MUNGO DYMOCK’S WEBLOG

 

Last updated 11^th November 2005.

 

FIRST DAY

 

 

First thing I heard on the radio this morning was that Rosa Lee Parks has died aged 92.  For some reason this sets me off thinking about Abraham Lincoln.  I always thought Abe Lincoln’s face looked as if it was a composite of spare parts.  Look at those ears, for instance.  Mr Potato Head couldn’t pick a worse set.  And what a complexion: my psychotherapist, Blinking Boris, looks like an ad for Oil of Olay by comparison.

 

I drop my daughter off at Scariness and then head for the offices of FWC, a three storey website-building complex on the western face of Ben Hough, where I am due to sit down with my ‘team’ to discuss the new website, Oh dear, it’s the Mungo Dymock Happening.

 

We formed FWC – Flirting With Catastrophe – about two days ago.  At least I think we did.  I don’t remember ever seeing any kind of construction on the Western slopes of Ben Hough before that.  My team and I must have been quick putting that up!  Not to mention the link generators, logo makers, florists, etc.

 

There are four of us so far and we can’t agree about anything.

 

The art director is a guy called Tommy Kemp.  We sometimes call him Tom-Tom although strictly speaking he accompanies his spontaneous poetry compositions on Bongos.  A small point but one my good friend Gordon Scott, vocalist with The Defenders, would be sure to pull me up about.

 

Tom-Tom’s a young hipster/beatnik type, complete with jaw-line stubble, stripped t-shirt, drainpipes and pointed boots.  Sometimes when I look at him, feet up on the Board Room table, I think perhaps I’m imagining he’s there at all.  But no: he’s here and what’s more he’s got money.  I heard from a third party that he’s so rich he hires a maid to keep his pad dirty.  A lot of people who come to the island have money.

 

And then there’s Blinking Boris of course.  He doesn’t say much; just sits there in his chair, erect, wearing a fez and a body-length robe, hands clasped before him.  You might think it odd to have your psychotherapist come to your Board Meetings but hey, look at Brian Wilson.  He produced two rather good albums under the supervision of his shrink.  Yeah, but he also got badly ripped off, didn’t he?  Well, take it from me: Boris isn’t the kind to get worked up about money.  Boris has been with me for a long time now although it’s only in the very recent past that I’ve begun to depend on him.  It just seemed to make sense to have him on board.

 

Psychotherapists worry me.  For one thing, when you break the word psychotherapist down you get psycho-the-rapist.  If that wasn’t enough, I have myself one who keeps insisting I had a mummy complex and that he should know.  I don’t know what he’s driving at.

 

Next up is a guy called Frank Marker, also known as The Dick with the Stick.  That’s him sitting to my left, leaning on his stick, a Golden Labrador at his feet.  I met Frank back in he late ‘60’s when he was working as a Private Detective in old London town.  (I was engaged on some covert work, which I still can’t discuss.)  Back then, of course, he didn’t have a stick because he wasn’t blind.  He was a really active guy and even regularly went skydiving.  I’ll bet his guide dog is glad he gave that up! 

 

Quite ironic, in a way, that I should end up employing a blind private eye.

 

So this is our first meeting.  Even before I’ve had my first cup of Java Juice Tom-Tom is right in my face.

 

“Hey man, why are there no chicks in this organisation?”

 

“Bird Flu?” I venture, inwardly cringing at having made such a weak joke.  Even Boris only manages a very weak smile of encouragement.

 

“I think he means there are no ladies in our little group,” says Frank, sitting to my left, leaning on his white stick.  “That’s hardly politically correct.” 

 

For some reason Frank finds this quite amusing and begins to laugh.  He isn’t laughing long before he starts coughing, a real bout of coughing that ends up with him having to be handed a waste paper bin so he can hawk into it.

 

“There are ladies – females – employed by FWC,” I say, correcting Tom-Tom. I know for sure of two who work in the Cut and Paste lab.”

 

“I think,” says Boris in that voice of his that seems to coming from somewhere deep inside a cave, “our young friend feels the organisation would benefit from a lady being part of our partnership.”

 

I was about to say something but stopped.  I sat back in my chair and thought a few seconds.  Then I said, “That may be the case.  But to tell you the truth I’m not a hundred percent sure why we have this partnership.  I mean, why are we here, why do we have an organisation, these buildings … why is it called Flirting With Catastrophe?” 

 

Boris got to his feet. 

 

“Perhaps I should take you home now,” he said.  And he did.

 

 

SECOND DAY

 

All my friends have wives or partners, or girlfriends and I guess I have too.  Where did Boris take me after the meeting yesterday?

