The sitters mumbled some good mornings/howdy doodys.
The man at the mic shook his head.
Jack peered up at the man at the mic. There was no all-over sameness about this fellow. He had something, something more. Just what was it? Jack wondered. A certain overconfidence? A certain attitude? He looked even more scrubbed than the sitters.
The man in beige had a big round head, with a big pink face and a kind of cylindrical body. His arms were long and so too were his hands, with very long fingers upon them.
His pink face surely shone.
“I said, ‘Howdy doody, golden people,’” he bawled.
The “golden people” sitting replied, this time with a louder “Howdy doody”.
“A very good howdy doody,” said the man on the stage, “but not good enough for you golden people. One more time.”
And this time he got a veritable thunderstorm of howdy doodys hurled back in his direction.
With the notable exception of Jack and Dorothy. Although Dorothy did mumble something.
“Good enough,” said the man in beige. “And welcome to Golden Chicken Towers. Welcome to you, the chosen ones. The special ones. The trusted ones. Your labours have brought you here. Your dedication to the company ethic. Your sense of duty. Your pride as young Americans.” And he raised a fist and shook it in a friendly fashion.
“Now who can tell me what this is?” he said. And he produced from his pocket … an egg.
Hands went up from the sitters.
Jack said, “It’s an egg.”
“It’s an egg, well done.” The figure in beige smiled down upon Jack. “It’s an egg indeed. And what is your name, young man?”
“Sir Jack,” said Jack. “I’m from England.”
“An Englander, is it? Well, up you come onto the stage.”
“And why would I want to do that?” Jack asked.
“Because I have chosen you to assist me with this presentation.”
“Well, aren’t I the lucky one.”
“What did you say, young man?”
“I said, ‘Well, I am the lucky one.’”
“As indeed you are. Up, up. Let’s have a round of applause for Sir Jack.”
And a round of enthusiastic applause went up.
Jack shook his head and climbed onto the stage.
“Now, Sir Jack,” said the man in beige, putting a long beige arm about Jack’s shoulders, “what I’d like you to do is –”
“Work the slide projector?” Jack asked, as one was now being wheeled onto the stage by the lovely with the golden hair and the big dark batting lashes.
“Precisely.”
“And would I be right in assuming,” Jack asked, “that the slides will display a sort of potted history of the company?”
“You are a most astute young man – I can see that career opportunities aplenty await you.”
“Splendid,” said Jack. “And then I assume you will be giving us all a motivational speech.”
“Something of that nature, yes.” The man in beige gave Jack a certain look.
“Followed by a slap-up lunch,” said Jack.
“Why, yes.”
“Followed by more, how shall I put it, indoctrination?”
“Well,” said the man in beige. And he removed his arm from Jack’s shoulders.
“Just so,” said Jack. “But I think not.”
“I do not fully understand you.”
“Then perhaps you will understand this.” And Jack pulled from his trenchcoat pocket the cleaver that he had used the previous day for the decerebration of the chickens.
“Oh,” said the man in beige. “What is this?”
“This,” said Jack, “is a cleaver, And if you do not take me, at once, to your leader, I will use it to cut off your head.”
Now this caused some alarm, not only from the man in beige and the lovely on the stage, but also from the seated chosen ones, who now unseated themselves, preparing to flee.
“And sit down, you lot,” shouted Dorothy. Pulling, much to Jack’s surprise, two pistols from her clothing. “Anybody moves and you’re dead.”
Jack looked at Dorothy.
Dorothy smiled. “Well, get a move on,” she said.
18
There are moments.
Sometimes.
Special moments. Magic moments. Moments when everything becomes as clear as the air and you can see right through it, into eternity.
These moments are often reached via the medium of alcohol. In England, for example, where most folk wear bowler hats, take tea at three and know the Queen well, there are public drinking houses. And those who frequent these sociable establishments respect something that is known as the ten-o’clock watershed. It is understood that before this time, talk is generalised and covers many topics – the day’s news, recent sporting events, trivial this and thats.
But beyond the ten-o’clock watershed, certain matters are deemed acceptable that would otherwise be considered taboo. Friendship is one of these and many is the time when two large masculine fellows will be seen putting their arms about one another and swearing to anyone who would care to hear, and many who might care not, that “this is my bestest friend”. And “I love this man”.
And although at nine fifty-five this would not be deemed the thing-to-do, beyond the ten-o’clock watershed it is A-okay.
This is but one example and the cynical reader might lean towards the opinion that it is in fact “the alcohol speaking”, rather than a moment. A special moment.
But who amongst us has not experienced a special moment? A moment of total clarity. A reality check. A revelation.
As Jack held his cleaver over the beige man’s head, Jack experienced such a special moment.
For Jack it was not peace, or love, or a semi-religious revelation.
For Jack it was more a case of WHAT IN THE NAME OF ANY GOD THAT I MAY CARE TO BELIEVE IN AM I DOING?
It was a special moment. Jack saw the audience cowering beneath the guns of Dorothy. The beige man cowering, too, beneath Jack’s cleaver. The great golden room with its Californian sunlight slanting through the slats of the window blinds.
The sudden terrible reality of it all.
And for one moment, and a special one at that, Jack thought of fleeing, dropping that cleaver and running away. This was real, these were people. What was all the rest of it? Chickens, spaceships, walking, talking toys? Eddie was gone and Jack was here and for one terrible, special moment Jack wondered whether all that stuff, all that mad unlikely stuff, really was real. Perhaps, Jack thought to himself, he, Jack, had gone insane, and perhaps now, at this moment, he had reawakened from the nightmare of insanity to this moment of absolute clarity.
Jack hesitated, all in confusion, for there is a problem with special moments: they play havoc with all your previous moments.
And Jack’s hand loosened on his cleaver.
And Jack stared into the fearful face of the man in beige.
“I’m …” Jack was about to say “sorry”.
“Hurry up, Jack,” shouted Dorothy. “Pull yourself together. Eddie is in danger – don’t forget that.”
Jack blinked and gazed towards Dorothy.
Had she known what he was thinking?
Jack didn’t say, “I’m sorry.”
Well, he did, but he didn’t. He said. “I’m sorry, Mister Man In Beige, but if you do not take me at once to your leader, I will chop off your ear.”
“No, please have mercy.” The man in beige sank down to his knees. “Don’t hurt me, please, I’m innocent.”
“No one is innocent,” called Dorothy. “Get a move on, Jack.”
Jack hauled the beige man back to his feet. “Your leader or your ear,” said he.
“No, please.” The lovely on the stage wrung her beautiful hands. The manicured nails of the slender fingers twinkled in the spotlight. “Please don’t hurt him, please.”
“I’m sorry,” said Jack, “but my best friend has been kidnapped by someone in this building. Someone in power. I demand to be taken to this someone. Now!”
“But we don’t have the authority,” said the lovely. “We don’t know who you should speak to. Mister Tinto here –”