Dialects

I was in a garrulous mood, if 'garrulous' means something like 'flighty', 'over-excited', 'talkative', 'socially-oriented', 'hyperactive', 'outward-going', 'hysterical', 'active', and/or 'over-stimulated'. It's a mood I've been known to get into, at least according to some of my friends who are good enough friends to see to it that I get home safely after a particularly 'garrulous' evening out. These moods have been known to come over me almost regularly, every three months or so, since I was twenty years old, when I first fell into a canal. I've always gotten out of these scrapes--sometimes narrowly--but I have been aware that this was all only a matter of chance, and that some day something terrible would happen to me. I simply didn't know which 'garrulous' episode would lead me down the path of no return.

I was in a garrulous mood, and that mood led me, like a carthorse whose driver had fallen asleep, to a part of town I remembered having visited many years before. It was a dodgy part of the city, with a reputation for deeds dirty and dim. Strange forms passed me, in dark cloaks, and yet I bounced along with little knowledge of what was in store for me, and, frankly, not caring much, knowing that I had only to keep my eyes open and, if I did so, nothing serious would happen to me. That was the garrulous part of me. After all, to be truly garrulous you have to be willing to get into scrapes of some sort or another.

I went into a place I'd never been in before, though I had passed it on numerous occasions: i.e., maybe six times. That night, however, there was something special that attracted me to it. Maybe it was how the meagre dusk light was bouncing off its windows, like trapezoids where you least expect them, like a mystery in its most fundamental sense. The place--it was called Lionels--was a three-storey place, with food served all over but with separate bars for each floor. All this I somehow knew. I went in the front door, below the sign, knowing that the front door led into the ground floor, with one floor above and one floor below: I had a choice of three. Upstairs would probably be made for events; the ground floor would be for people who wanted meals to get drunk over, while the basement would be set for drinking, with maybe some nachos or hamburgers orderable down from above, and darts and a coin-op pool table or two. I looked around to find the staircase going down, and descended.

The red-leaning light and the old oakish walls were exactly what I expected to be; I double-took since it was so like a place in my hometown it was uncanny. A juke was playing a ballad I'd heard somewhere before, a kind of a power ballad, from years past and out-of-date. I settled myself down at a small booth a median distance from the bar. I didn't count, but there were eight or so people in there, mostly men. I wasn't there to mingle, though; at least not yet; all I wanted was to get somewhat drunk, even though I didn't quite know the reason.

After a couple pints I was feeling differently. Things were actually quite jolly, I perceived. Maybe it was time to mix a little with the locals. However, before I could do that, I had to go to the washroom for a time. Leaving my coat behind, I handily found the facilities and a stall and I sat down to relieve myself gratefully. I looked around the stall, at the slogans and notices written on its walls in what looked like Sharpies, and I checked out the door to see how they'd hung it, and I glanced at the wall behind me and while I was doing this I noticed down on the floor a collection of written sheets. I reached around and picked them up. Ten pages altogether, numbered in sequence. The writing on them was very small, as if made by a rather small person or at least a person with quite small hands. I started my reading at page one.

 

¶It was all very much like a dream this week. Monday morning, I got up refreshed, wrote my morning paragraphs, three or four paragraphs was my typical limit, trying not to be too attentive to the paragraphs that preceded since that would only slow me down. Anyway, the morning writing didn't mean much to me, or to anyone. My authorial attempts were dead and lifeless, and I didn't have the brains to keep more than two or at the most three themes together at any time. I was no good at polyphony; all I could do was slog along and try to keep names of characters straight (which seldom happened).

I got to my place of employment, the Tricky Dicky Advertising Agency, at nine on the dot. (I'm good at writing advertising, since you never want polyphony in advertising. It all has to be as simple as possible. Few real authors start out in advertising.) There was a note on my desk. A name, a number: and as a note: INTERVIEW REQUESTED. What that meant, I did not know. I don't know who wrote the note, but there it was.

