Yes Man (37 page)

I sat in my bedroom and found my diary. I got a pen out and started to write down all the things I’d said yes to by just saying no.

Not going to the Damien Rice gig tonight. That’d been brilliant.

Not buying randomly recommended albums that could have surprised or delighted or enriched my life or taken my tastes in a whole new and vital direction. Well, that was probably for the best, because I know what I like, and I may as well stick to it.

Not grabbing Wag and Hanne and Ian and inviting them round to watch me cook pasta like a professional, and then talking and laughing and eating well into the night—that had been, y’know … fun.

Hadn’t it?

I sat, staring at the digital clock, from 11:37 p.m., waiting … waiting for midnight.

It was taking
ages
.

I glanced down at what I’d written in my diary. I weighed up what it all meant and realised in an instant that it meant, well, nothing. No achievement. No living.
Nothing
. I tried to feel good about it. Tried to remember that No meant freedom, choice, discretion. But I yearned for the early days. The simple days. The days when I was winning on scratch cards and enjoying an extra pint and seeing my friends. When had things started to go so wrong? When I bought the car? When I went to Liverpool? Why did this mean so much to me? Why did I have to continue? Couldn’t I resign myself to the fact that a new job and a new life were only round the corner? Couldn’t I just stop and …
wait?

I made a cup of tea and sat on my bed, and thought.

I still knew that this period of my life would have to come to an end, now more than ever. But not like
this
. Not on my own, sitting in my bedroom, trying my hardest to feel smug.

No was wrong. It didn’t fit. It was a flirty, evil temptation to take me away from the real work that had to be done. And I had to
succeed
in this work. If I didn’t, perhaps I would never be able to move on. But I was beginning to realise and reluctantly decide that maybe I’d need some help. And not just the kind of help that Ian brought. Professional help.

It had been Hanne’s suggestion, of course. She’d meant for me to see a psychiatrist or a counsellor or someone who could guide me.

Well, I would get some guidance. Because I’d had an idea. A way of making this all so much easier. A way of guaranteeing success. With this man’s help, I couldn’t fail. I would be rejuvenated. Enthusiastic. Ready to fight the good fight, the final fight. Full of Yes.

I opened up my diary again and pulled out the flyer on which this man had written his number. In the morning I would make a phone call and book a ticket.

I was going to see a man about a dog.

I had informed Hypnotist Hugh Lennon that he was to prepare himself for the toughest case of his professional career. He was to meet me at Cardiff Central train station that very afternoon and immediately begin work on resolving a delicate matter of both the heart and mind. Hugh, in return, had decided this meant one thing
.

“It looks like we’ll be needing some takeaway.”

And so there he was, waiting for me as I stepped off the train with a small box of wonton he’d bought on the way from a Chinese restaurant.

“Snacks for later!” he said enthusiastically. “Very necessary when dealing with tricky psychological problems. Keeps the energy levels up. I find wonton does that well. I love a bit of wonton. Pork wonton, especially. I don’t think there’s much that beats it, really.”

I nodded in absolute agreement. I felt this was a matter it was vital we were unified on.

“But prawn toast is good too,” Hugh went on.

I nodded again, even more enthusiastically this time. Basically I’d decided that I needed this man, and I was willing to go along with
any
of his opinions on Chinese food, no matter
how
controversial.

Hugh would simplify things for me. He was already involved in this, after all; he was part of the adventure of things. Yes had led me to him that night in Edinburgh, and now it had led me to him again. I needed him to help me focus my mind. Clarify things.

I clambered into his Renault, and we began to drive out of Cardiff and toward Mountain Ash, the tiny, former mining town Hugh now calls home.

“So …,” he said as we found ourselves deeper and deeper into the blustery, bruised valleys. “All I know so far is that you need my help. But with what?” “Well … it’s a tricky one,” I said. “I made a decision to do something. And I think I need to keep doing it. I know I do. Just until the year is out. But I’ve kind of lost my willpower.”

“Aha,” he said. “Willpower.”

He said the word “willpower” in the way that wise, old sea captains often stare into the distance and say the word “wind,” like it’s their old enemy or something.

“Willpower,” he said again wistfully. “So what is it … smoking? I can stop you from smoking in five minutes.”

“No, not smoking.”

“Drinking? Is it drinking?”

“No. It’s not drinking.”

“Well … what, then?”

I thought about how to put it.

“I need to say yes more.”

Hugh nodded.

“Fair enough.”

“Do you fancy a game of snooker, first?” said Hugh as we approached Mountain Ash. “It’s good to reach a state of relaxation early on when approaching hypnosis. The workingmen’s club is just over there.”

“Um … okay,” I said, although I suspected the real reason for the stop was that Hugh just quite enjoys playing snooker.

We pulled into the carpark of the workingmen’s club, just off the main street. I’d noticed that there didn’t seem to be many people out and about today. There’d been a short queue of pensioners at the bus stop, and I’d seen a man in a vest, kicking a hosepipe around his front garden, but apart from that it all seemed a little … empty.

“I do a show in here every Friday night,” said Hugh. “Usually they just have vocalists playing here, but now I do my hypnotism and a bit of magic, and it seems to go down pretty well.”

Hugh pushed the door open, and we walked down the stairs toward the bar. I noticed the noise, first of all, and then the smell of beer … and then I realised that pretty much the entire town was sitting, pints in hand, in front of me. I looked at my watch. It was quarter to one. On a Tuesday. And everyone—
everyone—
was down at the pub.

