Yes Man (7 page)

We walked to where we’d find a night bus but a dodgy old Volvo pulled up alongside us.

“Minicab?” said the man inside.

“Do I
look
like a minicab?” I said, and nearly wet myself laughing. Neither Wag nor the driver seemed to find it quite as amusing as I did.

“I’m going to take this cab,” I said to Wag.

“You sure?”

I shrugged. “He asked.”

“What are you doing later in the week?” he said.

“Whatever you want.”

As the cab raced alongside the Thames, I was excited. And enthralled. And I felt like a little kid on the verge of something thrilling. At one point we overtook a night bus, and I found myself craning round to take a look at the passengers inside. Part of me was hoping I might catch a glimpse of the man who’d unwittingly kick-started all of this, and if I did, I’d stop the cab and get out, and jump on the bus to tell him how I was changing, and what I’d already done, and how I’d had the best day ever. And all thanks to him! Him and his three, simple words. I got home, made a cup of tea, and switched my computer on. I was happy, and tired, and ready for bed.

I brushed my teeth while I checked my e-mails.

There was one from my friend Matt.

Danny! Nice to hear from you! How’s about breakfast tomorrow? Nine thirty? Camden?

I looked at my watch. Tomorrow was now today. It was getting on for 6 a.m. To get to Camden I’d have to be up again in just a couple of hours, and I suspected I might be in line for quite a hangover.

I started to write back to Matt …

Matt
,

Had a bit of a late one, mate. Can we raincheck? Maybe we can meet next week, or how abou

But then I stopped in my tracks. Writing those words felt empty. Hollow. Like I’d learned
nothing
. Sure, my day of yes was over, but …
one
more yes couldn’t hurt, could it?

So one by one I deleted each of the letters I’d written, and I replaced them, slowly, drunkenly, with the letters:

Y

e

s

By lunchtíme I was certain I’d made the right decision.

Here I was, among friends, in a light and breezy café, my hangover nursed by reading the papers and drinking coffee and sharing jokes and laughing. For the first time in months I felt warm and cosy and like I was part of something.

I’d made one small change in my life, and already things were improving. And all I’d had to do was let them happen.

And that was when I’d phoned Ian and told him to meet me at the pub that night, so I could tell him all about the decision that had revolutionised my life …

Because I could feel it.

I was The Yes Man.

Not much had been said for the past minute or two. We were just sitting there—two men, staring into space, considering it all. The events of the past few days were obviously a lot for Ian to take in. This was pretty philosophical stuff
.

“Ian?” I said.

Nothing. Just a blank stare.

“Ian, did you hear all that?”

I tried to steal one of his peanuts, and he seemed to stir.

“Right … two things,” he said, pointing his finger in the air. “Number one, at the end of that little tirade, you just called yourself the Yes Man.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, you can’t. It’s entirely wanky. What were you going to do, make yourself a little cape?”

“It was just a figure of …”

“Or did you see yourself as some kind of Dice Man for the day? Eh? Which is it? Superman or Dice Man?”

“Well …”

“Because you can’t go about being Dice Man. What if you’d got asked to murder someone? Dice Man was asked to murder someone.”

“That was a novel. And anyway, he wasn’t
asked
to murder someone. He
chose
to, or, at least he chose to let his dice choose. He had
millions
of options—I only had
one
. To say yes.”

Ian waved my explanation away and continued.

“The second thing, I hope that after nearly getting your face bashed in by a stranger in a club, you put an end to all this. Yes, so you had a lovely breakfast in Camden with Matt and the others. But I know you, Danny, and a lovely breakfast in Camden with Matt and the others will never be enough for you. You’ll decide that it
meant
something.”

“It did! It represents a whole new way of life!”

“Oh, God. Look, Danny, this has to do with Lizzie, isn’t it?”

“It’s got nothing to do with Lizzie!” I said.

“Before she left, she said, ‘Come and visit me in Australia sometime,’ and you said no.”

“I didn’t say no! I said, yes, definitely.”

“But you
meant
no, didn’t you? You had no intention of going!”

“It’d be punishing myself,” I said, sulkily. “Why fall for someone who lives eighteen thousand miles away?”

“That’s academic,” said Ian, who had a habit of using words like “academic” in order to sound wise. “You already
had
fallen for her.”

“Ian, this is about all manner of things. You know how I was living my life. And you know how I
should
live my life.
That’s
what this is about. And that’s why I’ve decided to continue with it.”

“Continue
with it? You can’t! Fair enough; be a bit more open, say yes a bit more, but don’t just do it blindly. Use some discretion!”

“I need to see where else it takes me, Ian. Just for a bit. Just for a week.”

“A week? No! You’ve done it for a day! Don’t do it for a week! I guarantee you, you
will
end up murdering someone. And nobody likes a murderer.”

“One week is all I’m talking about.”

“Starting when?”

“Starting now.”

Ian stared at me. “Okay … so will you buy me a pint?”

I stood up and got my wallet out.

Ian smiled broadly. “Actually,” he said, “I like this quite a lot.”

The thing that Ian just didn’t understand—could probably
never
understand—was just how good saying yes had made me feel. It was utterly liberating. My life was in the hands of everyone but me. Where would I be tomorrow? Where would I be the day after that? Who would I meet? What would we do? I had given up control.

I told Ian that we would meet in one week’s time, back in the Yorkshire Grey, and I would prove to him I was taking this seriously. I would go back to my diary. I would make a note of everything I’d done. And I would present him with the evidence.

“Is a diary truly evidence?” he’d said.

“If it’s admissible in court,” I’d said, “it’s admissible to
you.”

