The law of Distraction by Adam Parry

The Law of Distraction.

I read Rhonda Byrne’s ‘The Secret’ all about the Law of Attraction every night for a week on the toilet. She writes about focusing your intentions and fulfilling even the wildest of dreams. Should I attract a million or a car?  No a thousand and shoes. Finally I had completed my ablutions and finished the book.  There was a Porsche outside my house for two days and I found a penny on the way down to the post-box.  My god, it works, I thought and sat down attracting as many things as I could think of.

Yet deep down I knew I needed someone to cook for me, make the bed in the morning and iron socks and all those things women apparently like to do.  Soon I was attracting nothing but women. Charity sales girls on the phone and a rather seductively voiced late night Radio 3 presenter but I never got that close to any flesh and bones women.

One day they moved the Porsche.  Despite trying to visualize myself having a minor production role in the new film version of The Hobbit the secrets of The Secret dissipated with each clatter of the Distraction of the letterbox. There are 3 Laws incorporated in the Art of Being Distracted by the Letterbox:

1.    Never expect to sleep close to election periods

2.    Don’t order six books on the Law of Attraction

3.    Wipe your bottom before opening the mail.

I went to work, bit of a change really as I’d had a bad case of e-coli poisoning and had been reading David Icke in bed for 2 weeks; it’d been a laugh a minute.

I decided to intend going to the bus-stop without any unintended mishaps like going home and back to bed, or being verbally abused by the local shopkeeper who wanted to know when I was going to pay off my tick.  I snuck passed the shop knowing no uncontrolled cars would dash me into a red smear on the whitewashed wall, as I had definitely intended that not to happen.  Unintentionally I did look at the sky and a tree or two and a bird was singing-not to my intent.

I made it in one piece to the bus-stop. We six, brave few by that windy, shadow vandalized hulk of a bus-stop, seemed to huddle together Eskimo-like.  One asked for a light for a cigarette, another for some change for his fare.  All of us at alternative intervals snatching looks of despair at the bus-less road.  We almost cheered when the bus inched round the bend and crawled passed the parked cars to where we waited breathless.

I enjoyed the ride to work, but for a moment completely forgot to intend things. 

a)    I intend to use the photocopy machine

b)    I intend not to look at the Receptionist’s breasts.

c)    I intend to blow my nose.

I got into the office and sat tiredly on my desk. People seemed pleased to see me and made the usual e-coli jokes.  I had no intention of laughing so I turned away and started the cold call numbers for several hours.

I had perfected The Art of Coping as a well seasoned telesales executive should.  I went and used the photocopier.  I photocopied several hundred copies of the list I had been making as people hung up on me.  I always like to photocopy things.  I suppose it’s an addiction.  I sometimes wonder when I’m an old man if I will spend glorious days photocopying old photocopies of photocopies, or scanning the newspapers for new copiers.  State of the art.  I dust it every day, every day and have a room full of A4 paper.

The Receptionist walked by and I stared at her breasts happily.  I got back home with a headache as I’d determined the day in advance and had hardly done any of the things that I had meant to do.

I sat and read the list I had made and pinned several photocopies in pleasing points about the house.  I thought tiredly that I would have to go back into my workplace, again, when I had all these other wonderful intentions that would make me far happier.  I scanned a book on the Law of Attraction and read a bit about being aware of how I was feeling.  Confused, tired. I went to bed. I began to wonder if the Receptionists Breasts at work made good lasagne.  About midnight I got up and made something to eat. I yawned; I would not be able to go in tomorrow, the thought of it made me so weary.  The Boss had been asking where all the photocopy paper had been going. A light bulb went on in my head and I frantically I went through my copious list and found on page 6, paragraph 4, sub-section 3a that one of my intentions was to get a new job.  Perhaps I could get myself sacked, maybe get a job in a DVD shop and I’d fall madly in love with the cousin of a Production Agent who was working on The Hobbit-The Movie.  So, I had to go to work so I would, by using the photocopier endlessly, get sacked.

Before I forgot them I added a few more intentions to the list and watched the moon outside the window.  I alphabeticalised my books until dawn, got the first bus into town and was three and a half hours early for work. And when everyone else came in I was photocopying anything I could lay my hands on. I happily stood there as The Boss came in.

