Everybody out of the Laundromat, I Need to Think

By Phil G Glenn

Virgil Blaine was enjoying his ordinary life of longterm unemployment as an unpublished poet, that is until he crosses paths with Doug Coulthard, filing clerk and (possibly) the record holder without a single promotion nor a single sick day in a fifty year career - at least for those who can remember - who's spare time is taken up as the Chairmen of the Unpublished People's Poet Society (UPPS). In a chance meeting, the poets welcome Virgil Blaine as its newest member.

Walter Higgins otherwise known as Forward Slash, joins the UPPS not long after. Unbeknown to the poets, Slash is on a secret mission for the Prime Minister himself no less, to recruit a shy person because the overconfidents had lost the vote. Virgil Blaine is just the man and so begins a disastrous journey that takes him to the very top. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Phil G Glenn
• Release date: Jan 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215154519

Phil G Glenn

Phil Glenn is the author of two published books and two children's picture books. He holds a Degree In English Literature and lives with his wife and one child in Adelaide Australia

Book preview

1.

For most people the transition into a hypnopompic state is difficult. In other words, it’s hard to wake up. For Virgil Blaine, it was particularly difficult; on several occasions, it had taken him two days. ‘It’s your body fighting off reality’ his Asian GP had said. Virgil Blaine called it ‘The Virgil Reality Syndrome’ which the people at the Welfare office said they’d never heard of it. When he was seven hours, eleven minutes late for his appointment he asked the Welfare Officer ‘Have you not ever had trouble waking up?’ When the Officer nodded he said ‘there you see, you probably suffer from ‘Virgil Reality Syndrome.’ The following week his welfare money was not transferred into his account.

Reality had been Virgil’s age old enemy. Just this morning, as of many other mornings, he entered the hypnopompic state with one eye open, straining against it. He had hoped that the reason for his exhaustion on this day was from the concert at Wembley Stadium he had performed in front of sixty thousand people the night before or that he was an Alien from the planet Galecia sent to study the mating habits of bi-pedal life forms.

But, despite his efforts, reality had set in. He was not a famous nor an Alien. There was some good news however – though he was completely unaware of it - he had achieved some level of fame albeit at the welfare office being the record holder for the shortest career known to mankind – nineteen minutes. It was well known that Virgil Blaine was not a morning person and it was arranged that he be allowed to start his new career at ten o’clock; he had arrived ten minutes late but by twenty-nine minutes past he had resigned, right in the middle of his ‘emergency exits’ tour. The next day at the welfare office an office pool was set up as to the reasons why such a promising career could be cut so short. When asked, he simply said, ‘it was not part of my reality’. The following week his welfare money was not transferred into his account.

The problem was Virgil Blaine’s achievements were not recognised. On the odd occasion when he was completely awake, he had achieved greatness. No one recognised him as ‘Blaine1’ the man who sat at number one for two years, three weeks and four days on Donkey Kong at Bruno’s fish and chip cafe. He pioneered ‘Owling’ to his local community which was to perch yourself on any apparatus as an owl would, knees under your chin, staring plate eyed into space for an indefinite period of time. He made page three of his local paper when he ‘owled’ high on the turret of St Peters Cathedral. The headline read ‘Local Idiot’. He now included the black and white photo in his resume pasted under the heading ‘Ability to concentrate for long periods.’

Like most unemployable thirty-nine year old’s, Virgil Blaine was a poet. He was not so much unpublished as unrecognised. He considered his poetry so important that he had offered one of his best poems to his landlord as part payment for the week’s rent. It was politely declined. This is part of the poem:

––––––––

‘You see me, I am your reality

I am an owl perched on the turret of life,

Oh, clouds I see your nimbus,

Your despot does not touch me

For I am.’[1]

This poem was pasted in his resume under the heading: ‘Writing skills’.

For most people being one hour and four minutes late for anything would send them into a spiralling panic but, for Virgil Blaine’s reality, it was well within the boundaries of his ‘roundabouts’ time. When he arrived at the Welfare Office at four minutes past twelve for his eleven o’clock appointment there was no panic in Virgil’s eyes, he simply sat on the back of his heels and went into an ‘Owl’ trance.

***

Unusually, Cleve Cummins, Welfare Officer, had no desire to be famous at all and it was an obvious conclusion people made when they met him. When a small opportunity of fame had presented itself, Cleve kept walking. He had simply said ‘no comment’ to the cameras when it became known one of his clients ‘Dalai Lamason’ had turned out to be a Welfare trickster. Cleve had started off at the Welfare agency as a Client Services Officer level two and in twenty-two years had worked his way through to the same level.

Cleve Cummins was a routine man which is why he rolled his eyes in a very dramatic fashion when he looked at his work-sheet and saw the name ‘Virgil Blaine’.

As the routine went, and this day was no different, the first thing Cleve said to Virgil when he sat down was would you mind taking your feet off the chair?

Virgil did as he was asked by leaning further back into the seat, still with his knees under his chin, raising the soles of his shoes an inch from the fabric.

I’m going to cut you off for a week, said Cleve.

Oh?

Yes, well, the computer has matched you up for some bar work.

You know I’m allergic to alcohol.

Yes, yes I do. said Mr Cummins as he fingered through Virgil’s very thick file as if it should list allergies somewhere. The orderly job; that was cut short by an allergy wasn’t it?

No that was psoriasis.

"Quite but you’re aware the consumption of alcohol is not a requirement of this position?"

Yes but the smell of it makes me nauseous. And to add to the drama of this statement, Virgil took from his pocket an Asthma spray and gave himself a quick squirt.