 

Here I am again in my office at FWC.  I haven’t seen any of my partners this morning.  I’m sure I must have allocated them areas of responsibility.  Perhaps these are keeping them busy.

 

In the corridors people come and go – all men, men of various sizes, shapes and ages.  They all seem to have a sense of purpose.  Some examine sheaves of papers while others talk rapidly into their mobile phones.  A little while back I put my head out the door, out of curiosity, and the guys in the immediate vicinity stopped and smiled and said ‘Good Morning, Mr Dymock’. 

 

You know, this place seems bigger than it did yesterday.

 

The people out in the corridor scare me a little.  They seem to be working for me, seem to have my best interests at heart; I suppose I should be excited, fulfilled and happy.  It’s like all my dreams have come true.  But you know how when you wake up and you know you’ve had a great dream but you can’t remember what it was?  That’s it, right here in my office: my scratching my head and wondering what the hell is going on.  If anyone knows it should be me.  Which makes me think that none of this is real.

 

So I get up from the desk and walk back to the door.  I’m not achieving anything here so I might as well go on a tour of inspection.  I remember from yesterday there is a factory here of some description and a laboratory and various other departments, sub-departments, offices – the whole shebang.  If I’m really the boss here then no one can deny me the right to go on a tour of inspection.

 

Trouble is when I get back out into the corridor I have no idea where I am or how to get where I want.  The employees continued to smile and scrape as they go past and I return their pleasantries.  I saunter down the corridor with my hands clasped behind my back, the very image of a man under control and in control.

 

Then I decide to stop one of the younger workers.  I stop him with a gesture of my hand.

 

“What’s your name young man?”

 

He goes red and I just know he’s got a nervous stammer.

 

“Will – Will – Williams, Mr Dymock.”

 

Williams is finding it hard to keep eye contact.  Obviously he's overwhelmed at being addressed by the Great Man Himself.

 

“I see.  And do you have a first name, Mr Williams.”

 

He struggles to form the words in his mouth.  I am sorry to be causing him any distress.

 

“Al – Al – Ale – Alexander, sir.”

 

“Good.  Alexander.  That’s a good name.”  I allow myself to share a conspiratorial laugh with him.  “In fact that’s more than a good name.  That’s a great name.”  Young Mr Williams looks at me blankly. “Alexander the Great.  Get it?”

 

No, he doesn’t, so I put my hand on his shoulder lightly, turn him around.

 

We start down the corridor in the direction I was going.

 

“I wonder if you would be good enough to escort me to the … the Link Factory.”

 

Alexander stops.  He has a puzzled look on his face.

 

“Do you mean the Link Generator, Mr Dymock?”

 

The young fellow obviously thinks I am testing him.

 

“Why yes, yes of course, the Link Generator.”

 

“It’s just that I’ve never heard it called the Link Factory before.”  He is reassured to see me smiling benignly.  “But it’s back this way to the stairs, Mr Dymock.  We’re going the wrong way.”

 

“Lead on.”

 

The further back along the corridor we go the less people there are until at last there’s only Alexander the Great and myself.  I become aware of our footsteps echoing from the painted brick walls.  This building reminds me of something post-war and functional.  Too cold and clinical …

 

We start down the stairs, me steadying myself on the thin steel banister while Alexander races in front of me.

 

“Have you been with us long Alexander?” I ask my young guide.  He stops on one of the landings and looks at me intently.

 

“Ex – ex – excuse me for as – ask – asking – but you are M – M - Mr Dymock, aren’t you?”

 

Good question. 

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“Just that y – y- you didn’t know the proper name for the place where the links are powered, you don’t know the way t – to – the generator a – and you don’t know how long I’ve b – be – been here.  Everyone knows you know – e – every – everything about this place.”

 

“Come now, young fellow,” I say, tousling his greasy hair.  “I’m a busy man, you must know that.  How can I retain every scrap of information about FWC?”  He still looked uncertain.  I hoped I was putting on a good show.  If only I could remember!  Why couldn’t I?

 

Why?

 

Alexander turns to walk on but I restrain him by the shoulder.

 

“Do you know a gentleman named ‘Boris’?”  Alexander breaks free and bounds down the stairs out of sight me.  He has gone and I no longer have a guide.

 

His steps faded away.  I looked over the banister, down the stairwell.  Would I continue alone on my journey?  Suddenly I had a sense of foreboding.  I knew some that something nasty was down there waiting for me.  It was the same feeling I used to get when I was a kid, back when Boris was after me.  But it wasn’t Boris down there.  It was somebody – or something – far worse …

 

 

THIRD DAY

 

Another day, another bored meeting: no one has anything to say. 

