The beast
I found myself quite unable to begin writing this article for nearly an hour—I realised that I don’t really know much about Mr. C. A quick call to T, our editor, elicited a contemplative silence. He didn’t know either. Ringing Pi is futile because she is probably photographing goats playing violins or crocodiles baking cakes or whatever it is she does. Ironically, I am now typing furiously having realised that none of us know anything at all about the mysterious Mr. C. We know this: his birthday coincides with the beginning of the financial year; he had worked in the City in a position that required him to wear a suit and carry a copy of the Financial Times, and he retired last year; he is discreetly wealthy, reads three newspapers, uses a fax machine, finishes a four ounce bottle of Marmite over twenty-eight days (even in leap years); and that nobody in the neighbourhood has ever seen what species of automobile lives in his garage. For thirty seven years and six months one could set ones watch at 8:32 A.M. or 5:18 P.M because that was when he left from and returned to his house. T claims that one could do the same at 7:55 A.M., when the cistern next door empties itself with a resonant GLORRRP.
Then there’s the neighbourhood gossip: Some say he emerged from his mother’s womb wearing a suit, and said to the stunned gynaecologist: “Doctor, I appreciate the effort and all that, but I’ve been waiting for months.” I imagine his infancy was spent dispensing investment-advice from his crib to his father, directing traffic when out in his pram, and ferberizing his mother at night. Suffice it to say that Mr. C was never really an infant or a teenager–until today.
It all began this morning when a loud crash and volley of curses roused me from my hangover. Albert insisted that I investigate the commotion and I trudged downstairs. The mysterious garage was open! Inside it, stood Mr. C wearing a leather jacket, fingerless gloves, and–the horror of horrors–jeans.
“Mr. Sen. You’re awake. Splendid.” He checked his watch. “Good afternoon.” Mr. C is incapable of sarcasm. He checked his watch merely to deliver the appropriate greeting. He continued, “As it happens I require some assistance. This beast refuses to acknowledge my authority.”
The “beast” was a 1970 Triumph Bonneville T120. Brilliant burgundy and chrome plumage, spoked wheels, gear lever on the right, and an unbelievable 12 miles on the odometer–the beast was a hatchling. She had stayed in the nest and grown old. “When did you last start it?” I asked.
“I have never started this vehicle. Indeed, I have never ridden it. It was purchased on the 1st of April 1972, and driven here by one of the employees at the dealership.”
“Mr. C., why don’t I call a friend who is a bit of motorcycle fanatic. She will know what to do,” I replied, cautiously. I wasn’t lying–Pi is quite capable of taking apart a motorcycle and putting it back together. More importantly, she is far better at delivering bad news… I called Pi; she didn’t answer. “Are we planning weekend rides, Mr. C? Some post-retirement excitement?” I asked, while I tapped out a text message to her.
“Not really. I am on a Quest for Inner Peace,” he said. (Mr. C manages to convey capitalisation when he speaks.) “This vehicle is to be my means of transportation. I have been planning this since I was sixteen years old.”
I could see the diary entry in my mind:
1st April, 1972 – 9:47 P.M. “Inner Peace”
Last year I had set in motion a financial plan that would enable the purchase, this year, of a means of transportation suitable for my Quest when the moment is at hand. It arrived today. I have parked the vehicle in the garage leaving ample space for the comfortable ingress and egress of Father’s Morris Minor. After considerable reflection, I have come to the conclusion that my Quest must be postponed. It is not that I lack conviction. No, the truth is far more pragmatic: a well-timed operation, executed after years of navigating the System’s inner workings, will undoubtedly prove more effective than youthful outbursts that will surely be dismissed as adolescent folly. I shall infiltrate, observe, and prepare myself from a position of knowledge and influence. (Mother fainted when she saw the vehicle, but has recovered her composure and, as such, now pretends that it does not exist.)
Once I have secured a pension, a respectable portfolio of investments, and a reputation beyond reproach, I shall venture out—unfettered by obligations and indifferent to consequence.
Today was the day, apparently. Pi said she’d drop in with her tools this evening. Tomorrow, the quest begins—or at least, the attempt. Whether the beast will obey remains to be seen.
Editor’s Notes:
- Mr. C. is our neighbour. I remember Mer’s telephone call about this article. I did not use the word “glorp” or in any manner imply that the plumbing in Mr. C’s lavatory struggles to perform its flushing duties. He used the word and I, shall we say, went with the flow.