I phoned the number, introduced myself. The voice on the line said, I'm the assistant, let me see, what was the phone call about? Interview requested? Ah yes I called about that late Friday afternoon. As far as I can recall and understand, we want to do an interview with you on Friday coming. Who? Oh, sorry, this is radio, California's number one talk radio. I think the interview is about some upcoming state legislation. That's the impression I got. Oh well everything will be clarified in due time. I'll tell Mrs. Trevarti to call you back today, and everything will get settled. Thanks! Bye now!

I thought: Hmm me on the radio? The idea made me nervous at first, and then I figured this could be my chance, my chance to shine, plus it would look good for the company; and I knew I had to clear it with Richard, Boss Richard, that is to say. I immediately got nervous again. I hoped Richard would say no, push that foolishness out of your head. (My relationships have never been plain.) Or he could encourage it, and then where would I be? I'd have to know precisely the subject of the California legislation in question, for then I could prepare myself fully on the subject, even practice a few throw-away nyucks, and have a profoundly deep effect on the world, from the perspective of advertising.

I knew I'd be seeing Richard later in the afternoon, so I set down to work on my advertising campaign for all-glass boats. I'd seen one of the all-glass boats when I'd gone to a nautical trade show, looking for clients, and at the trade show was an all-glass boat, and its manufacturer was eager to meet me. The campaign involved durability, cleanliness, wonder and price. A ten gallon barrel of polish could be yours for free. They come in all sizes, from rowboats to schooners. You'd be the talk of the block. Smash it with a hammer, it won't break or chip. There's a nuclear-grade polymer holding the silica together, suitable for your next space-flight. I made up some slogans which I can't tell you because they're company property, but believe you me, I thought it was going to take off, and big-time at that.

I made some drawings for some quarter-page ads, all in an oldish style, since the market would be men of a certain age and income. I had to keep the exclamation marks under control, no matter how exciting having an all-glass boat could be, since these men of a certain age also had heart diseases of a certain age. I had to undersell it a bit, you know, hint at certain things rather than scream them out loud. Soon I had a goodly number of mock-ups, and off I went to Richard's office to show him my ideas.

We went over the text and the drawings together. Richard--Tricky Dick as his nickname and brand went--was in his sixties and not ready to retire anytime soon. It was his business, it was his passion. He knew how to reach people, and he didn't care who knew. In fact, his 'trick' was in knowing how not to be tricky. There was some irony to it, and it was his trademark. At the end of our investigations I told him about the radio thing, and he said that as long as it passed legal, it was green-lit. Find out what the legislation is, tell the legal department so they can feed you policy on our behalf, as well as the advertising industry in general. You'll be doing a good thing for us, since you'll be surreptitiously advertising advertising. And don't be nervous, since radio is fake and you'll be given the questions you'll be answering beforehand. Go get em, tiger!

He didn't stop there. Inventors get ideas, he told me. And then they build a prototype, and they try to get investors. Small investors at first, then they make second, third, fourth, nth protypes, until they've got a healthy venture capital, and only then is the product launched into the marketplace. (There's always a marketplace for inventions, I'm sure you've noticed that.) The business is up and running. It becomes time to contract out while the money's flowing in from this place and that: and that's when they turn to us, the advertisers. We gently let the public know there's something good and new under the sun, and terms are always negotiable. And, sometime later, we hence buy their products in return. It's a circle, a circle of life. I've said too much. Good luck!

¶The following morning--Tuesday morning--I awoke from a nightmare about flubbing some of my own lines during a funeral reading. It was my poem called Autumn's Wind. (Not my best.) Having read it so often, I know it by heart. However, I mixed up a couple feet in a couple lines, at the funeral in my dream. On awakening, I immediately connected it to whatever was going to happen at the radio station on Friday. It wasn't a good omen. I realized I'd have to really buckle down and study the subject, and rehearse, rehearse, rehearse. I rushed, ahead of schedule, out of my apartment to catch the streetcar heading downtown, to the Tricky Dicky Advertising Agency. I hung my hat on the hat-rack and I had to check my overnight messages. (Always there was at least one, always from TDAA Asia, our overseas firm on the other side of the world.) Among the emails was one from the radio station. They wanted to know if everything was all right-and-ready, and in formal language I replied that everything was on schedule so long as I received some information about what the particular California legislation was. I could encounter some legal issues, I wrote, and I need a reply tout suite. I worked while waiting.