Oh well, anyway, would you roll up for the bar work position if there was no allergy?

Ah, I see where you’re going with this, no probably not.

Exactly, so let’s cut out the middle man, save me some phone calls in organising something you will never roll up for, cut you off for a week and everyone’s happy.

Great, said Virgil, though he could see no advantage to himself.

By the way how did you go in the interview we sent you for the Game Keepers position?

Virgil could think of nothing to say but ‘Ah’. He thought for a moment more and said, Ah.

Allergic to animals I presume?

Yes

Well I guess it doesn’t really matter.

No?

Well the amount of time you waste when you don’t roll up for a position is roughly the same as when you do roll up.

Virgil was not really sure whether this statement was a compliment or not so he nodded in an agreeable way.

Better make it two weeks eh? said Mr Cummins.

I think that’s best. said Virgil, totally confused.

With that Cleve stood up like a car salesmen who had just sold a minor for the price of a major.

So what are you going to do with your two weeks off? asked Mr Cummins.

You mean apart from starve?

Yes.

Poetry.

Good. said Mr Cummins. Well, let us know if there is anything we can do for you.

Could I have that writing pad on your desk there?

No of course not; the offer was not meant literally. Enjoy the rest of your day.

Mr Cummins guided Virgil out as a doctor would who is holding X-rays of an inoperable tumour. With a final nod in Virgil’s direction Mr Cummins read the next name from his list.

Mr Louis Pasteurson he yelled.

2.

Douglas Coulthard has the distinction of being only one of four hundred and thirty-one earth creatures abducted by Aliens. Two hundred and forty-one of those were human; Doug being only one of eleven in his twenties. The rest were made up of ninety-two ape creatures of various species including a Hainan Gibbon, so rare, that taking just one almost rendered the species extinct, eleven giraffes, twelve elephants, two sloths, an aardvark and several Petri plates containing germs and fungi.

Thanks to the new scanning techniques of the Pentroalchometer, the Aliens were able to ‘do a job’ on Doug’s hippocampus. That is to say, rather sadly, he had no memory of the event except a slight sense of déjà vu whenever he went near a zoo.

There were only two real permanent legacies of the abduction; the first was - due to the immense velocity of the space craft - a tic which caused him to nod his head rather sharply twice every four minutes. This had had no effect on the next forty plus years of his life except to say that his piers found Doug to be an agreeable sort of fellow.

This is the second legacy: Doug was one of the few men on Earth who could legitimately say that it was ‘that time of the month’, usually the second Monday of the month (unless it was a public holiday in the Canis Minor Noitros System in which case it was the next working day) which is when the Bornofastic tantramantometer suddenly lit up which was planted in the lining of Doug’s small intestine giving him a deep seeded itch that made him emit a noise that sounded something like this: hmmmmmolllllhaaaaaa which came out as a whole body shiver. It was quite a mystery as to why the device was not implanted in the lobe of the left ear where it would have functioned just as well. Sadly, after only two earth weeks, the Aliens had lost all interest in the data and it was now only seen by basolmontokadra’s[2] third eye which was reserved for all things boring. The third eye was only hooked up to a tiny, little, lobe of brain located in the base of the elbow in the bottom set of arms which was often crushed as they lent on them, giving the third eye a continual watery, concussed look.

Doug did go see his local GP Doctor Jing Hong Lai who said you have Alien probe in belly. Unfortunately, due to Doctor Lai’s pigeon English, Doug heard this as How are you Allan? Probably eat jelly. After telling the doctor his name was Doug and not Allan, Doug went straight to the supermarket and bought twenty packets of aeroplane jelly which he has included in his diet ever since.

Like most of us, Doug had not quite managed his fifteen minutes of fame. Instead, he had only achieved one minute eleven seconds on one television station and if you were to convert the time to read one paragraph on page nine of the local paper – another six seconds on top of that. His one minute and seventeen seconds of fame had nothing to do with his voyage around the back waters of Procyon in the Canis Minor, a round trip of 7.02 parsecs but rather, retiring from the company he had been with since leaving school; a total career of fifty-five years[3]. Not only that, Doug had, in all that time, been in the same position. And the final icing on this rather impressive cake; despite the building having undergone several structural changes including an artificial grassed tennis court on the roof (which Doug had never used – he had no interest in sports) Doug had, in all that time, sat in the same room, at the same desk. Doug was a Filing Clerk. He was now seventy-one earth years old but looked younger due to his age process being slowed while spinning around the galaxies.  

Doug was a man of mystery and kept his heart deeply buried in his pocket which for Doug mostly belonged to a chocolate brown safari suit which he wore every day of the week. It was a common question among the Filing department whether Doug owned just the one safari suit or four others just like it.

On the day of Doug’s retirement, there was no gold watch. Instead, four of his colleagues pitched in and bought him a Nike golf umbrella which he put to good use in sheltering his zucchinis from the sun.

Watta youa gonna get upa too now? said Sergio Fumagalli, a thirty-year man who Doug usually avoided because his voice was so loud.

Just Potter around. replied Doug.

Aah my niece, she lika those books, said Sergio.

Doug’s other three colleagues stood in an awkward ring, glancing politely at the time. Earlier, when Doug had been out of the room, they had argued as to who should say some polite words. As no one knew anything about Doug, it was decided that the Nike umbrella said it all.

So what are you going to do with your five work suits, or the one suit should I say, in your retirement? asked Lois Langford the youngest (fifty-four years old) in the Filing Department.

As so often