Join Me

by Danny Wallace

  But I was genuinely hoping for some questions, this time round. Actually hoping. I’d prepared myself mentally for some kind of inquisition, and had my answers ready. That had been one of the first things Joinee Jones had put me through, and at least he’d seemed marginally impressed that he’d met the founder of the organisation. Even though the organisation, at that stage, consisted of just the founder and him.

  But Gaz didn’t seem at all impressed or intrigued. Not once did he ask me what Join Me was all about, or where it was leading, or why I’d started it. Not once did he try and gain some snippet of information from me, or ask for clues, or pointers. He just seemed perfectly content to have joined whatever it was I’d asked him to join. Details weren’t important. He was just happy to help.

  ‘I’m sure everything will become clear,’ he said, without prompting.

  I’ll admit it. I felt slightly deflated. The air of mystery I’d been trying to cultivate had apparently worked so well that that was all Gaz now needed to see him through the afternoon.

  But we talked happily about this and about that. We talked about his Care Bear bet. We talked about the barbecue he’d been to the night before. We talked about a Wombles musical he’d seen when he was little that had frightened the very life out of him. And we drank a couple of jolly pints.

  No one else joined us, that afternoon. Those who had said they might pop in had apparently found themselves with better things to do that day, but Gaz and I were happy, chatting, sitting by the window of this bright, sunny pub.

  I said goodbye to Gaz an hour or so later and wandered back to Leicester Square, to catch a tube home. I thought again about how nonplussed he’d been by the whole meeting. I stopped off at Hanne’s on the way home, had a bite to eat with her, and then returned to my flat.

  Later on that evening, I checked the website forum. Gaz had posted a message, seemingly the moment he’d walked through the door of his house, back in Oxford. And there was something strange about his posting. He now seemed far more excited about the whole thing – even to the point of using exclamation marks. He now seemed far more pleased to have been there, in that pub, than he had seemed at the time. When had that hit him? On the train home?

  Well, although I was disappointed at the number of other joinees who turned up for a drink this afternoon (i.e. zero), I am *very* pleased to say that myself and the Leader (yes – the Leader himself!) had a very nice chat and an equally very nice few pints!

  Responses from other joinees and prospective joinees had been swift.

  If I had known the Leader would be there I would have come along!

  Why did the Leader not make it known he was coming?

  If the Leader is there I will definitely come to the next one!

  Can we arrange another one very soon please as I would like to meet the Leader?

  The first thing that shocked me about all this was that I was suddenly, inexplicably being referred to as ‘the Leader’. I was a Leader! And people were referring to me as such! I felt a burst of pride. I felt as I did when Mrs Howells asked me to be a prefect in Year Eleven at school. But there were loads of prefects. There was only one Leader. Hey – I was the new Mrs Howells!

  The second thing to shock me was the immediate backlash against Joinee Haman. Poor Gaz was now being accused of lying to make himself seem more impressive and glamorous to the group.

  Sure. The Leader turned up. I believe you mate.

  Someone’s making up porky-pies! (lies).

  Hmm . . . why do I find it somewhat hard to believe that the Leader turned up to meet you? Is it because you’re talking bollocks?

  Now, you, the reader, should really stop comparing me to people like Mrs Howells and Jesus. It’s not on. But I agree with you – this did remind me of what the first bloke to have met Jesus must have gone through, and you’re clever to point that out.

  Gaz, though, took it all in good spirit.

  Oh ye of little faith!

  Well if you really don’t believe me, why not just ask Him? After all, I’ve got no reason to fib – and even if I was bluffing, I’d be rumbled pretty quickly!

  G.

  Now, I honestly don’t know if this was a mistake on Gaz’s part or not . . . but look at the second sentence he wrote. He’d capitalised the ‘H’ on ‘him’! Now, not only was I ‘the Leader’, but I was worthy of a capital ‘H’! This was all too much. What was happening here?