On my agenda for that day sat some more work on the all-glass boats, plus I had a scheduled meeting about Ballistic Airlines. I opened up their file, but before I could really tuck in I got a fax-- a long fax, page after page of fax paper, some seventy pages altogether. The California legislation! Boy, I thought. Those radio stations work fast! I pulled it all together, the pages slippery with whatever fax paper is coated with, and considered photocopying them onto normal paper, which would make it all much easier to read. Before slipping it all in an envelope for the photocopying department I glanced at the first page, which was set in monospace. The legislation appeared to concern animals and their welfare. What animals and their welfare had to do with advertising, was anybody's guess.

Ballistic Airlines, I'm afraid, may have jumped the gun hiring TDAA. The concept was clear, mathematically speaking, but its execution had never been exhibited. If a demonstration got called for, here's what would happen: A rocket, with passengers on it, would be fired from a pad which was fueled by slow-dissolving hydrogen peroxide. The launch would be a slow launch, with the rocket kept upright via immense gyroscopes in the rocket's shell. A constant acceleration of 3G would commence, a little heavy to sit within but not terribly uncomfortable all in all. Halfway through the journey, the insides of the rocket would reverse in the direction of the flight such that the passengers would wind up 180° around. (This was the most difficult part of the journey, from the passenger's view; motion-sickness tests in the lab mock-up had been quietly disappointing.) And yet Ballistic Airlines, without so much as a demo but cushioned by lots and lots of money from who knew where, were going ahead with a (both senses) launch date, and they were not averse to drumming up some reservations beforehand. So anyway, the rocket would decelerate at 3G until it was brought to ground and a halt at another pad, a thousand miles distant, caught by immense rubber bands, and the whole trip's duration would be about twenty-seven minutes per thousand miles, on average.

Naturally, I started with a Jetsons theme. I played around with the robot (whom I think was called Robot) a bit, considering her as a flight attendant or a stewardess, and as I drew this sexy robot (sex sells), I experienced the Pygmalion Effect: my Robot became more adorable than any human being, living in the flesh, or robot, metal to the core, could ever be. Images and newsreels of three sexy stewardess robots, in a mythical mid-century Manhattan apartment of tidy slate and sleek tile, cf. Frank Lloyd Wright, with a full bar and animal skins on the ottomans, assailed me, and though I knew it was all in my imagination, I had a hard time getting control of myself. Fortunately, I was saved be a telephone bell. It was Richard wanting to meet with me.

I picked up the envelope of legislation, and halfway down the office hallway I dropped it into the secretarial To Do box. I planned to send a little note a bit later telling them it was me who put it there and who'd been a bit too pressed for time to go through the proper channels. In any case, they could easily find out who had printed out the fax. Our three secretaries are exceptionally intelligent. You don't have to explain things to them. One has a Masters in Art History, and the others are English B.A.s. If I found the envelope was still in the To Do box in fifteen or so minutes, I vowed to put my name on it along with a line of instructions. Please copy this onto decent paper, please.

Richard had an update of some sort, and he was happy with it. I waited a little for him to speak, for he was occupied at his office's liquor cabinet. Then he said: The people with the all-glass boat business somehow heard you were going to be on the radio Friday, and they say they're very impressed to discover their very own ad agent is going national! (You know it'll be countrywide, right?) The glass boat people aren't just any old account: There's a good chance that boats made of glass are superior to boats made of anything else. I want an update about Friday's broadcast.

I told him that twenty minutes prior I'd received by fax the legislation I was supposed to address and that I'd only had time to glance at the first page before sending it all off to be photocopied onto quality paper. I told him that I was mystified why anyone would believe that an advertising person would have anything to add to any discussion of animal rights. I recounted to him the history of the TDAA's animal contracts. Jones got Jaguar, Brown got Beetle, and Majors got Mustang. I didn't know anything about animals; I didn't know anything about even plants. I anecdoted that I'd bought a fern a month ago, and that I have no idea if was dead or alive now; maybe I haven't watered it right. I've seen dogs on the street, and the occasional cat, but I'm not an advertiser connected to animals. If Jones or Brown or Majors could take my place, I'm sure we'd all be better off.