I would be severely sacked, my intention is to be rid of this place, and I would be replaced by a keen and ever smiling telesales executive.  I would sever all ties with telesales.  I will be free, on a new path of joy, health and happiness.

I waited for The Boss to sack me, but he just smiled and nodded. Frustrated, exhausted I slumped to the floor.  Luckily they got me a taxi home and I decided to hide all the Law of Attraction books in a kitchen drawer and spent the rest of the day scoring through lines from the obviously impossible things I had intended. The phone went, work, saying I could take a couple more days off.

Suddenly it struck me.  Why not just quit.  I spent the rest of the time of my extended sick leave writing my resignation letter.  I darted down to the local shop and bought a couple of local papers.  Carefully I cut out those jobs that I was capable of doing and on a piece of cardboard glue-sticked them onto it. Then finally threaded a piece string through the cardboard and put it at a prominent place beside the telephone.

I called the first number and in my clearest, well enunciated voice told the woman who answered my name, where I’d seen the ad and how old I was, she cut me off and said she’d let me speak to the manager.

‘Can you come in today,’ was his blunt grunt of response.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s the Grosvenor Bar on Hailborn Street. We close at 12.’  He hung up. 

I had time to call a few more job ads, before a bus could take me into Town.  But, the first job sounded great, if I got it.  Apart from photocopying washing dishes is one the best kept secrets of The Art of Coping.  Therefore I could cope with having a job by applying The Art of Coping, absently I wondered if they had photocopier in the bar kitchen. Ha! I would be getting paid for coping.

When I got there, the Manager asked me sit down and fill out an application form. The emptiness of the bar was very conspicuous, an unlit fire and a one-armed bandit repeating itself endlessly in a fanfare of light.  Two or three men were sitting at the bar.  I scribbled across the page all the handy facts that were relevant.  I put down washing dishes as a hobby and put myself down as a referee. Though I doubted that I would have to write one, the landlord seemed to be resigned to the fact that he would give me the job.  He showed me through to the kitchen.

‘When can you start?’

‘Anytime.’  I said positively.

‘What about Thursday?’

‘Yes.’ I’d made other appointments for job interviews on Thursday and I was also due back at work to hand in my resignation. ‘Yes.’ I repeated.

He showed me around the kitchen, and then said as he led me out. ‘Meals start at 11 on Thursday. I’ll see you then.’

I got the bus straight home and went to my ablutions with gusto and unearthed a Law of Distraction book, written by someone who had obviously read The Secret. Spellbound I read about The Law of Gratitude and for awhile I wondered who I was grateful to. There must be someone. I pondered this until I went to bed. The post didn’t come that day. Thursday. D-Day.

I woke up at 12:15 and rushed out of the door without trying to dress in anyway coherently, down the road down to the post-box, posting an order for a new book- after a wee while, I wondered, why is it so dark during the day? It seemed to me that the darkness could signify a number of things.

1)    The Secret was the biggest rip-off in the known Galaxy and somehow I had slept in.

2)    That it was Friday and I’d missed the due date of my various Intentions or unIntentions.

3)    Some large factory had exploded and covered the city in a pall of smoke.

Obviously 3. I smiled inwardly and traipsed back up the hill. Exhausted and out of breath as I came in, I sat on the pile of my photocopied Intentions. I took off my shoes and socks- well sock. It was obviously Thursday. So I’d made, I could still turn up for dishwashing job in the pub. I’d be late but my boss wouldn’t mind the guy was about as laxidasical as a warm corpse. I decided to call a taxi.

I put on the radio for news of the factory explosion. I managed to get some Italian opera and a Gaelic station that seemed to talking about the factory explosion. I went looking for the Law of Attraction book that would guide me to intending an unsurly taxi driver on the eight mile stretch into Town and the ability to get from The Law of Attraction book to phone before I forgot what my Intentions were.

I ordered the taxi for as soon as possible. It arrived an hour later with the rain, blaring football. I struggled manfully, yet to no avail, to fasten in the seatbelt. He asked me where I was going. I thought that a rather stupid question as I’d told the lassie on the phone when I’d ordered him, but with a sigh I answered anyway. Yet, at least the road into Town was virtually uninhabited and we arrived at Hailburn Street in no time, but he did talk on a bit about the football all the way. I thought it strange, didn’t he know there was a law that the designated driver didn’t talk and shouldn’t be disturbed.

