Yes Man

by Wallace, Danny

  Samten thought about it. “Nice spin,” he said.

  “Thank you.”

  “You should lose large sums of money more often.”

  “I don’t think that would help.”

  I waited for Samten to say something else. I was keen to hear what his reaction to my scratch card tale would be. But he was far away, lost in thought. When he finally did speak, it was to say a sentence that, under any other circumstance, would probably have lead to a brief scuffle and a broken nose.

  “You’re a peacock.”

  Huh?

  “I’m a what?”

  “You’re a peacock. You see, if you’re open to a situation, you can transform it. You can be like a peacock. Apparently they can thrive on poisonous berries, when other animals would get sick. If you have the mentality where you can’t open up to things, you can get into situations where you feel down or depressed. If you have this ability of openness, you can actually thrive on difficult situations.”

  “Like hurting your thumb?”

  “Or losing that money. What have you learnt so far? As a result of saying yes?”

  “Well … lots, really. Men can have babies. Aliens built the pyramids. No man should walk a cat. And that I’m a peacock.”

  Samten looked a little uncertain about the valuable lessons I’d learnt along the way. And to be fair, I could see what he meant. If this were an episode of Quantum Leap or Highway to Heaven, you’d be a little upset if those were the only morals to the story. The fact was I wasn’t sure what I’d learnt yet. Not exactly. Not quite yet.

  “Well … whatever,” he said. “What I’m saying is, there’s so much we can learn from just accepting the way we are rather than being attached to the way we’d like to be.”

  Samten was right. His words made sense. He was a wise man. While I’m not a religious person, if I ever do decide to be, I think it might be alongside people like him. Plus I’d save a fortune on conditioner.

  “Can I ask …,” said Samten as we headed back to the crew. “Did you find that more coincidences happened when you let go of a controlled life and opened up a bit more?”

  “Well … I suppose so,” I said. “I mean, the very fact that everyone’s been talking to me about this Maitreya fella, and then thanks to Yes, I end up here, and you know all about him …”

  “Yes, we should talk about Maitreya.”

  We stopped walking, and I asked him my question.

  “Samten, do you really think it’s possible that the man on the bus—the one I met that night—was Maitreya?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine. But yes. It is possible.”

  I was shocked. As of right now, it wasn’t just Brian telling me this was possible. Or his friend Pete. Or even Elias Brown. It was someone else, someone new. There were now four of them. That’s more or less a group!

  “The thing you must be asking yourself,” said Samten as we reached the front of the castle, “is what on Earth inspired that man to say that to you? What made him utter the words ‘say yes more’ to a man who needed to say yes more?”

  I nodded, wide-eyed. I heard Ricky call my name. They were ready to go, now, and I waved to say I’d be there in a second. Samten continued.

  “From a Buddhist point of view, we talk about inspiration coming from the enlightened source. Sometimes we can feel inspired to say something, and then think: Where did that come from? In reality it came through the inspiration of enlightened beings.”

  “Enlightened beings like …”

  “Maitreya, yes. Any enlightened being, like Maitreya, is constantly working for all human beings. He walks among us. He’s present in this world, working to help all human beings.”

  “Like Superman?”

  “Yes. Kind of. But he helps us, whether we know he’s there or not, just as the sun shines equally on all human beings. Now, a blind person won’t necessarily see the sunshine, but that doesn’t mean the sun doesn’t shine on them….”

  Robin tooted the car horn.

  “If that was Maitreya on the bus,” said Samten, “then, to be honest, he’s a bit early. He’s not supposed to turn up for another few thousand years…. But maybe this is a sneak preview. It could have been him. And you may find as you progress down your own path to enlightenment, that you receive more help from enlightened beings. Or maybe more help from the people around you. People you wouldn’t expect it from. Listen to what they tell you. Sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places. Even the ordinary can be magical. Be open to it.”

  I said, “Okay.” And I meant it. I would.

  “I think you’re going to be all right, Danny. You seem to be quite a free spirit in many ways. There is a lot to be said for childish innocence.”

  I smiled warmly. And then I realised that, in effect, Samten was calling me a simpleton. I nearly said something, but then I remembered what he’d said about being quite a violent man, and I bit my tongue, just in case.

  Sometime on the motorway home, we stopped the van and made our way into a faceless, peeling service station. Ricky wanted a milkshake, and Robin needed a pee. It was his third pee in as many hours. The man appeared to have the bladder of a moth.

  I sat down at a table, and Ricky joined me moments later.

  “So that was fun,” he said. “I’m quite into all that Buddhist stuff, now. Peace and joy, you know. Did you like it?”

  “Yeah, definitely,” I said. “And thanks for your tip, by the way. I think the poking went down really well.”

  “No problemo,” said Ricky, stirring his milkshake. “So, this was your first go at presenting? How did you get into it?”

  “I just said yes. I met Gareth at a party, and we got to talking about this and that, and then there was a meeting, and they asked me if I wanted to have a go, and I just said yes again.”

  “Simple as that.”

  “Yup. I just said yes.”

  Ricky smiled and muttered something under his breath.

  “What was that?” I said, and he repeated it, louder.

