Yes Man (6 page)

What do girls like? And what do girls like that I like?

“I … would have to say …,” I had said, reaching desperately for girl-friendly ideas, “a baby.”

Lizzie had just looked at me.

“A baby?” she had said, flatly.

I’d clearly just made my answer too obvious. She had known instantly why I’d chosen a baby. Because that, in my mind, is what a girl would want to hear. I had had to do something. I’d had to change my answer.

“Hang on, though, because it’s not just a baby.”

“What is it, then? A two-in-one thing? Both a baby
and
a bottle opener?”

“No. It’s a … special kind of baby.”

Lizzie had raised her eyebrows, waiting for my elaboration.

I had it!

“It’s a Chinese one.”

Lizzie had somehow managed to raise her eyebrows even farther than they were already. I wouldn’t have thought it possible, because Lizzie, as far as I could tell, wasn’t made of cartoons.

“A Chinese baby?” she’d said.

“A
massive
Chinese baby,” I had corrected her.

“Sorry,” she’d replied, but I’m not sure that she was. “A massive Chinese baby?”

She was right. I did indeed seem to have specified a
massive
Chinese baby. Why the hell had I specified a massive Chinese baby?

“That’s correct,” I’d said firmly, like I’d thought it through. “A massive Chinese baby.”

“And why would you build a massive Chinese baby?” she had said in a tone which I hoped was gentle amusement but could just as easily have been the way experienced therapists talk to disturbed children.

“Well … there’s nothing cuter than a Chinese baby,” I’d said, which I thought was fair enough. “I mean, that’s not to say other Chinese people aren’t cute too. Well, no, that sounds patronising …”

Lizzie had folded her arms.

“… What I mean is, Chinese babies are cute, and so are … well … Chinese pensioners, now that I think about it. But, you know, anything in between I can take or leave, to be honest …”

Suddenly this wasn’t going so well. But I was sure I could rescue it.

“Let’s face it,” I’d said. “People would come from miles around to see my massive Chinese baby.”

People would come from miles around to see my massive Chinese baby? What the hell was I saying?!

I stopped speaking immediately and stared into my drink.

Lizzie spoke next.

“Um … well, I think that if there …”

But I wouldn’t find out what Lizzie thought. Because suddenly Rohan was there with fresh cans of lager and a bowl of little carrots, and he sat down next to us, and we started to talk about London and Australia and how much Lizzie was looking forward to going back, and not one more word was said about massive Chinese babies for the rest of the evening.

The rest of the year, in fact.

It was twenty past three in the morning, and Wag and I were as drunk as we’ve ever been.

We’d ended up, somehow, sitting in the corner of a club in Soho, talking to three Australian lads in town on holiday. I was using all the Australian knowledge I had to impress them.

“So you’ve got a Big Pineapple, haven’t you?” I said. “And a Big Prawn. And you’ve got that Big Ned Kelly, too.”

But the men were looking at me blankly.

“You know … those sculptures you’ve got all over the place? You must’ve seen them. The Big Barrel and the Big Mosquito? The Big Worm? The Big Orange? I’ve never been over there, but I’ve seen pictures that this girl I was sort of seeing showed me, and it sounds
amazing?.’

I was still getting blank looks. I decided I probably just hadn’t said enough Big Things. So I continued.

“The Big Can. The Big Cod. The Big Carrot. The—”

“Big, Boring Bastard,” said Wag, and everyone laughed.

“I am talking about Australian culture here, Wag,” who was annoying me now, so I’ll tell you his real name is actually Wayne. “It is important that these gentlemen know that we in the United Kingdom are taking an interest.”

“But they’re Austrian,” said Wag.

I looked at the three men.

“Are you Austrian?” I slurred.

They nodded.

“I’m terribly sorry. I thought you were Australian. Why did I think you were Australian?”

Everyone just sort of shrugged.

“But I’ve been talking to you about Australia and being Australian for about …”

“Twenty minutes,” said one of them. In an Austrian accent. It was then that I noticed his T-shirt had the word “Austria” on it.

“Yes. Twenty minutes,” I said. “Well, I hope you’ve at least learned a little something about Australia from our conversations. Good day to you and welcome to our country.”

