thought that’d be the end of it, but we started getting calls from European news agencies, and then America, and then Japan. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing. It was big news in China. ‘HyPnOUc Dog on the Loose in Scotland!’ We were bigger than Nessie.”

  Suddenly we were interrupted. A lady who’d been watching the show wanted a word.

  “Mr. Lennon … um … I’ve got a fear of spiders…. Is that something you can help with?”

  “Yes,” said Hugh. “You can cure pretty much anything with hypnotism. So long as it’s in the mind. Which is where most problems are.”

  “Really? So I should see a hypnotist?”

  “If you’ve got a problem in your head, a hypnotist can solve it, whatever it is. Here …”

  He handed her a Hypnodog flyer with his number on it.

  “I’m sure Murphy and I can solve your problem.”

  The woman smiled and took the flyer and walked away, satisfied.

  “You’d let her come round your house?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “But only once I’ve got my spider costume out. I’ll jump out at her at the train station. That’ll fix it.”

  I laughed.

  “But, no,” he said. “It’s good to be able to help people, when you can.” I was impressed.

  “Christ, look at the time … I’m going to have to get going, Danny,” said Hugh. “We’ve got a long drive ahead of us. But here”—he pulled out another Hypnodog flyer and handed it to me—“if you’re ever in Wales, look me up, okay?”

  “Cool,” I said. “And thanks, Hugh.”

  Hugh smiled, and we looked at each other for slightly longer than we should have done, and for a second I worried he was hypnotising me. I averted my eyes and looked at the dog, but he was staring at me too.

  “Well, see you soon,” I said and left rather in a hurry.

  I slept soundly that night.