Richard wouldn't hear of it. All the schedules would be thrown off. All three--Jones, Brown, Majors--were penned to be in a very important board meeting. (I didn't know there was a board meeting scheduled for Friday, today.) We're going to be going in a new direction with those accounts. (Why didn't I know?) We have to see a view of the possible, before we can proceed to the probable. (Maybe it was because I didn't know the language.) There's plenty to be done, and you will be helping in your own way by doing the interview or whatever it is. (I lost.)

¶Wednesday morning came about, and I hurried to the office a full fifteen minutes ahead of everyone else because I wanted to see if the radio station had coughed up any more details. There weren't any messages to be had. What had they promised? More information. Then I remembered the legislation I was supposed to be addressing and I wondered where the document had gotten to. I went out into the hall and saw it there, exactly where I had left it, un-photocopied and sadly neglected. I took the envelope back to my desk and read the slippery sheets. Still I couldn't see what any of it had to do with me. It seemed to concern habitats, specific habitats, which you'd have to use a map to find. But no: the document made plain that these habitats couldn't be found on any map because they didn't exist yet. That was all part of the proposal, and since I couldn't figure out what the point was, I thought I was missing some pages at the end. It wasn't that it cut off in mid-sentence or anything as obvious as that; however, the last section in it was a §1, and there wasn't any §2 to be found.

It was getting onto 11:30 and I before I'd done any real work the phone rang and thank goodness it was the radio station. I asked about the missing pages and the woman told me They were working on it. Naturally I didn't know quite what this meant, but I nodded (even though my nod couldn't be seen by her) and asked politely if it was going to be coming my way any time soon. She told me It'll come to you later today, Or maybe this evening, Or perhaps in the morning, It's hard to say. Those answers seemed enough for me because I thanked her two or three times and said Good Day to her and also that I was pretty excited about the whole thing and rung off. I put it out of my mind since it was clear to me that the document would come. She wouldn't've lie to me, would she've? She'd sounded quite certain and confident.

In any case, the radio thing would be over by Saturday morning, so I put it out of my mind, as I said a couple sentences ago.

And so to working once again, Wednesday morning. My emails told me we'd had a bit of trouble with an account, and it was up to me to fix it. I often get tasked with fixing things, things that aren't going right, and now I had to figure out something to do with the kangaroo breeding account. The advertisements were going in all the best weekly and monthly farm journals, but they didn't seem to be working. The Kangaroo Breeders Association was disappointed that business hadn't improved; it had stayed steady, even through mating season. Not everyone can sell kangaroos, even though they have a fine meat to them, not very fatty at all, good as a substitute anywhere for beef, chicken, or pork, plus there's the novelty among the breeder clientele, because kangaroos haven't really taken off as they have in this country as in other countries such as Laos. Imagine, you, breeder, with a corral, with a high-fenced corral, feeding these cute and clever marsupials oats and leaves from arid plants and watching the little joeys emerge all pink and hoppy from their mothers. You can even set up a petting zoo of sorts, just so long as you don't tell the children what's going to happen to any particular roo when it matures at four years of age. Perhaps it was this angle that made people squeamish. Are kangaroos pets or food? That's a dilemma that hasn't been solved, which I guess comes down to human nature.

Richard called me to his office via telephone. I brought some kangaroo drawings just in case that was going to be part of the event in his office. I put them down, visibly, on the chair beside his office door. I figure that if he looked at them, that was the whole reason of this encounter, said encounters now seemingly every single day. What could that mean? I wondered, and I had been wondering. Was it because I was being groomed for a higher position? Was I going to become a director? Or was it just something in the air, or was he going to fire me one of these times when the mood simply struck him, when the words You're Fired could get past his teeth?

He told me he'd been thinking about the radio matter. Had I received any more information? I haven't (he said) heard a thing about any legislation concerning advertising about animals. I've searched through the state legislative calendar and I don't see any bills being tabled soon that concern advertising about animals. Have you thought that maybe they're pulling your leg?

I hadn't thought of that, and I was a little shocked to consider it. Maybe it was all a mistake. Maybe it was a prank of some sort. I told Richard I didn't have any information save that the legislation, a certain amount of which I'd read, was actually about environmentalism. I haven't read the end of it--I seem to be missing the ending--but that's what it's about. There's nothing about advertising in the whole thing, as far as I can tell.