Wag and I sauntered gracefully away from the Austrians, or as gracefully as it’s possible to saunter while still swaying quite a lot and bumping into people, and stood at the edge of the dance floor.

“Drink?” said Wag.

“Yes!” I nearly shouted, correctly identifying a Yes moment. “Yes, yes, yes!”

I was pointing in the air and jabbing my finger with every “yes” and continued doing so long after Wag had gone to the bar.

It was probably this that attracted the man wearing the sombrero.

At first I assumed he was a Mexican, but slowly began to realise that a real Mexican probably wouldn’t be wearing a sombrero in a London nightclub. And he’d probably have a real mustache, not a stick-on one. A Mexican with a stickon mustache would be like a super Mexican, because he’d have two mustaches, and that’d be cool, because a super Mexican could probably use his poncho as a cape, and then I realised I was saying all this to the man’s face.

“Tequila?” he said by way of a response, revealing himself to be a novelty tequila seller. He revealed what at first glance appeared to be a gun holster but was actually holding a whole bottle of the stuff. “It’s one pound a shot.”

Now, I have developed, over the years, an amazing ability to avoid tequila. A number of unfortunate escapades have happened to me as a result of drinking it, and as a result I have an almost subconscious ability to say no whenever the word is mentioned.

So I said …

“Yes!”

The man poured me a shot, and I downed it.

“Another?”

I looked a lot less keen this time.

“Yes,” I said without the previous exclamation mark and with a slightly sickly feeling in my stomach. To be perfectly honest I’m fairly sure I’d had more than enough to drink already. But that wasn’t the game. I downed my second shot and smiled at the Mexican, willing him to walk away. Either he got the gist, or he thought I was coming on to him, because he walked away very quickly indeed.

I tried to focus my eyes on the dance floor. Ah, that looked like fun. I was suddenly convinced I was a very good dancer indeed, certainly as good as that lady in the blue top, or that one in the green. And they were
very
good. Especially the one in the blue top. She was brilliant! But she’d be no match for me. Maybe I should instigate a dance off with her. Sure, she looked like she knew what she was doing with her arms and legs and head and stuff, but mere physical fitness and coordination and probable classical training was no match for my artistic flailings. I could do what she was doing; I was convinced of it. But unlike the classically trained, my dancing had no respect for so-called boundaries; I wasn’t afraid to break the rules. I’d probably scare the blue-top lady, or her mate in the green, or even that big friend of theirs—the one staring me straight in the eyes and now walking right up to me. That was probably why he was coming toward me, in actual fact. To tell me they all knew what I was thinking, and that I was right—I was the rightful Lord of the Dance! Then we’d probably all go back to their place, and I’d show them some of my moves, and we’d all be great mates, and …

“Are you looking at my girlfriend?” said the man, suddenly inches away from me and not looking like the happiest bloke in the world.

“Huh?” I said brilliantly.

“Are you looking at my girlfriend?”

I smiled and tried to stifle a little tequila burp.

“Am I looking at your girlfriend?” I said in what I hoped was a very amusing voice.

The man wasn’t amused.

I suddenly realised he was serious. My instinct told me to say no. No to whatever he was suggesting. It was a definite No moment.

“Who’s your girlfriend?” I asked as if showing a willingness to undertake detailed research was going to make things better.

“Blue top,” he said.

Oh. Her.

“You make a lovely couple,” I tried.

“So are you looking at her?”

This was awkward. Every part of my being was screaming at me to make peace with this man, to say no and walk away, but it was
obvious
I had been looking at her, and anyway, I already knew what I had to say … what I’d decided I’d
have
to say …

“Yes,” I said.

The man looked a little shocked by this. He looked back at his girlfriend, and then at me again.

“Right,” he said. “So … you’re looking at my girlfriend.”

“Yup,” I said, trying a little half-smile.

He smiled back. This wasn’t going too badly, I suppose. Maybe he was still going to hail me as the Lord of the Dance.

But then, slowly …

“Do I look like the sort of idiot who’d let you look at my girlfriend?”

Uh-oh. He was upping the stakes. Quite considerably. He was asking me to call him an idiot. To his face. To his big, manly face. What do you say to a question like that?

