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 th
en 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.
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.
Chapter 3 In Which Daniel Lifts Up His Head and Beholds the Sun
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 …
Yes Man Page 5