  That evening I did indeed receive several emails from confused joinees wishing to know whether Gaz’s claims were fact, or the ramblings of a wishful and deluded madman. It was as if, all of a sudden, everyone was actually impressed that there was evidence I even existed. Me, a bloke they’d sent a photo to . . . a bloke sitting here, at his computer, unshaven and scruffy, with a smear of toothpaste down his front.

  I wrote back to them in as mysterious and intriguing way as I could muster. I told them that Joinee Haman spake the truth, and that they should have faith in the claims of their fellow joinees. And then I decided I should stop using words like ‘spake’, because it really wasn’t helping matters any.

  But the one thing I knew was happening was that the joinees were becoming friends. They were bantering. They were getting to know each other, albeit electronically.

  Someone else decided that a meet-up would be a good thing. Other joinees agreed. This one would be larger, and involve more than one joinee, and should take place reasonably soon.

  It was all working out beautifully.

  Every day more and more joinees were sending their photos and signing themselves up. Soon I had seventy joinees. Then eighty. Word-of-mouth was at work, and ten days later I had ninety. It was all getting out of control, and it made me laugh every time I checked my post.

  And the best thing was, we were bonding. We were becoming a community. And I think Gallus, had he been watching, would have been smiling.

  I was smiling, too. I went to bed at night knowing that I was becoming someone. Someone important. Someone who meant something – even if it was just to a disparate bunch of strangers. They were still a bunch who looked up to me.

  Because I was their Leader.

  * * *

  Email

  To: Dennis M. Hope, President of the Galactic Government

  From: Danny Wallace

  Dear Dennls,

  Since I last wrote, something has been playing on my mind. I am asking people to trust me; to believe in me. To Join Me in something which they know nothing about. To Join Me in something *I* know nothing about.

  People are looking up to me as their Leader.

  You too have a band of happy believers. They know that they will be joining you at some stage to travel to land they have bought on the moon.

  As you know, I have no land. Interest in Join Me is growing rapidly, and I’m excited. But I’m also nervous. Where am I going with this? Where are “we” going with this? I can offer my people nowhere to live, and, to be honest, I’m not sure if I want to. I lived in a shared flat in my student days, and that was a bloody nightmare some nights.

  But despite not living as a community, we seem to have started to bond as one. Is a community of the mind really enough?

  Please advise.

  All the best,

  Danny Wallace

  * * *

  Email

  To: Danny Wallace

  From: Dennis M. Hope, President of the Galactic

  Government

  Dear Danny:

  The world is In turmoil. Concepts are the foundation for all reality.

  I think that a community of the mind is as strong as and sometimes stronger than the real thing with geographical boundaries.

  With warm regards from the Galactic Government and the Lunar Embassy,

  Dennis M. Hope

  President – Galactic Government

  AKA: ‘The Head Cheese’

  P.S. I may Join you myself!

  * * *

  CHAPTER 6

  97. And even there were four
score and seventeen.

  98. And even there were fourscore and eighteen.

  99. And even there were fourscore and nineteen.

  A WEEK LATER and I was back in the Horse & Groom with Ian.

  ‘Well, I did it!’ I beamed broadly, sitting down. ‘Buy me a pint to congratulate me!’

  ‘You did what?’ he said, blankly. Evidently he needed a little more proof of my having actually done something before rewarding me with a pint for having done it. I wish life was that simple; I’d probably have a lot more free stuff. ‘Well, I did it!’ I could say. ‘Buy me a caravan!’

  ‘I did what I set out to do,’ I said. ‘The grand adventure is over. I have my hundred joinees.’

  ‘What are you on about?’

  ‘My joinees. Remember I told you about my great-uncle the other week?’

  ‘The nutjob?’

  ‘No, the visionary. Well, he needed a hundred joinees, and I got them for him. Job done. Buy me a pint.’

  ‘Hang on, you actually went ahead and did that? How?’

  ‘Small ads. The Internet. Word-of-mouth. It grew ridiculously quickly. A hundred was nothing. I don’t know what Gallus’ problem was.’

  ‘Maybe it’s because he didn’t have the Internet, and . . . you know . . . he actually wanted people to physically live on a farm with him.’

