The Platitude of Wallpaint

Mr. James Doorknob was no ordinary person. Although, to others, he was. One could describe his as your "everyday", "easy-going" sort of "guy". But he was much more, so much more.

As James sat in his BMW, adjusting his tie in the rear view mirror, he was struck by an urge to look behind him. He did so. There it was, his house. Still standing. Not smitten by a random meteorite or anything.

Despite the fact that he had already said goodbye to his wife and two kids, he had a sudden irrational desire to run back in and hug them tight. But why? For protection? For safety? This little region of bourgeois suburbia had impeccable security. Probably just a passing phase.

He put the key in the ignition and rolled off the drive. As he was driving to his office he got caught in a traffic jam. Bah. Too much procrastination on the driveway. He looked around: a sea of cars; replete with nearby school and shops. Heh. School days. The happiest days of your life. For James they were, anyway. Teachers loved him. He scored straight 'A's all the way. Perhaps he didn't quite maximise his social life potential, but he's certainly made up for that, with a beautiful wife and diligent colleagues. Ah, life was sweet.

The congested traffic spluttered to life again, and moved in that way that traffic does - it always reminded James of syrup dripping down the side of a pot.

Arriving at work, James flashed a smile at his secretary. She smiled back warmly, her eyes glistening in the light. He put the keys into the lock of his office door, turned, and entered. Small neat piles of paperwork lay in tidy groups on his desk. He sat down and began to work.

Mr. Doorknob was a junior manager in a large firm that handled a multitude of financial services - accountancy, stockbroking, insurance - you name it, they'll do it. Some colleagues, envious of James' sudden ascent through the ranks of managerial services, have accused him of being a mere "Yes-Man" to the board of directors and other such important executives. Codswallop and horsefeathers, thought James (and those who knew him truly). The truth in his quick attainment of glory was not that he told his superiors what they wanted to hear: it was that he told them what they did not want to hear in such a way that they did want to hear it. That and his innovative ideas and strategies that have helped the firm out of a tough spot many a time.

And so, James did sit at his desk, working diligently away, when something extraordinary happened. When I say extraordinary, I mean exactly that: in addition to the usual.

One O'clock arrives with its solitary, monotone fanfare, and was noted in the minutes. James got up out of his office for lunch - he always had a good, filling lunch, the merits of which are many and varied. He idly asked his secretary as he was preparing to leave; "Any messages?"

"Yeah, three," she replied.

"Oh." Three messages was rather unusual, one or none were common. "What were they?"

"They all came within the last hour - I know you don't like to be disturbed during your work, so I took a message unless it was urgent. None of them were."

"Rightly so, very good."

"One was from Bill Weston - he wants to know if you have the agenda for the next meeting, and if so, could you fax it to him."

"Uh-huh." That Bill Weston. Forever losing things. Still, he was a very nice - talkative - person. Good for a laugh.

"The other was your wife - she wants you to know that the vet says Rover's got worms."

"Oh."

"And the final one wasn't a phone call, someone came in. It was a bedraggled man, claiming to be your father. I sent him away of course."

At this, James Doorknob perked up, his disinterested gaze now transformed into an intrigued stare.

"My father, you say? Sent him away, did you? Quite right. Who does he think he is, coming in at this time of day, demanding my presence? I'll show him, the deceased miscreant!"

And with that, James left the office.

After a hearty lunch, James reentered his office, walking purposefully. Without so much as a glance to his secretary, he entered his room. He sat down heavily in the chair, took a couple of deep breaths, and stood up again. He opened one of his drawers and calmly produced a baseball bat from within.

It is indeed remarkable the amount of blood that is pumped to the brain, as James discovered during his messy interaction with his secretary. The noise the bones make when under considerable pressure is also interesting.

James left her torpid lifeless body and began to seek out the infamous Bill Weston, whose antics -

And here I stop: this has gone far enough. How stupid was I to let it get so gruesome, so mind-numbingly futile.

Let me explain. I am Roderick, the author. It was a nice story - but too outlandish, too silly. For a start, there's James' name, Mr. Doorknob. What a stupid name! I arrived at it simply by glancing around the room. James himself was not believable: he had no flaws! And, of course, the rather opaque title - which to truly elucidate would take pages and pages of banal symbolism.

Oh, noticed another problem - why would James have a baseball bat in his drawer? It wouldn't even fit! That damned James is just too perfect for my liking. But I suppose it is only logical for such an imperfect person like me to create a perfect character. I mean, look at me: I'm a forty-three year old bachelor who works at McDonald's. How humiliating. Especially for one such as me, who was to get a Master's degree in Medieval History, but was denied for allegations of cheating. Pah!

Although I suppose I am quite similar to James in a way - I was a good student at school, although my friends were few, if any. All I wanted back then was to fit in; I still do, to an extent. But school is where the likeness between the infallible Mr. Doorknob and I ends. In fact, I feel a need to distance myself from him. So, like many others, The Platitude of Wallpaint is consigned to the bin.

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