I’ve made it. As I catch my breath a plush lift sweeps me upwards through a rather grand old building. Standing next to me is a besuited porter in a natty uniform replete with a top hat. It’s like being in a 1930s hotel and I wonder if I’ll be expected to tip the guy.
Before I can decide the lift glides to a halt, the doors part and the porter bows slightly. He exits a step ahead of me and leads me along a corridor carpeted in a luxurious, deep pile and through some heavy wooden double doors. A moment later and I’m at the front of an auditorium whose seats are full of cloned suits arranged in horseshoe-shaped rows. They seem to go on forever, up into eaves so high there are probably pigeons with vertigo hunkered down in the shadows.
Bloody hell, I think.
Suddenly I’m somewhat daunted by the prospect of presenting to all this lot. I’d assumed it was going to be some cosy affair, a few people arranged casually around a table and a projection screen. Normally standing up in front of a crowd doesn’t faze me, but this was going to be like teaching in a classroom the size of the O2 arena — lots of fucking effort for minimal return and terrifying in the process.
Then the sickest man I’ve ever seen still upright and breathing shuffles over to interrupt my dread thoughts and pumps my hand with more vigour than he really should. I worry he’ll have a heart attack with the effort. He literally looks the personification of death warmed up; a pasty, lined face inset with dead eyes on a neck so scrawny it would embarrass a vulture, and capped with white hair. His emaciated body is clad in a suit that would have been expensive two decades ago. Bluntly, he looks fucking awful.
“Thank you for coming,” he croaks, sounding like a toad speaking from inside the corpse of a crow. “We’re delighted, really delighted to have you here after all. We were ever so upset when you cancelled yesterday.”
Cancelled? I think. Yesterday? But my brain is too addled, too off-balance with the abrupt turn of events and a modicum of dread to pay full attention.
The effort all seems too much and the near-deceased breaks into a hacking cough. The room darkens slightly. It takes him a few moments to regain his breath and the gloom lifts as if Thanatos (Death himself to you and I) has reluctantly receded without a victim. He bangs his chest hard with his fist, presumably giving himself CPR. The mostly-departed has the strength to press a remote control into my hands.
“For the projector,” he says.
“Thanks,” I mumble in reply.
“Right, we’d better introduce you,” he croaks, a flicker of the eyebrows as if to say, Let’s get this show on the road.
The crusty old guy turns to face the audience. As I wonder where he’s parked his ventilator my eyes mooch over the faceless men and women in suits and I only pay scant attention to what is being said.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he grates, “Thank you for waiting for a few minutes, I am sure you’ll find the delay well worth it! We have here with us today a speaker of great note, a man with many years’ experience in the money market. Without further embellishment, for none is needed, may I introduce Mr Hershey Valentine to give an outline on fiscal measures for the 21st Century.”
What the fuck? Did I hear that right? I think to myself. Hershey?
“Erm, excuse me,” I say and I tug on the corpse’s sleeve as I try to check his departure (and his pulse).
“Is everything all right?” asks the cadaver. His rheumy eyes are everywhere but on me, probably looking for his oxygen mask.
“Cool,” I say.
“Good.” Hack, hack, then he starts shuffling away again.
I trot after the slothful stiff and catch him by a bony arm. I swear he is cold to the touch.
“Mr Valentine, what seems to be the matter, hmm?” The tone of his question is heavy and weary.
Then lightning strikes me, my mind fizzes with the possibilities. If they think I am Valentine then I can have some serious fun at his expense!
“Well, Mr Valentine?”
“Erm, it’s rather a delicate matter,” I say and lean in to him. “You see I have a...umm...disability.”
“Oh dear! I hope it’s nothing too debilitating?” He pulls back as if I have a virulent disease, then realises what he’s done, attempts to rectify his politically incorrect attitude by putting a concerned look on his face, but fails miserably. Even though I’m not disabled I’m less than impressed by his behaviour.
“Not physically, no.” I play it dumb.
“Good! Well it’s very pleasing that your Bank employs someone with a disability. It is to be commended.” Then the old bastard walks off. I shrug mentally. He can’t say I didn’t try to warn him.
As the lights dim the limited chatter dwindles away entirely and the title of my presentation appears on the screen.
“Fiscal measures for the 21st century,” I say. “Fuck!”
The crowd looks at me in awe or shock, I can’t decide which. For the first time I wonder whether I’ve made a mistake. Then it goes from bad to worse. Within ten minutes the assembly dissolves into complete and utter farcical chaos. This is how:
Two minutes — a handful of people get up and leave the auditorium in disgust.
Five minutes — the audience has halved.
Eight minutes — Mr Cadaver returns to the room.
He watches my performance in open-mouthed shock. The auditorium is almost empty.
Eight minutes and thirty seconds — The Mummy tries to tug me off the floor but I bridle,
still irritated by his less than generous attitude to the disabled (which I temporarily am).
Nine minutes — I shrug him off which is easy, he has the strength of a sparrow.
Nine minutes and thirty seconds — the projector dies, Skeleton Boy wiggles the remote control at me in triumph. There are three people left in the audience.
Ten minutes — he shuffles across the floor and rants at me. Someone claps at the back.
“Mister Valentine! Whatever has got into you?” demands The Dead Man Shambling.
“Got into me? I don’t understand what you, fuck!, mean! Here I am giving a perfectly rational, wanker!, presentation when people, cunt!, start having a go at me and leaving. Fuck! What’s the problem?”
“The problem is precisely that,” he says and points an unsteady digit at my mouth. I can’t tell if the instability in his limb is infirmity or fury, not that I care either way.
“What?” I intelligently play dumb.
“Your diction, sir, is the problem.”
“Oh,” I say, as if I finally get it, “You mean, bollocks!, my disability.”
“Disability?” The goldfish has clearly forgotten our previous discussion. “What do you mean, disability?”
“Yes, disability, twat!, Tourette’s.”
The dead guy looks really confused now. “Tourette’s?”
“Uh-huh. Uncontrolled, fuck!, swearing.”
The corpse slaps his forehead. “Holy shit!”
“My point exactly. Bollocks.”
“I’ll be speaking to your Chairman. I think you need to leave now.”
“And I think you’re being prejudiced. Tourette’s is a legitimate, fuck!, medical condition.”
“Leave. Now.”
I do.