  ‘Well, that’s all in the past, now, and we can finally lay it to rest. He has his joinees. I got them for him. Pint, please.’

  Ian stood up, begrudgingly, and wandered over to the bar, while I sat there, still beaming, still thinking of the moment I’d got my hundredth passport photo in the post.

  And the thing is, I feel I owe you an apology somehow. I didn’t make the most of that moment. I’m sure if I were a better writer, or this was a made-up story, I would’ve prolonged the agony, stretched it out a bit, made reaching that impossible target seem all the more impossible and impressive. Maybe, in the final chapter, when I received that elusive hundredth passport photo, I’d have got a party popper out and released it, there and then, in my flat, and to hell with the consequences.

  But the truth of it is, I’d somehow stumbled across, or uncovered, or tapped into, groups of people who were actually quite into this whole Join Me concept. Groups of people so trusting and open that they were willing to join a complete stranger for no reason whatsoever . . . all I was telling them was that I needed them . . . and they were all too happy to be needed.

  Now, if it’d been me who’d seen that small ad in Loot, or found an odd request for passport photos on the Internet, or been badgered into joining by one of my more strange friends, I’m not sure I would have done anything about it. I’m not sure you would, either. It might sound all right now . . . but if it had happened to you, and you didn’t already feel like you knew me a bit . . . would you? Honestly? Me . . . I’d have turned the page, or clicked elsewhere, or told my pal to stop frightening me and delete my number from his phone.

  But the people I was now in everyday contact with were more open than I was. They all had their different reasons for their involvement, I suspect, but the sad thing is, now that I had all hundred of them, there was really no more involvement to be had. Nothing for them to do. Nothing I needed them to do. They’d done their bit. They’d joined me. And I’d done what I’d set out to do. I’d proved to myself that I could find a hundred willing joinees for my great-uncle Gallus. My tribute was complete. He had his people, at long, long last.

  ‘So who did you get to join you?’ said Ian, placing my pint on the table. ‘I mean . . . no offence . . . but who’d join you?’

  Aha. I’d prepared for this. I’d studied my questionnaires, done some maths, and made some notes. I knew exactly who’d joined me. I pulled a tatty piece of paper out of my shirt pocket and read from it.

  ‘Well . . . my collective is 100 per cent British. It’s 54 per cent male, 46 per cent female, 0 per cent other.’

  ‘You’ve worked this out?’ said Ian, in disbelief.

  ‘Yes. The average age is 29, the most common name for a boy is Matt, and the most common name for a girl is Sarah.’

  ‘I don’t believe you’ve worked this out!’

  ‘The average joinee also lives in the Midlands and has one quarter of a child.’

  ‘They should ask for their money back,’ said Ian. ‘This is all very odd. But. . . . y’know . . . well done, I suppose. So are you happy you’ve finished?’

  ‘Kind of I’d sort of been enjoying myself as the Leader. And it’s a pity, because they’ve all started talking to each other and making friends with each other and deciding how to take Join Me further. When in actual fact there’s nothing to move further. That’s all there is. A hundred people. No reason or point. I’m going to have to tell them that.’

  I had started to think, that day, of how I was going to come clean to my joinees. Maybe I had a picture of Gallus somewhere. I could put that on the website, along with an explanation as to what had been going on, and a final, farewell message. And a heartfelt thank you, of course. I’d take the forum down, delete my email address, stop asking people to send their passport photos in.

  The photos flashed through my mind. They were beautiful. Humanity in all its varied glory. Coming from different backgrounds, heading in different directions. My own personal micro-society. But it was over.

  ‘Seems a bit of a shame,’ said Ian, ‘to break their hearts. They were probably really hoping they were part of something much bigger. What does Hanne think?’

  Oh yeah. Hanne. I’d have to tell her, of course. Have to explain the reason that I hadn’t been around much lately, and why I’d accidentally stood her up a couple of times, and taken her to that takeaway in Camden. Have to tell her that those two blokes on my fridge, and, in fact, the other ninety-eight people whose photos were currently in my desk drawer, were my joinees; my followers. She’d understand. She’d forgive me. She may even find it strangely funny.