Politely I answered a few of his questions. Soon we were on Hailburn Street; thankfully I got out of the taxi relieved to get away from the grating noise of the football, the nonsense the driver had been talking about. There was a stench of alcohol and urine as I found myself alone on the street, then went to the strangely closed door of the bar. Maybe my clock had been wrong and undoubtedly I was too early. Despite the continuing smoke of the factory fire, he’d need a lot of help on my first day and want to chat and get to know me. What books I’d been reading, or if he’d read the review of Antigone at The South Bank Centre in The Guardian. There was so much energy in creating a dichotomy between like minds.

I banged repeatedly on the door. Then shuffled a lot. Nobody was coming; maybe I’d do some shopping and make some lists in a cafe. Surprisingly the shoppers were sparse on the street, probably all ghoulishly watching the blazing inferno on their television machines. A small shop was open, yet all the nearby shops were closed, but, all I needed was a pen and some paper for my lists.  I looked for a cafe, but they were all shut. What to do? Maybe food rationing had begun, oh dear, I thought distractedly. I walked until my feet were sore, then journeyed back to the bar and banged on the door a lot louder and longer. Still no answer, this is ridiculous. You turn up a little late, I muttered and began to turn away, go to work and do some photocopying. I sighed.  I had been so looking forward to washing dishes.

A window above opened. ‘We’re closed.’

‘Because of the explosion?’ I called up.

‘What explosion? You’re drunk.’

‘No, I’ve come for the dishwashing job.’ The window closed, abruptly. What a rude man, I thought and started resolutely to walk to work. As soon as I got in the door I started to make lists. I had not covered more than two pages intending to start a third when Cleaner with breasts came in.

‘Hello.’ I cried. ‘Has there been an all clear. Life has to go on. Dunkirk Spirit etc.’ She was Polish, I don’t think she understood. I wondered if she liked Italian food.  I was going to ask, but sometimes I have difficulty speaking to British people, so I smiled as the cleaner with breasts hoovered away. I spent some time there in the dark office - I considered cold-calling- aimlessly pondering my intentions.  I called several numbers. When one answered I went into robot.

‘Do you know what the bloody time is?’ And hung up, what a world I thought, everyone was getting so rude lately.

I must have fallen asleep; a hand on my shoulder woke me up. The Boss:

‘What the hell are you doing here looking like that?’ Boss without breasts was getting a red face. Why was he angry? ‘And the paper. I know that’s you.  Do you know what the electricity bill is; you’ve been using the photocopiers 24 hours a day.  You are sacked. You know that?’

‘But won’t you need people if some of the staff is hurt in the explosion?’

‘What explosion, there hasn’t been an explosion.  I’m sorry you’re not well...’

‘...but the people, the explosion, I can help...’

‘...there hasn’t been a bloody explosion just get out of here.’

I looked at him sheepishly, unable to stifle a yawn I asked him if he could get me taxi home, his face seemed to glow with rage and he walked away.  In my defence, I scribbled at the bottom of my resignation the wonderful health benefits of photocopying and a great asset to him should he consider anger management. I signed the letter with a flourish and walked for the last time through the Doors of Cold-Calling, into I bright new wonderful world ahead of me.

I had done it. It had finally worked. I intended to get sacked and I got sacked.

Outside it was still dark. I hadn’t been in Town this late for such a long time.  I was joyful though; maybe there would be a club open.  I wanted to dance.  I hadn’t danced, not even a tango, or a waltz since Aunt Teresa took to her chair. I thought wistfully that I may never see Receptionist Breasts again. I went in what seemed to be a bar on Brig Street, bought what also seemed to be a beer but didn’t taste like it and found a seat and sat down wearily.  I was shocked, the women, no, small adults with breast were barely dressed, and the noise like a couple of cluster bombs going off in a mental asylum.  I wanted to leave, but it was slightly mesmerizing.

I was startled back into wakefulness.  There was a centimetre of beer at the bottom of the glass that the red-faced man took as he told that it was time to go home.  Outside the last few days resurfaced in my mind. ‘I should have asked the bouncer if there were any jobs going.’ I said to myself.

