K Chapter 11 Mini People

Chapter 11.

Pete was in the Dial-A-Spud offices. His boyfriend had become a zombie.
The whole world was going to pot. It was up to Pete to save mankind. He
didn't feel up to it. But he was here. So he thought he might as well
try.

"I need to see the head of marketing," said Pete. "It's urgent. We
have a problem with the ancillary writing on the new Dial-A-Spud
immigrant range."

"And you are exactly?" said Thelma Tempest.

"I am Jo," said Pete. Then he felt a blow to his chest. It was Sean in
his pocket, kicking him. "From Dorgycorp advertising. The advertising
company that advertisers would use if ever they advertised themselves.
You've given us the account."

"I see," said the woman. "Fine."

"Fine?" said Pete.

"If you would like to step behind the green line and wait. I will make
the necessary enquiries."

"Fine," said Pete. And he crossed the line, the green one that he
hadn't noticed before.

At the desk Thelma Tempest picked up a phone and punched several keys.
She said a few words. She nodded her head. She put down the phone. She
motioned for Pete to step back over the line. This, he did.

"That's fine," she said. "Mr Takahashi will see you."

"Brilliant!" said Pete.

"Ten thirty, a week on Thursday."

"Not today?" said Pete.

Thelma Tempest looked down at an open notebook in front of her. The
page was blank. She ran her finger down it, moved her finger up and
down a few times as if she was checking the retail price of carp and
then she looked back up. "No, not today. A week on Thursday. Ten
thirty. In the morning. Goodbye."

"Goodbye," said Pete and he left the building.

It was cold outside and it had started to rain, big drops you only
usually expect to find on the end of taps.

"I tried my best," said Pete.

"I don't know what to say," said Sean. He started beating his chest.
"Welcome to the end of the world."

"Don't take on," said Pete. "Something will turn up."

"What?" said Sean. He was still beating. He looked like the little
drummer boy who had lost his sticks. "Tell me what exactly?"

"Just when you least expect it," said Pete, "the thing you least
expect." This was a direct quote from a Pet Shop Boys song. The words
seemed apt for the moment. Pete didn't think they would be prophetic in
any way. So when he saw what he saw across the street he was more than
a little surprised.

"I've got another plan," he said.

"Is it a good one?" said Sean. He stopped beating his chest.

"It's along the same lines as my Dean of the Yard routine."

"Then we're doomed," said Sean.

"We're doomed if we do and we're doomed if we don't. What have we got
to lose?"

****

Pete re-entered the Dial-A-Spud offices with a spring in his step, with
a false beard on his face, with a large wooden tray supported by a neck
strap flat on the palms of his hands. He was ready.

On the crest of a wave he shimmied up to the reception desk counter.
All of a sudden Thelma Tempest's hair didn't look quite so blue, her
lips not quite the same awe inspiring shade.

"Yes?" she said like a cat about to come into a fortune of
cream.

"I'm here to sell my wares," said Pete. "I have something that the man
who has everything definitely doesn't have."

"If he has everything," said Thelma Tempest, "then I would imagine he
already has it, drongo."

"It's a turn of phrase," said Pete.

"The only turn I want you to do," said Thelma Tempest tapping one of
her perfect nails busily against the counter top, "is an about face one
away from my reception. You're lowering the tone."

"Behold!" said Pete and he plucked one of the objects from off of the
tray in front of him. "Have you ever seen anything like this?"

"Have I ever wanted to? I don't think you're getting the message. I
want you to go."

"A shoehorn," said Pete undeterred, "from the exclusive collection,
'Shoehorn likenesses of the pillars of industry.'" Pete turned the
shoehorn around in his hands. "Here we have Isembard Kingdom Brunel.
Look how well crafted he is. Look at the detailing on his beard, the
curvature of his cheekbones. Imagine how successfully he would slip
into your shoe, how comfortably your shoe would slip onto your
foot."
"I want you out now," said Thelma Tempest, "or my rather pointed shoe
will be slipping into something soft and squishy of your very own and
it won't be your shoehorn."

"But?."

"Out! Out! Out!"

"Ok ok ok," said Pete. He turned and as he did so he bumped violently
into a tall man in a tan suit. The man had two eyes, far apart on each
side of his head. The shoehorns went clattering onto the floor like the
sticks in a game of chopsticks.

"What's this?" said the man raising his eyebrows inquisitively towards
Thelma Tempest.

"A shoehorn salesman, Mr Ichiba. I was just giving him the
boot."

"A shoehorn salesman!" said Mr Ichiba, his eyes lighting up like the
hazard lights on an old Ford Capri, "The boys on the thirteenth floor
will love this. They're always getting their goddam shoes stuck. Issue
him a pass Miss Tempest."

Thelma Tempest batted her eyelids and made a moue of discontent with
her blue lips. "But he doesn't have clearance."

"I said issue him a pass or there'll be a storm, Miss Tempest."

"Yes sir," said Thelma Tempest and she scribbled something on the face
of a memo pad which she then ripped off.

"Now, if you'll like to step this way Mr Shoehorn man we'll see what
we can do for you."

Pete retrieved the last novelty shoehorn from off the floor and
followed Mr Ichiba over to the bank of lifts. The doors of the one on
the far left swished open, they entered, Mr Ichiba pressed the relevant
button and then the doors swished closed. The lift started its
ascent.

Pete and Sean were in.

****

In the lift on the way up Mr Ichiba told Pete his life story. He had
been brought up on a small trout farm in Hokkaido. He had come to
England to learn fisherman's English. After falling in love with the
indigenous daisy he had decided to stay. His first job at Dial-A-Spud
had been cutting the eyes out of potatoes. He was now head of
wrapping.