  ‘I’ll tell her. I don’t know how she’ll react. You know what she’s like about stuff like this. She’d prefer me to collect stamps rather than joinees.’

  ‘I don’t blame her,’ said Ian. ‘So you’re just going to give up on these people?’

  I knew what Ian was getting at. These people were too good to waste, if you ask me. Imagine what we could achieve, the 101 of us, if only there were something we wanted to achieve.

  ‘But Gallus was after a hundred people,’ I said. ‘And I’ve got them for him.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Ian. ‘But they’re not exactly packing their bags in order to move to Switzerland with you, are they?’

  ‘It was a tribute. A gesture. I don’t exactly want to move there myself. And to be honest, I doubt there’d be room. I’ve seen his land, I don’t know how he imagined a hundred people living there together. What if the response had been greater? What if his whole village had wanted to move there with him? A thousand people all having to decide whose turn it is to buy the toilet paper.’

  ‘Now that would have been an achievement.’

  ‘Buying toilet paper?’

  ‘No, getting the whole town on board. Imagine if he’d done that. A 1000 people all joining him.’

  ‘I think a hundred’s enough.’

  ‘No, 1000 would be an achievement. Something to be proud of.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I’m just saying. A hundred seems a bit paltry. If you’d managed to get one joinee for every man, woman and child in your great-uncle’s village, well . . . I’d definitely have bought you a pint for that.’

  ‘I can see where this is headed, Ian . . .’

  He looked at me innocently, but I knew what he was up to.

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘No no no. I don’t do drunken bets. Not now I’m 25. I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Did Hanne teach you to say that?’

  Curses. Caught.

  ‘I’m just saying. This is not a bet.’

  ‘You’re the one going on about bets.’

 
‘No I’m not. And neither are you. And anyway, if that’s what you think should happen, why don’t you help me? Why don’t you be my 101st joinee?’

  ‘I’m not joining you! You must be mental! I may as well give you that pint right now and give up!’

  ‘Why are you treating this as a bet? We haven’t bet anything! And there will be absolutely no betting today!’

  And there wouldn’t. But the damage was done. The idea was in my head. A 1000 joinees. One for every man, woman and child in Gallus’ village. Ian was right. That would be an achievement. I’d have the whole village on Gallus’s side! That’d make him proud!

  But this could be difficult. The bigger this thing got, the harder it would be to cover up and hide from Hanne. And the bigger it got, the harder it would be to cover up the sheer pointlessness of it all. I could certainly try and get 1000 people to join me . . . but for what? I still didn’t know. I just hoped my joinees weren’t the inquisitive types. I’d have to instil faith in them, somehow keep them interested while I sucked another 900 people into my world.

  So I finished the rest of my pint, said goodbye to Ian, and headed home.

  I’d gone to the pub thinking it was all over.

  Turns out, it had only just begun.

  CHAPTER 7

  14. Let him that hath understanding count the number on his shoulder: for the number is PC Six Hundred Threescore and Six.

  I DIDN’T KNOW it yet, but we’d been sitting, in silence, for far, far too long.

  ‘Danny, are you alright?’ asked Hanne.

  ‘Yes! Absolutely. Of course I am.’

  I’d been daydreaming and forgotten where I was.

  ‘Because you’ve just been sitting there, staring at me, with your mouth open, for about two minutes.’

  ‘Was I doing that? Sorry. I was just thinking about something.’

  ‘You dribbled in your soup.’

  ‘Did I? Sorry.’

  I’d taken Hanne out for lunch because I’d had a sudden attack of guilt in the night. I just hadn’t been a particularly good boyfriend lately. I was less than Hanne deserved; more concerned with strangers than with my own girlfriend. So I’d booked a table at a semi-fancy restaurant and told her to have whatever she wanted, all on me . . . I’d even pay for the starter! Oh, yes. She was going to get the star treatment alright.