Somehow it was Friday morning. I tried to ascertain the time.  If I wandered around a bit until the shops opened I could get a new set of clothes.  I hadn’t been enough out the office to go gallivanting in the centre of the town with all the happy weekend people. But now I was free and I could do what I liked. I went to an all night bakers and got a couple of curry pies.  On the wall clock I saw it was still far too early. 5am only.  I clutched my curry pies and went to stand on the pavement, I turned.  There was a card saying that the manager of the bakers was looking for new staff, at the bottom of the card it said:

‘Please come in and ask for details.’

The Currypie Breasts behind the counter was making a pizza.  I went to the counter and asked her if the vacancy for the job was still available.  She looked at me as I had just slaughtered her whole family.

‘I’m a bit busy just now,’ she snapped. ‘Come back about 7 tonight, the manager will be in then’

‘Yes. Yes. I’ll do that’ I said glowing with excitement. I may never have to buy food ever again.

 I bought two more curry-pies, just in case Currypie Breast would put in good word for me.  I hung about outside comforted by the light and warmth from the bakers.  Eventually I started walking and began being grateful.  The books had told me a hundred times The Law of Gratitude was the most important part of the Secret’s premise. I was so full of Gratitude for all the people I had seen today and thoughtfully wished them well. I gave a half-asleep beggar the remnants of my curry pies. I felt such a surge of gratitude towards him as he took the food. So I went forth and walked up and down the street, saying hello to some rather unhappy people yet wished them well.  Time was passing slowly and I reluctantly went to the empty bus shelter, wondering how long I’d have to wait.  I sat on the cold plastic, but I sent a surge of gratitude and the seat almost seemed to be much more comfortable to sit on.

When the birds began to wake up and a promise of a hot blue day seemed almost certain as the sun filled the world with filigrees of gold.  I, though, was alone on the street, as if all the actors in a play had gone home to sleep, until the performance the next night.  Alone except for the blasting wind, sending rattlesnakes of empty lager cans, discarded free newspapers were swept to the unknown place where newspapers go to die, some whirl pooled in the empty street, confused about what direction to go, no doubt. A blast of wind took the cans and papers and hamburger packaging en-mass into the darkness of the amber-lit road.

Positively I told myself that there’d be a bus along any minute. A warm bus that would take me home and, in the morning I would start out on my new life, finding out what I really wanted to do. Of course the inevitable feeling that the bus will never come dispelled my attempt at suspending belief and thinking the bus would be coming round the corner...right now...no...just wait...it’ll be here in a minute. I had been sitting there for what seemed to be an hour.  With my new-found lack of faith in the buses I remember the cross, disdainful face, almost savage, of the girl in the pie shop and when I thought about it the tramp didn’t looked very pleased when I woke him to give him the pies, he  had grumbled and spluttered. I wonder if I had awakened him from a dream of another place, so beautiful it could break your heart. Regret began to slough through me, dripping into my belly like a torrent of rain.

I had to get home as soon as possible and phone some more of the job ads. Or sleep. But, there was something different about the night, it seemed special despite the town centre looking as it normally did.  I wouldn’t sleep anyway. Oh what the hell, I’ll walk and turned towards the road that snaked eight miles down the way west to my home. Marching along the pavement I startled a flock of seagulls squabbling over the remnants of a KFC Family Bucket.  I once more felt a twang of regret that I’d spoiled the seagulls’ breakfast. Slowly as my long pace slowed the reality of the situation I was in slowly sank into me like the chill of the morning with the sun not yet risen.  I thought of going back to bus-stop and to just be patient, I turned back looking down the long road, and there, turning onto it was my bus.

The road was quiet, almost lonely, the road like giant snake, grey and ugly inching onwards to some precious reward that mattered not if it took a hundred lifetimes to reach. Half a mile to the left of the road, which was lined with closed hairdressers, bars and houses that no normal human could possibly afford to buy, lay the river.  Both road and river were forever near each other, yet never knowing either were there, passing by blindly beside each other, one to the sea, the other to the mountains, they would be unaware of each other, always.