Ian thought about it and nodded, and said, “Fair enough.”

I left the pub and began my week of Yes.

Now, conventional storytelling dictates that if I were doing this properly, I would now tell you everything that happened over the course of the next few days in the correct order and one at a time. I’d tell you what happened on Monday (which was great), and then on Tuesday (similarly great), and then I’d tell you what happened on Wednesday (which I really rather enjoyed).

But this
isn‘t
a conventional story. And if we were down at the pub, you and me, and you asked me to tell you what happened next, it would take all my concentration and willpower not to skip straight to this next bit, tell you it, then grab your shoulders, and shake you, and say, “So what d’you think of
that?!”
I know I shouldn’t do it, but believe me, I’ve told the story to friends in pubs, and this is the way a story like this
should
be told. So I want to skip forward slightly. Only to the end of my week of Yes. To Friday. Because what happened on Friday was
incredible
.

It was Friday.

I’d been saying yes to everything for four whole days now, and it had been going well. Yes was proving to be an interesting companion, constantly urging me to enjoy myself a little bit more.

I woke around nine and wondered whether today would be the day I’d go into BBC Broadcasting House—the place where I am loosely employed as a freelance radio producer—and decided that no, it probably wasn’t. Not while there were Yeses running free in the wild, begging to be captured.

I got up, made a cup of tea, and checked my e-mails, eager to see what this day could hold as the experiment eased to its conclusion.

I’d noticed that since I’d replied to the kind and generous offer from the Amazing Penis Patch people, the amount of spam I was receiving had increased somewhat. It was like my computer had started shouting at me….

Discount drugs! No prescription needed! Click here!

Cheap softwares for you! All are original Genuine!

Viagra at $0.95 a dose! Excellent value! Click here!

It was fanny. It seemed that just because I was the kind of person who would respond to the offer of an Amazing Penis Patch, the world had suddenly decided
that I might also like weight-gain supplements, acne pills, books on how to succeed with girls, revolutionary hair transplants, and Viagra. I just couldn’t work it out. What was it about a man who’d buy a penis patch that screamed “help”?

Nevertheless, seeing each missive as an instruction and understanding my duty to stick rigorously to the word “yes” until the week was out, I did as they asked, and clicked where they wanted me to, and studied the relevant Web sites. Incredibly only one led to an actual purchase, posing as it did a yesable question, and then following it up with an achievable instruction …

WANT TO BE A LEGALLY ORDAINED MINISTER?

Yes!

BUY OUR MINISTRY IN A BOX!

All right then!

Ten minutes later, and I’d filled in the on-line application and purchased my very own ministry in a box. I would now, apparently, be legally allowed to set up my own church, and then marry couples and baptise small children. Or large children. Hell, I could baptise anything I wanted, whatever its size! I was a bloody minister! And within twenty-eight days, I would have the small, plastic card which proved it—and all for a mere one hundred and nineteen dollars! And they say spam is bad.

I was excited. Who’d have thought, a week before, that I, Danny Wallace, would be one step closer to founding his own church?

As well as spam, I’d also started to get more e-mails from my friends. The first I found my way to was from Matt.

Danny,

Up for a kickabout? I’ve got a new ball! We’re meeting in Hyde Park at twelve.

Was I up for a kickabout? Of
course
I was up for a kickabout! I wrote back and said I’d be there, shorts ’n’ all.

An hour or two later, freshly showered and wearing odd socks, I made my way to the Tube. It was a sunny day; perfect for football and friends. But as I got to
the station a few minutes later, I noticed a man with a white stick and a slightly concerned look on his face. He wasn’t really moving—just standing there—and I wondered for a second what the etiquette was in a situation like this. Should I be politically correct and ignore a blind man as I would anyone else looking lost outside a Tube station, or should I take the fact that he was blind into account? But then I thought … what if this was an opportunity? What if we struck up a conversation and became instant friends and ended up going on a wonderful adventure together like the kid and that bloke from Scent of a
Woman?
It was unlikely, but surely it was an opportunity?

In the end I took a breath and took the plunge.

“Hi. Are you okay?”

The man seemed a little startled by my intrusion, and I instantly regretted my decision.

“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m just … waiting for someone.”

Of course he was. I was an idiot. A patronising idiot. But then he added a gracious “Thank you, though,” and I felt less awkward. I started to walk away, the promise of a marvellous adventure with the man fading fast. But as I was nearly up the little steps, he said, “Actually … could you help me?” and I walked back to him.

He had two fifty-pence pieces in his hand, and he held them up.

“Do you have a one-pound coin?”

He opened his other palm, ready for me to place a quid there.

“Oh, right … Sure … Hang on …”

I searched my pockets and gave a slightly unnecessary running commentary as I did so. But I didn’t have a pound coin. Just a fiver.

“Hang on … I’ll go and get some change.”

I jogged over to the little newspaper stall outside Bow Road station and bought the cheapest paper they had: the
Sun
.

I returned to the man moments later.

“Got one,” I said.

“Great,” said the man, and I popped the pound coin in his hand.

And then I waited for him to give me my two 50p pieces in exchange.

But he didn’t.

He just said, “That’s brilliant, thanks.”

And I just stood there.

“That’s okay,” I said.

And I stood there some more.

“I was just a bit short,” he said. But still there were no 50p’s to be seen.

“Oh,” I said.

And I waited another couple of seconds for him to give me my money. I didn’t really know what to do. I mean, he’d shown me those 50p’s. That was clearly part of the bargain. And yet the moment I’d given him my pound, they’d disappeared. But what could I do? He was a blind man! I couldn’t demand that a blind man give me two 50p’s! There was probably a law or something!