He replied: Well, all in all, the end point is: All advertising is good advertising. Do whatever they ask, get on the air, state your view and make a good impression, thank them for the time at the end of it all, collect business cards, smile at everyone, including the technical crew, make your name known, make our name known, don't say anything false, be clear and concise, and hope for the best. All of us at TDAA have supreme confidence in you, and there's no way you're going to be letting us down. So, go, now, get some rest, stay off liquor and drugs until then, a good night's sleep heals much. Go home, and that's an order from the boss!

¶So Thursday rolled around and I went back to the office. I was trying not to think too much about what I would be doing next day. All I knew was where the radio station was, and what time I was supposed to show up. Everything would take care of itself.

At eleven they finally phoned. Just checking in, address such-and-such, time such-and-such, and they'd be sending in the script later today. I knew from working multimedia campaigns that script referred to the broad outline of the radio broadcast, who was on at what time, and on what subject or topic, kind of like a rundown, script being a word borrowed from other kinds of radio programs because, after all, radio is a form of entertainment, in the form of information. It sounds like it's all natural--doesn't it?--but really it's a non-fictional form of drama. That's the way things work.

My meeting that day with Richard was all about the week's progress on the three accounts I've talk about above, about the kangaroos and the rocket transportation and the all-glass boats. (He wanted weekly updates, not just from me but also from everyone under his command, and since the next day was highly uncertain, he wanted the meeting on Thursday.) In his office I outlined what work I'd accomplished, and he asked me if I'd "reached out" to any of the clients. I had to tell him that I had not, since I was a bit distracted by the radio problem, and he replied that he'd let it slide this once but that I should if I have time tomorrow after the radio thing to get back to the office and at least let the companies know you're still alive and working on their matters. I figured that made good sense, and I told him that was just what I'd been planning to do, yessir. Heck, how would they know what I'd done on Monday and Tuesday and Wednesday? I could even send them some of the work I had done for them, simply to prove to them they weren't being neglected at all, all three were first and foremost, yessiree.

I waited for the script. Nothing arrived. I figured it was just that they were busy, and besides I was sure they'd give me plenty of time in the warm-up to the broadcast to understand what exactly I was going to say. I looked over the legislation again, feeling I had made some progress in understanding what it was they wanted from me, and I felt competent. Everything would work out. I went home, checked my email every once in a while, got sleepy, watched half a movie (Superman) and went to bed.

¶Next morning, I took a cab to the radio station. I found security, told them who I was there to see and why I was there, and they contacted the person--whose name was Miss Deborah, first or last name I never learned--and she came down with her clipboard and took me up to a room near a recording studio of some sort or another. She said yes they had the script, it was around somewhere, someone had called in sick but she was sure they'd be able to find it for me, did I want some coffee, I'll show you where the washroom is, many guests like to compose themselves in the washroom before going on. She showed me where the washroom was, and I acknowledged the washroom properly. And so I waited in the little room, hearing muffled voices and laughter from the next room, from the studio, that is.

After about fifteen minutes had passed, Miss Deborah came back into the room. She told me it was Show Time. Yes, those were the words she used. I told her I'd never been in a play before, and she laughed, as if I was a great kidder. I didn't know what to make of that. I followed her out of the room and into the radio studio. Two people, a woman and a man, were sitting at a table, and upon that table was a very fancy titanium microphone. It looked like it had seem more than its fair share of spittle, so tarnished it was. I got sat down in a third chair. The woman was to my left and she said in a gravelly voice Welcome to the show without looking up. The man, who was across the table, asked if I'd brought my script. I told him I hadn't received any script, and he looked around and called: Where's his script? A young woman hurried in and put some sheets down in front of me. It was an actual script there, like a play, down in front of me. I told them there's been some kind of a mistake, that I thought I was going to be interviewed about the advertising business, or at least I think I told them that, but before it could all be sorted out I heard someone in a grand stentorian voice say that it was the play for the day.