Mr Ichiba was the sort of man who could say very little with few
words. In other circumstances Pete might have admired him. As it was,
he was only thinking how itchy his fake beard was becoming. He was glad
when the lift doors pinged open.

"The thirteenth floor," said Mr Ichiba, "where wrapping comes
home."

"Nice," said Pete and he clenched his buttocks.

Before him was a wide expanse of floor. Windows were on one side,
walls on the other. In the middle were desks. Rows and rows of desks.
At each of these desks was a man and each man was the same; small nose,
round ears and a bee-stung mouth, as if they had spent years sucking at
the hand that feeds.

"We call them the drones," said Mr Ichiba, "in the nicest possible
sense. They were all headhunted from top Japanese companies."

"Headhunted?" said Pete, wondering if this was the beginning of the
end of his search.

"In the old fashioned sense, I mean," said Mr Ichiba emitting a short
staccato guffaw. He spun around and started walking down the centre of
one of the aisles. "Sony, Kawasaki, Nintendo, Lego. We've got people
from nearly every big Japanese firm."

"Lego?" said Pete. "I didn't know they were Japanese."

"Oh yes," said Mr Ichiba coming to a full stop at the end of the row
of desks. "As Japanese as the rising sun."

Pete glanced nervously out of the window and casually checked the
currently setting orb for a trademark. "I didn't know the rising sun
was Japanese," he said.

"If a company name ends in a vowel," said Mr Ichiba pointing a finger
in the air, "then it is always Japanese, you can count on that."

"What about Sony?" said Pete.

"That ends in a y," said Mr Ichiba. "Y is just a lazy vowel. Now about
these trowels."

"Shoehorns," said Pete.

"Yes, shoehorns. Are they collectable?"

Pete held up the shoehorn likeness of John Stuart Mill. "Yes, very.
They're the sort of thing Van Gogh would have got into if he hadn't
lost his ear."

"I heard about that," said Mr Ichiba, "it was a terrible car crash.
But it did prove one thing. The rules of supply and demand can never be
taken for granted."

"Granted," said Pete playing up to his role, "but these shoehorns will
sell like hotcakes."

"Hotcakes," said Mr Ichiba, "we tried those at Dial-A-Spud. Total
flop. However, that was back in the old days. We don't have hiccups
like that, not anymore, not now we've got our secret weapon."

Pete felt a thump in his chest. It wasn't his heart. It was Sean
kicking him. He didn't need kicking twice.

"Secret weapon?"

Mr Ichiba's tan skin turned a kamikaze white. "Listen to me, I'm
talking too much. Come on, let's see if we can shift a few of these
suckers. It's break time and the guys will be wanting their green tea.
Now watch this, I think you'll be impressed."

Mr Ichiba reached over to the front desk and pushed a glowing button
that Pete hadn't noticed before. This had an immediate effect. From
slits in the ceiling micro-thin screens dropped down and at the desks
the bee-stung lipped men stopped pushing their pens.

Now, in hyper-sensual reality across the surface of the screens, a
Japanese cartoon mouse with big eyes and enormous breasts was sipping
at a cup. On the cup in large letters was emblazoned the Dial-A-Spud
logo. Languidly the cartoon mouse put down her cup and then her voice
boomed from invisible speakers.

"Morning boys. I bet you're thirsty as holy hell Jesus out in the
desert. At Dial-A-Spud we like our workers to quench their thirst with
style. Dial-A-Spud tea is now available in the canteen. But hurry back
like Jesus. There's a mission to complete, the Dial-A-Spud mission.
Ping pong. Don't forget to change your shoes on the way out."

And then Pete noticed. None of the workers were wearing shoes, only
slippers. The shoes were lined up neatly in beehive dividers by the
door. It was all slipping into place. His chance meeting with Mr Ichiba
was starting to make sense.

As the screens scrolled back up into the ceiling the workers leapt up
as one. They rushed over to the shoe stacks and all hell broke loose.
Pete watched mesmerised as tiny feet were forced into even tinier
shoes. He heard curses. He heard shouts. He imagined blisters in the
morning. These people were desperately in need of something. Luckily,
that something was in the palm of Pete's hand.

"Go one," said Mr Ichiba. "Make your killing. But one thing."

"Yes?" said Pete.

"I want sixty per cent."

Sixty per cent. Mr Ichiba had obviously not become head of wrapping
for nothing. Pete nodded his assent and stormed over to the
workers.

As soon as he said the word shoehorn he was mobbed. Japanese hands
grabbed at him. Money was held under his nose. Pete felt like
Spartacus.

"I am Spartacus," he said.

"Here fifty pound," said a Japanese voice. "I want Robert Louis
Stevenson."

"George Stevenson," said Pete.

"Whatever," said the Japanese voice, "just give me the freakin'
shoehorn."

After five minutes Pete had completely sold out. Mr Ichiba came over
beaming.

"You're brilliant," he said, "you saw a gap in the market and you
filled it. We need more people like you."

"Why, thank you," said Pete.

"Only a word of warning, we Japanese, we don't like beards."

"Problem solved," said Pete. With a flick off his left hand he pulled
off his false beard and he let it drop to the floor. His face felt like
sunshine on a rainy day.

"Oh marvellous," said Mr Ichiba and he held his hands up to his head.
"An exceptional talent. I'll phone Miss Tempest immediately, tell her
to give you run of the coop. Have a look round and let me know what you
think. There's a job for you if you want. Let me know by end of
play."

"I don't know what to say," said Pete.

"Please," said Mr Ichiba, "I will judge you be your deeds and not your
words. Now go and come back later. I haven't forgotten that sixty per
cent."

"Ok," said Pete, "it's a deal." He nodded adieu and went out a side
door. He pulled the door closed behind him. He was in a long corridor.
He was alone.

The first part of the plan had been accomplished. Now to find Godzilla
and Godzooki.