I’d have a bath when I got home, watch David Ickes’s DVD about Princess Diana’s so called death, and make some hot chocolate.  Why worry, I’ll get a job in the morning.  Wake up and set foot upon the golden path to new health happiness and everything I could ever want. I had to get home first though, and the bus was going so slow it seemed it was being aided with a Zimmer frame.  A jogger with breasts sped past on the pavement.  Instinctively I thought about Lasagne.  The sun was not yet above the tops of the sycamore trees that obscured Tudor style mansions with their massive, beautifully coiffured lawns from the plebs. Daffodils were growing in my garden when I finally made it back to base, and the stray cat was waiting for me. I picked a few stems and ruffled the cat’s fur.  She followed behind me into the kitchen and I put down some milk and cat biscuits. I had the bath I had promised myself, but soon the clattering of the letter box shocked me out of the comforting massage of the water.

Dripping water everywhere I picked up the post. Oh happy day another advert for hearing aids.  Huh, a charity for underprivileged actors and another asking me if I wanted to sponsor a tree. Three letters from credit cards tempting me to be in debt for the rest of my existence and a flier telling me all the bargains in the local shop that I never set foot in.  All except one I recycled. In a way I felt sorry for the posties who had to walk up and down the hill everyday delivering junk mail nobody with any sense would look at.  I needed a credit card like I needed a hole in the head.  Yet the way I had been feeling lately I wonder if I wasn’t already encumbered with a hole in my head. Tentatively I opened the envelope, I gasped with surprise.  It was from my second cousin Janice who was a Production Assistant for a small film company, called Croatian Clapperboard Productions.  Absently, as I read the letter a second time, I wondered if I’d seen any of the company’s films.  I mean they put any old junk on the TV these days and if Janice works for them they must be OK.

The third time I read the letter, I had finally understood it completely.  She wants me to be a catering assistant for an outside film unit as two guys had fallen ill.

I rang Janice’s mobile, not until the twenty-fifth ring did she finally answer. ‘Yeah?’

‘Janice, it’s me.  I got your letter. Do you still need someone?’

‘Need someone; we’re almost at starvation levels.  Half the crew her doesn’t know how to burn toast and the other half brought enough apricot and almond vegan energy bars and are far too busy shouting at the others to do some work.  It’s nightmare.  Can you do it?’

‘Where abouts do I have to go.’

‘Wrexham.’

‘Wrexham? What’s the film about? Football?’

‘No, it’s a masterwork by a young Croatian director about two men on a road trip through Snowdonia, on Camels. In English it means something like ‘What do we do when we get to the top?’ So to find meaning in their life they go to the funfair at Llandudno and discover a reason for living, far more exciting than starving to death in some snow and wasting a lot of tax-payers money with all the search and rescue helicopters we’d have had to call in.  I can’t give away the ending as I don’t think they’ve written it yet.

‘So can you get here as soon as possible?’

‘It’s still early; I’ll get a train at Noon and be there to make scrambled eggs and bacon for everyone. Even the camels.’

‘Oh that’s so great of you. I’ll see you soon. Mmm Scrambled Eggs.’

I put down the phone and breathed deeply, the job sounded magic, but when it came down to it I was glad Janice had never actually tasted any of the meals I made.  I could sell anything to anybody especially if there was a free parker pen and a foot massager, but there was one thing I was never good at and avoided most of my life.  Cooking.  Usually people got a little sick, even if I just peeled a potato.

O well, they’ll have a cookbook, I justified to myself on the train to Wrexham I preened in the dark windows reciting as many Shakespearean soliloquies that I could remember, until people started looking at me.

I’m sorry; I thought sarcastically I won’t do Macbeth again. Miserable sod gets everything he wants and blows it, bet he didn’t know how to fry a bloody egg.  Another part of my brain was floating into some bizarre dimension and I saw myself winning an Oscar for best catering assistant in a foreign language film. Then I fell asleep.

When I woke I was in Glasgow.  Took me a tad to realise it was Glasgow.  I asked one of the station guards whether the Eisteddfod was going to start soon.  And that I was looking forward to going on the steam train to Llanfairpwllgwyngllgogerychwerndrobwllantisiliogo-go-goch. At first I thought he was laughing because I pronounced the name wrong, so I said it again, and that set to weeping with laughter.  I turned my back on him. Lugged my bags through the station and stood at the taxi rank, someone was selling papers calling out in some ancient mystical tongue that wasn’t taught at big school. A black cab pulled up beside me.