  “Si!” he said. “Si a todo!”

  I blinked a couple of times. “Eh?”

  “Si a todo. It means … oh, what does it mean again? ‘Yes to everything.’ It’s Spanish.”

  “It means ‘yes to everything’?”

  “Yes. Si.”

  He sucked at his milkshake. It made a horrible noise.

  “But where does ‘yes to everything’ come from? I mean, is it a phrase or something? Or a proverb?”

  “I dunno. A couple of years ago, I was helping make this holiday show for BBC2. We were in Barcelona, and we met this guy, called Marc or Marco or something. And that was his motto. Yes to everything! Si a todo!”

  “Si a todo” I said, again.

  “Yeah. He was running this tapas bar or something, and he lives his whole life by that maxim.”

  “He’s … a Si Man …,” I said.

  Ricky looked confused.

  “What, like … a sailor?”

  “No, no. A Yes Man. He’s a bloody Yes Man!”

  I couldn’t believe it. I thought I was the only one. Out there, somewhere … there was someone just like me!

  Ricky smiled and said, “Yeah, I s’pose so.”

  “And is this bloke … happy?”

  “The happiest man I’ve ever met.”

  I sat back and looked around me. The cleaners had started to wash the floors of the service station. A fat man was eating a burger. I glanced back at Ricky, who was scooping out the last of his milkshake with his fingers, and I shook my head. Sometimes inspiration comes from the strangest places. Sometimes even the ordinary can be magical.

  “Have you ever been to Barcelona?” he said, licking his fingers.

  “No,” I said. “Never.”

  “You’d love it. It’s great this time of year.”

  He stood up as Robin arrived back at the table.

  “You should go there sometime,” Ricky added.

  And I nodded.

  B
ecause yes, I should.

  Chapter 21 In Which Daniel Meets His Match

  I was on the bus, and my phone was ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Danny? Hello … It’s Gareth from Richard & Judy.”

  “Hiya, Gareth!”

  “Just thought I’d keep you updated on things.”

  “Okay.”

  “We had … well … an unusual reaction to your piece, after it went out on Monday …”

  “Unusual?”

  “Yes. We had … er … well … an abnormal number of complaints.”

  “What? Really?”

  “We think it might be because you spent a large portion of the main interview poking a monk.”

  “Ah.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m on a bus.”

  “Give me a ring when you get home. We’d like to start planning the next VT to film …”

  “Oh. Ah. I won’t actually be home until tomorrow night….”

  “Okay, well … give us a call then …”

  “Will do. And listen—can you tell Ricky something?”

  “Sure. What?”

  “Tell him I’m on my way to Barcelona.”

  It was three days since I’d poked a monk and such a lot had happened.

  I had found it quite incredible that somewhere out there, there was someone else, like me, saying yes. Not as an option, but as a way of life. From what Ricky had told me, this man wasn’t an amateur like me. He wasn’t just doing it until the New Year or because he felt he needed to or because he couldn’t get out of it. He was doing it, it seemed, because that’s just what he did. He said yes. To everything.

  Even if Ricky hadn’t suggested going to Barcelona, I would’ve wanted to meet this man. But now that I’d said yes, I couldn’t not meet him. And so Ricky had given me an e-mail address he thought might work, and I had tried it.

  I told Marc the truth. That I wanted to speak to him about si a todo. That I knew I was a complete stranger, and that this must seem a bit odd, but a man I’d only just met through a Yes had told me about him. He was the Yes Man of Barcelona; I was the Yes Man of London…. It seemed only right that we should compare notes.

  He wrote back the same day.

  It was, of course, to say si!

  querido danny,

  in this moments i’m in la riviera (italy), over a mountain surrounded of a full power nature; clear days you can see Corsica from here, and the cinghiale come into the garden to eat fruits …

  after two thunder trips it is now possible for me to be in barcelona this thursday—we could have a shock proteico de gambas and seafood in taller de tapas and burn a part of barcelona …

  si a encontrarnos, si al shock proteico, y SI A TODO ! ! !

  it would be very elegant to meet with you … are you free to come on thursday??

  saludos cordiales, me parece atomico el encuentro,

  marc

  Thursday! Was I free to come on Thursday?

  What kind of Yes Man would I be if I said no?

  So here I was, on Thursday morning, on a bus to the airport, and excited.

  Everything was sorted. One night in Barcelona—the flights courtesy of the good people at Siemens, who, because they offered me a new handset all those weeks ago, had also come good on their offer of a free return flight to anywhere in Europe. I couldn’t believe my luck. It was like Yes was looking after me all of a sudden.

  I didn’t know what to expect from my trip to Barcelona. I didn’t know what to expect from life anymore. I got to the airport, got on the plane, and flew to another country.

  I was standing, as agreed, in the square at Plaza Del Juamo, waiting for Marc. I had no idea what he looked like, no idea what we’d be doing tonight, no idea what to expect. I didn’t know how old he was, how he dressed—all I knew was his name, and that he worked in PR. I didn’t know what Marc would be like. Whether other than a predisposal to say yes to things, we’d have anything in common. But it was too late to worry about that, now. I cast my eyes about the place … an old man in a hat with his hands in his pockets. Could be him, I guess. Over there—a middle-aged man with a pipe. Maybe. But none of them seemed to be looking for anyone. None of them seemed to be looking for me.