Well, you don’t say …

“Yes.”

I was now cringing slightly and trying my hardest to make my answer sound like a question rather than a statement.

The man smiled again. I was hoping it was a smile of acceptance and gratitude, like I’d told him exactly what he’d always wanted to hear. It was a long shot, to be honest.

He took another small step toward me. I could smell him.

“Are you looking for a fucking smack in the mouth?” he said.

It’s about now that I should have feigned a heart attack or fainted or run away or broken down in tears or renounced my position as the Yes Man. I should have shouted for Wag or pretended I was in the FBI or begged for forgiveness. But I didn’t. I saw this as a challenge. A challenge to who I was, and what I wanted to achieve. How serious was I about this? How much did I care? I tensed up, closed my eyes, and said …

“Yes.”

Jesus. I had just said, yes, I am looking for a fucking smack in the mouth. And I wasn’t. I rarely am.

I was now bracing myself for the impact. I could already feel the punch before it even happened. I turned my head slightly, hoping he’d miss my nose and not
smash my glasses, or my cheekbone, or anything else he could possibly smash, or crack, or bruise, or burst.

But nothing happened.

I opened my eyes.

He was just standing there, looking at me, watching me flinch.

I watched him, watching me flinch.

And then he spoke.

“You fucking psycho.”

I blinked a couple of times.

And then he pushed my shoulder, turned, and walked away.

My God.

I had survived. I had survived a punch-up in a nightclub! Fair enough; there hadn’t been any actual punches. But I had survived nonetheless! I had been the Yes Man, and I had stared death in the face, and I had come out of it unscathed!

Wag was suddenly by my side. He’d clearly been watching from some distance away.

“Do you want to leave, right now?” he said.

“Yes, I do,” I said, and we left, right then.

“I’m sorry for what I was saying earlier,” I’d said. “You know … about massive Chinese babies.”

I’d managed to catch up with Lizzie a little after midnight in the first few minutes of a brand-new year.

“What—That? Well, as a matter of fact, I agree. There’s almost nothing cuter than a Chinese baby.”

“You agree?” I had said, like I’d have walked away if she’d said she preferred German ones.

Of course I do. Listen, if I’m not married with kids by the time I’m thirty-five, just get me drunk and take me down to Chinatown.”

I laughed more out of shock than anything else.

“So, what’ve you been up to lately?” she’d said.

“Not much, if I’m honest,” I’d said. “I’ve kind of been keeping myself to myself.”

Lizzie made a concerned face.

“Why?” she had said, but I didn’t want to talk about it. So I changed the subject.

“So, listen … Is that true, what you were saying to Rohan earlier? About going back to Australia?”

“Yep. In ten days. I’m starting a new job. So, it’s back to the Aussie summer. Beats the British rain. What happened to white Christmases? I’d wanted to see my first snow.”

“You haven’t seen snow?” I had asked.

“Terrible, isn’t it? I’ve never seen snow, and you’ve never seen a Big Ned Kelly,” she said. “And people complain about wars, eh?”

And we laughed, and an hour later, and I still don’t know how, we had kissed.

Outside the club I started to laugh.

And laugh and laugh and laugh.

I was utterly exhilarated. I am not, by nature, a fighter. And yet I’d nearly got into a fight. A fight! Me! And I’d
won!

“I just won a fight, Wag! With a man twice my size!”

“You
didn’t
win a fight. And he
wasn’t
twice your size. He was about an inch taller than you.”

“He was massive! And I won!”

“You did not win. He just decided not to hit you, that’s all. What did you say to him, anyway?”

“I told him I was looking at his girlfriend and that he was an idiot and then I dared him to punch me!”

“You did what?”

“That’s right! I said, ‘Yes, I am looking at your girlfriend. Punch me if you dare, you big idiot!’”

“You
said
that?”

“Kind of, yes! Well, no, not really. But I was taken with the moment, Wag! It was brilliant! I was taken with the moment and look at me—I’m still here!”

Wag did as I asked and looked at me.

“You’re a drunk man who escaped a beating.”

“I know! It’s great!”

It sounds stupid, and I know it must be difficult to understand, but I felt … well … I felt on top of the world.