It was a happy atmosphere based, I suspect, on a sad truth. Mountain Ash had once been a profitable and thriving centre of industry. Men had travelled from all over Wales to work in the collieries and mine the black gold. But all that had ended in 1980, when the last main colliery shut down. The end of mining in
Mountain Ash effectively meant the end of work. The end of work inevitably led to the start of boredom. And the start of boredom had led everyone—of all ages—to the pub.

But before we’d taken even three steps into the main room, something odd happened. Something that only really happens in films, but something that seems to happen every day in Mountain Ash.

Someone, somewhere, spotted Hugh and let out a happy cheer. Then someone else cheered. Then more people. Then the applause started and the whistling, and soon the entire room was on its feet, wildly hailing the low-key entrance of Hypnotist Hugh Lennon. As we walked through a parting crowd, I watched in amazement as huge men slapped Hugh on the back, small women waved—even the copious amount of babies in the room would, I am certain, have raised their glasses to the man had they thought to have any. I’d heard the phrase “local hero” before, but never before had I seen one in action. It was utterly amazing.

We reached the sanctity of the snooker room, and I asked Hugh if a reaction like that was normal.

“Well … you know. I suppose it’s unusual having a hypnotist in town. Not many people had seen it up-close before, and so …”

A man of about thirty burst through the door.

“Hugh, will you fly for me?” he said.

He had glasses thicker than his Welsh accent—which was saying something—and he was clutching a mobile phone so small, I am not entirely sure it could have been real.

“Er … not right now, Tommy, because …”

“Aw, Hugh, please, will you fly for me? I told the lads at the table there that you can fly, and they don’t believe me. Will you come and fly?”

Hugh put his hand on the man’s shoulders and looked him deep in the eye.

“Maybe later,” he said. “My powers are weak now.”

Something seemed to dawn on the man, and he made a face like he understood, and then backed away, bowing his head with some degree of reverence.

“You never told me you could fly!” I said as the door closed.

“Well, I can’t really. It’s just that thing that David Blaine does. You know—you stand on one foot at a certain angle, and it looks like you’re levitating. I did it once for the poor lad, and now I don’t want to break his heart.”

I thought that was sweet.

Hugh put twenty pence into the table and out came the balls. I began to set them up.

“So … I guess this place is like the centre of the town?” I said.

“Yeah. They only ever used to have vocalists or the odd bit of karaoke here, so I suppose the fact that they can watch their friends be hypnotised on a Friday night is quite good. I initially only did it here as a way of meeting people. I’d moved here, and I knew no one, but I got to talking to a man who came round to fix my telly. I told him I was a mindreader, mainly because I thought it would stop him from overcharging me. Well, he said I should do a mindreading show in the town. So we set something up. ‘A night of mindreading and hypnotism.’ We promised all the money to charity, and we put a small banner up in the town. That night
everyone
turned up. The whole town. And the next morning I couldn’t go anywhere, because everyone knew who I was. Nowadays it can be a bit annoying. I’ll just be in the shops, and everyone will be waving at me. But it’s nice.”

I liked Hugh’s life. And I liked the workingmen’s club. It was cosy and warm, and you could see its cherished place at the heart of Mountain Ash.

“It can be quite old-fashioned, though,” said Hugh, and he pointed at a door behind me. “That room through there is the men’s room.”

“The toilet?”

“No, no. The
men’
s room. A room in which only
men
are allowed.”

“Wow. What happens in there?”

“Well …,” said Hugh, “not much, really.”

“I’m amazed you can still have men-only rooms,” I said. “What do the women say?”

“Oh, they just accept it. They know they’re not going to change the club council’s minds. They’re very stubborn, the club council. I mean, last year one of them resigned in absolute fury.”

“Why did they resign?”

“Because the club got a jukebox.”

“Oh.”

“It was like we’d been dragged, kicking and screaming into the sixties.”

I was starting to see what Hugh meant about “old-fashioned.”

“Can I peek into the men’s room?” I asked. “I’d like to see what all the men are doing.”

Hugh nodded. I opened the door and peered in. There were four old men, sitting silently at different tables, staring into the distance. One of them coughed.
They didn’t look particularly happy, but I suppose they’d made their stand against those pesky womenfolk, and now they had to stick to it.

I closed the door quietly and turned around just as the other door was opening. It was Tommy again.

“Have you got your powers back yet, Hugh?”

“I’m using them for the snooker, Tommy,” said Hugh, and Tommy looked at me and laughed. He knew I had no chance against Hugh and his magic balls. Which is a sentence I never thought I’d write.

“You get some characters in here,” I said. And it was true. When we’d walked through the main bar, I couldn’t help but notice that everyone I passed looked like they were out of a book of eccentric film extras.

“Oh, all over this town. It’s incredible. But they’re all lovely. Tommy, there, and Mad Harold.”

“Who’s Mad Harold?” I said.

“Every Sunday, Mad Harold goes to the café to have his cup of tea. And once he’s done, he stands out on the street corner and spends the whole day waving at the cars. On weekdays you may find him in the library, sitting at a desk, reading the Bible out loud to anyone who’ll listen. Last week I drove past him and he waved to me while he cleaned the middle of the road with a vacuum cleaner. He’s such a happy chap.”

I suppose “happy” is one word for him.

“Hugh,” said Tommy, back at the door for a third time, “Arlene’s here.”

And in walked Arlene, Hugh’s friend.

“Arlene, this is Danny,” said Hugh.

“Hello!” I said, and shook her hand.

“You playing a bit of snooker, are you?”

Arlene had the singsong accent of the deeply Welsh, just like Tommy, and I nodded and said, “Do you fancy a game?”

Arlene laughed, and shook her head.

“Women aren’t allowed to play snooker.”

I chuckled and handed her a cue.

“No … seriously,” she said, holding up her hand. “Women aren’t allowed to play snooker.”