  Another five minutes passed. Then another.

  And then, on the other side of the square, a taxi furiously revved its way through the streets and came to an abrupt halt. A tanned and handsome man in his thirties, wearing a suit jacket and T-shirt jumped out of the back and gave the driver a high-five through the open window before leaning down to give him a little hug. He waved good-bye, and then looked up across the square. He was searching for someone. He was searching for me.

  It was Marc.

  “Come on, we go first to a friend of mine,” said Marc, “and then we do fullpower Barcelona! Atomico, Danny—come, we walk through here …”

  Marc was marching me through the back streets of the Gothic Old Town, through narrow, dark streets, and he was a friendly ball of energy. He was also whistling. Not a normal whistle, either. A kind of … chirp. The noise a small, happy bird makes—in bursts of one or two seconds—and like no noise any other human being has ever made in my presence. It was happening a lot. Between every few sentences or whenever we rounded a corner … a short, sharp chirp. It was a pleasant noise, but not one that you could ever really say you’d been expecting.

  “Come, it is not much farther“—chirp—”we find my friend in his shop.”

  I was struggling to keep up with Marc’s pace. He was moving quickly, striding through the alleyways and streets as if there just wasn’t enough time for everything we had to do tonight.

  “Hola, Marc!” came a shout from high above, quite suddenly. I looked up to see a large, bald man, leaning out of his window, waving at Marc.

  “Hola, Emilio!” shouted Marc, and we continued on just as quickly.

  We pounded through a square, where teenagers were playing experimental music with keyboards, and smoking cigarettes. The walls were pockmarked with bullet holes that Marc—pausing for only the quickest of split seconds—explained remained from the Civil War.

  “Barcelona is the finest city, I think,” he said. “I have always lived here until recently. Now, I live in the quietest village in Italy, but Barcelona is always my home…. It is a special place, a mediterranean city in Europe …”

  “Hey, Marc!” shouted another voice from high above, and Marc raised his hand and continued on, and chirped his chirp by way of an answer.

  “You have been here before?” he asked.

  “Never,” I said. “But I like it …”

  Then it happened again—someone else leaning out of a window, three or four floors up, and shouting his name … and then I realised. Marc was only chirping when we walked through residential areas, places where people would have their windows open and the sound could drift in. He was chirping for his friends. People here knew his chirp, and this was his way of saying he was back in town.

  I tried a chirp of my own. It was rubbish. Marc laughed and was about to say something, when we heard a voice coming from the end of the alleyway. We looked up to see yet another someone waving at Marc. He’d heard the chirp, but he’d been late to react. He’d nearly missed us. Marc said, “Back in one minute,” ran back down the alleyway, and in just three or four swift and impressive movements, scaled the front of the building and pulled himself through the appropriate window. A minute later he appeared at the front door of a building opposite and walked casually toward me. It was a little confusing.

  “So,” he said. “Now we continue …”

  “Marc,” I said. “You just scaled the front of a building and appeared from somewhere totally different.”

  “Yes,” he said as if nothing odd had happened at all. “I had to say hello to my friend.”

  The next friend we had to drop in on owned an antiques shop, hidden away on another tiny street. His name was Oleos, and he didn’t speak any English, but he
looked delighted when he heard Marc chirping. Oleos shook my hand with vigour, and I can only assume Marc then told him why I was there, because suddenly he started saying, “Si a todo!” over and over again before running off to fetch three antique glasses and a bottle of whiskey. He dusted the glasses off, filled them, and handed them round.

  “Si a todo!” he said.

  “Si a todo!” said Marc.

  “Si a todo!” I said.

  I was enjoying myself.

  An hour later and we were in a cramped but friendly bar in the Old Town. Amazingly everyone—customers and bar staff alike—had cheered when Marc the Barcelona Yes Man had walked in. Perhaps he was secretly a hypnotist.

  Since our whiskey in the antiques shop, we had been joined by Oleos and his little dog, Melvyn; a German photographer called Jonas; and a Spanish soap star called Isabel, who had come straight from filming another episode of the slightly depressing-sounding TV drama The Town of My Life, It Hurts!

  Marc had once again explained what I was doing in Spain, and everyone had seemed delighted.

  “So you just thought, yes, I will go to Barcelona?” asked Isabel. “Just like that?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “Just because a man you met had met Marc?”

  “Yup.”

  “And you just said, Marc, I will come to meet you?”

  “That’s right. And Marc said yes.”

  “And then you just got on a plane and came? All the way to Spain? To meet a stranger?”

  I shrugged.

  “Yes. It was an odd coincidence. A man I only met because I said yes to a job had met Marc a couple of years ago, and it turns out that he only says yes too!”

  “La casualidad no existe, Danny!” said Marc. “There is no such thing as coincidence! Si a todo! It is the only way!”

  “Si a todo,” said Oleos, and everyone raised their glasses.

  “It is good to say yes!” said Isabel. “Yes to everything!”