 

They study me, looking for direction. 

 

Tom-Tom drums a five-four beat on the edge of the table. 

 

Marker supports his chin on the top of his cane, listening intently for signs of my discomfort.  (Even Marker’s dog is looking up at me with sad, appealing eyes.) 

 

Boris stares at me with his ghastly eyes, a smile set upon his lips.

 

“Flat Pack Coffins,” I say.  “’Your Bereavement Buddy Under The Bed’.” 

 

After a few seconds Marker clears his throat. 

 

The table-top tattoo pauses, hovers, then resumes.

 

“Believe me, I was thinking about this all last night,” I say.  “Listen, listen to this: ‘We guarantee that once you’ve tried one of our products you’ll never try another!’  How’s that?  Humour and gravitas.”

 

The silence is deafening.  I feel uncomfortably hot.  I’m trying to give the impression that I am in control but I am on the verge of running for the door when Marker speaks.

 

“Mungo,” he says, “you know what I used to love about skydiving?”

 

The remark is so out of the blue as to cause Boris to shift his attention Marker’s way and make Tom-Tom sit up in his chair and fold his arms.  The dog slumps to the floor, inert.

 

“Y – Yes,” I stammer.  “I remember being told that before your accident you were into jumping out of perfectly good planes.”  I force a laugh and look to the others in vain for signs of encouragement.

 

“Yes,” he says, now turning in my direction.  “But do you know what I used to love about skydiving?”

 

Boris and Tom-Tom look at me, waiting.

 

“Eh – no, Frank, I don’t.”  I clear my throat.  “Could you tell us please?”

 

“What I loved about skydiving was that only I could save my life.”

 

“Yeah,” says Tom-Tom.  “I love it man, going to the edge.”

 

“What you’re saying,” says Boris, “is that skydiving is an action against death, a denial of death?”

 

Behind me I hear distant electrical chatter, like someone had lost their transistor radio down the back of a chair.  I turn and see for the first time a well dressed attendant at the door to, finger pressed to an ear.  When the chatter ends he speaks to his lapel.

 

“Roger that,” he says.

 

Boris looks over at him and asks, “Yes, Montgomery?”

 

“That car is turning on to Elm Street, sir.”

 

“Ah, good,” says Boris, a serene look upon his face.

 

I am lost in dreams of green kryptonite.

 

“Anyway, Mungo,” says Marker, tapping his stick in agitation, “we can’t go to anyone looking for advertising or start to develop our own line of goods – although I’m not saying your cardboard coffin idea isn’t a good one – until we have established just what we are going to do with this website.  I am told there is all kinds of crap on it.”

 

I show them the palms of my hands and confess I know nothing of this.

 

“Wait a minute man,” says Tom-Tom.  “You’re telling me you don’t know what’s on your website?”  He laughs.  “Man, there’s all kinds of shit on it!  Stuff about Kerouac and Ginsberg … they’ve been going nuts in the Links Generator if you ask me.”

 

“Hard, original content is at a premium,” says Boris.  “Our logs are there of course.”

 

I nod.  Of course, the logs.  That’s why I’m writing this.  But am I writing this?  Am I thinking this?

 

“Look Mungo, man,” says Tom-Tom, “Any fool can write a bad advertisement, but it takes a genius to keep his hands off a good one.  Leave that stuff to the professionals.  We – I mean you – hire people to do all this shit for you.”

 

I’m stunned.

 

“Do I?”

 

“You see?” says Marker, getting to his feet and stepping on the dog’s paw in the process.  Dog yelps.  “I told you we were stupid to sign up for this thing.  This guy’s a  fucking retard!”

 

Boris is in the process of placating ‘my’ employees when Montgomery coughs, approaches.

 

“As Tom Paine is always saying, sir, nothing but heaven is impregnable to vice, ” he says, and gives a little bow.

“Thank you, Montgomery.  Gentlemen, I must leave you.  Sadly, there’s been a death in the family.”  Boris looks at me and then addresses the room.  “Gentlemen, if I may be permitted to indulge in the vernacular, lay off Mr Dymock.  After all,” he says, looking at me, a little smile playing about the corner of his mouth, “there is nothing in the caterpillar that tells you it will one day become a butterfly.”

 

“Yes,” harrumphed Marker, “and men never cling to their dreams with such tenacity as at the moment when they are losing faith in them, and know it, but do not dare yet to confess it to themselves!”  Montgomery takes his elbow and guides him to the door.  “Mr Dymock, I will be using every skill and avenue of enquiry at my disposal to find out who you really are.”

 

“Well when you find out,” laughs Tom-Tom, “be sure to let him know!”

 

TO BE CONTINUED

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