Yes Man (22 page)

Jahn tried to wave my worries away but failed. But I thought about what he’d said earlier.
The only time you have no opportunities is when you decide to stop taking them
. Well … this was an opportunity, of sorts. A chance to try something new. Something that, without a precise chain of Yeses, I never would’ve. A proper level five.

Suddenly I remembered something.

“Hey … are you … y’know … stoned yet?”

“A little.”

I leaned forward and looked him in the eye.

“Imagine if there was a shop called Pizza Hat and all it sold was hats shaped like pizzas.”

Jahn frowned, and then shook his head.

I couldn’t believe it. That joke was actually getting
worse
.

“So, anyway,” he said. “Are you going to try this?”

The answer was already yes.

“What’s it called?”

“Well, the translation would be something like … mind … bomb.”

“Mindbomb?”
I said.

“More or less.”

“But what is it? I can’t eat a mindbomb unless I know what it is!”

“You don’t eat them. And it’s a bit like LSD. But more like a double-dipped tab.”

“I have no idea what you just said.”

“It’s powerful but safe. I’m going to do one too. You’ll be fine.”

Jahn smiled. His confidence was reassuring, but I was still nervous. I can’t stress enough how unusual a thing this was for me to be doing. I’ve never thought I would make a particularly good drug user. When I was a kid, I remember thinking I’d had an out-of-body experience after an out-of-date Junior Dispirin. How on God’s green Earth would I cope with a psychotropic
mindbomb?

Nevertheless, in perfect unison with Jahn, I picked up the mindbomb, and slowly, carefully, placed it in my mouth.

The following morning at 7 a.m. precisely I sat bolt upright in a bed in the Novotel Amsterdam, confused, alone, dry mouthed, and wide-eyed.

I knew that things had happened in the last nine hours, but I didn’t know what things, and I didn’t know how they happened. I was still feeling woozy and boozy, and I appeared to have a sticker with a clog on it stuck to my face. Gradually a few images eeked their way back into my brain. A man. A flashing light. I looked down to the floor and noticed my jeans and one trainer, and next to them a small, black disposable camera. I stretched down to pick it up. The film was all used up. On the floor, under the cheap coffee table, there was something else. A scroll of some sort. Oh God. Please don’t say I’d got married or something. Please don’t say I’d gone back to the leather bar and got married.

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?