Some sound effects started playing; it was an ocean, with waves on rocks and foghorns off in the distance; too many foghorns for realism, but my opinion doesn't matter because I was never much of a critic. The wind was rushing by, too; some birds sang, so I knew it was a morning, an early morning, before five I guess, and some footsteps approached. The man leaned into the microphone and cried: "Wae, Oon, dye see summat shippers agroun? In the nye, I hurt wheftsoons soundins frae Kimbeth Rock. Summat distressin soond, wye deistres, but I hae heerd not, nay, nought from the arbormaister."

The woman pretended to brush sea-mist from her hair, method acting I suppose, before she cried, and I mean cried such that I had to lean away from her: "Aye, Finn, summat a prolly for I hurt it too, twas givin me bairns a set-to, an I cannae eider proxy a fack frae none o tho pierates' dears out inna gatherin o kelp, for fahr; seem a like the arbormaister mae knew moar dan he be lettin a body to know."

Oon and Finn talked it through, with the sun on the rise (though too cloudy from the storm to show his face properly), up there on the cliff overlooking some English or Irish or Scottish sea. They determined to go see what the arbormaister really knew, because there were rumours about him getting it on with a married woman who lived up near Kimbeth Rock. Something was suspicious about the whole business. As they walked along, they appeared to be talking about their lives: I understand that in TV circles they use the term BACKSTORY. I was listening to them from a great height, understand. Oon had a pretty lousy husband, to judge from her vocative inventive, and Finn taught school to bairns. They marched on, and then they were at the arbormaister's door, and the knock resonated, loudly, unlike any I'd heard before, and a door creaked open; and the man across the table and the gravelly woman looked at me, waiting. I looked down at the script once I realized I was the arbormeister. I read, and stammered though:

"Whey, w-what, I, findin dree dar, duar? ye, a knocked, nucked, bay, yeetwo. Ye two. Ca-ca-conna, Oon a F-fyinn, crotch, cotch, cotched ay ay ay der stermer, I don't understand a thing I'm saying, I'm not an actor, I sell advertising. I've never acted in my life."

The man and the woman were speechless for a moment. The winds and the waves still came in, as we all sat there, waiting for someone to do something that would resolve the problem. Finally, relief, as the woman looked at the man and said, in character, something improvised, which I didn't understand at all. The man replied in the same manner, i.e. incomprehensibly, and it seemed they had on-the-spot voiced the arbormeister out of the story. I was impressed. I had heard of such matters. They were, as they say, troupers. They carried on, changing the story whenever it was necessary for the audience to believe the arbormeister hadn't done much and wouldn't be heard from again, like he'd vanished into the morning mist and was no longer hearing those goddam foghorns. The two continued on, and since there had obviously been a clerical error at root of the whole awful thing, since my presence was no longer required, and since I felt like I was having a stroke, I arose silently from the chair, went to the door, quietly opened it to leave the studio, and closed it. I had in my hands the script.

I bless my stars that Miss Deborah showed me where the toilet was, because that was where I had to be, right then, right there, certain that when I leave this stall and venture into society everyone will know exactly how I'd been humiliated, even if it had been by accident. Rather: I'd be believing they knew, and that was enough. There were some blank sheets included for who knows what reason with the script, and I'm nearly at the end of the last one. I'll go outside eventually, I know it. I only want to leave something behind, for someone to read, and maybe give them a lesson about paying attention. It's a busy place, reality, and you should take it all on all the time.

A few minutes ago, I noticed at my feet a small collection of papers. I picked them all up, hoping for something to take my mind off my misery. It was some kind of a story. Someone goes to a bar, and then he goes to the washroom, where he finds

 

And there it ends, at the bottom of a page.

What was I to make of this? Could this have been a true account of some week-in-the-life? I had no way of knowing. However, I decided to take it with me. Sometimes one can make much of a found object.

I stood, pulled up my panties, dropped my skirt, and, taking the pages with me, went back into the bar. I ordered another one, for I'd finished only my second, and I contemplated the story. It felt more like a bad dream than anything that could possibly be real. Perhaps that's what it was: yes, it was probably a hoax of some kind. I came to the determination that it was a work of fiction, and that any resemblance to persons living or dead, in this the real world, was strictly a coincidence.