‘Where too, big man?’ he asked.  He didn’t at all sound Welsh, I looked down at my scrawny form, what did he mean? I wasn’t fat.

‘Well I was told there was a hotel in the centre of Wrexham, I have a room booked.’  I felt the need to boast. ‘Then I’m off to Snowdonia where the rest of my film crew are.’

‘So you want me to take you to Wrexham, all the way to Wrexham.’ The driver seemed incredulous as if I had revealed the secrets of alchemy.

‘Yes Wrexham centre, the Premier Inn.’

The driver pulled out from rank. ‘Whatever, Big Man. If you’ve the cash I’ve the gas.’ About half way to England I hummed and hawed until finally I half-heartedly demanded what was going on. 

‘Glasgow to Wrexham is a fair bit, sonny, its nae just round the corner you wanted me to take you.’ My eyes though were transfixed upon on the red digits of the rising fare. I don’t have that money, I thought, or at least I thought I thought, but in my shock I must have said it aloud. The taxi almost screeched to a halt and swerved onto the hard shoulder. ‘You’re a bam, a fucking bam. Get out the taxi but leave your wallet behind, wee man.’ I was humbled by the vehemence of voice and did as he commanded. Almost at once the taxi sped off.

Forty-eight days later I found myself at home as I unlocked the door there at once I was in an overpowering smell of woman, perfumes, flesh flower humidizers, an Avalonian aroma of food cooking.  I went to my seat and it was covered with bridal mags, and a plethora of women’s magazines. Soon after that I heard singing blasting from the bathroom, she, some diva sending out into the hall such a fine voice under the soft rain of the shower.  There was a woman in my home.  I had never had women in this house, not even a cleaner when the place became intolerable.  By the side of the telly was an ungainly construct, my slow mind realized it was an ironing board.  On the edge of the sofa some clothes were folded neatly, even socks and underpants, ironed and fresh.  Had Mary Poppins come round while I was away-but, why is she using the shower?  I called up to her from the bottom or the stairs. There was a shriek, punctuated with profanities. ‘It’s alright I’m not going to hurt you. You’re quite safe if you want to come down to talk.’ It wasn’t long when she appeared at the bottom of the stairs, unfortunately dressed, though on her face was a few threads and curling tendrils of wet hair stuck upon her pale skin.

‘Who the hell are you,’ she demanded.

‘I’m the man whose lived her for fifteen years, in this bunker, my castle perhaps. I feel safe in its absence of realty, safe from the malignancy beyond my windows and doors.  I’ve almost paid one tenth of the mortgage, I’m presently without a car and my favourite singer is Mama Cass. And who the hell are you?’ I mimicked her.

‘If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.’

I began to cry. She waited a bit witnessing my shame. She seemed to bore of it and I heard her making a coffee. She came back through, cup in hand waiting patiently for my shuddering, clutching of hands and tearfall to cease. Somehow I managed to speak. ‘Don’t call the police, please.’ I sat in a chair, the worst of it over though she allowed me another few sobs before she spoke.

‘I’ve been renting this place for a couple of weeks.’

‘Who did you rent it from?’

‘Just saw a card in the paper shop. Called the number as it was so cheap. Only met the guy for a minute or too when he showed me around. I’ve paid the money into a bank account.  For three months.’ The realization that she had been ripped off engulfed her, her shoulders slunk down and I felt an ember of empathy. ‘So this is your house,’ she said weakly.

I gave her a tissue from a box on the table and she sat down beside me. ‘I’ve been away for a long time.’ I told her of my adventures. ‘That’s why I smell like a midden. God, I need a shave.’

‘Yes you do. Why don’t you have a shower and I’ll start packing my stuff.’

‘Where will you go?’ She was silent. ‘If you’ve nowhere else you can stay here. Now I’m sorry I have to have a shave before the werewolf patrol take me to the pound.’ She laughed. I ran up to the bathroom realizing I hadn’t looked once at her breasts, and that I had made her laugh. I hadn’t made any one laugh since 1997.

She called up the stairs:

‘Do you like lasagne? There’s some cooking.’