333 That Puppy Man

There’s nothing that feels more homely through the corridors of 333 That Street than the joyful laughter of its tenants, workers, and visitors. This welcoming atmosphere is generally thanks to the endless supply of tall stories flowing from the colourful and limitless imagination of Skips.

You remember Skips don’t you? Well how could anyone forget – even after the briefest of meetings. The self appointed ‘janitor’ at 333 That Street. When it suited him.

That loveable Grandad figure. The dad jokes. The comfy cardigans. The pocket full of toffee. The handkerchief he would offer for your tears. Skips. 

Now I am only the mere narrator here, but I love him to pieces with all his eccentricities, and my advice to you as this series develops is that you should give him a chance in your heart too.

So… in case you need to flick back – The Janitor, number 3 in the series, is when Skips met Embla the new office girl, as she was taking her day one tour of 333 That Street, with me. Of course he quickly snapped into entertainment mode that day and more than likely left Embla no more the wiser on the comings and goings at 333.

Well today, the duo are back performing again. Skips as always, living in a vibration of slow motion, has too much time on his hands, and Embla now accustomed to his silly humour is always happy to enjoy his full fire nonsense moments at the start of the day.

In fact, even after only a few days of her new role at 333 That Street, a regular morning routine had already begun with old Skips bringing coffee and high level sugar treats from the cafe across the corridor to lift the energy levels for the day ahead. Some people have a thought for the day or designated prayer for the day to prepare and motivate them. Embla has Skips. Much more than any single thought or prayer.

I am hoping you already know enough about ‘the alleged janitor’ to build a moving image in your mind of this new routine. The famous mischievous twinkle in his eye, the desire to show off to impress and raise a giggle. You can picture him moving around the reception office, which had now become the business hours home for Embla, picking up and putting down documents, watering plants- again, turning machines off and on for no reason.

Yet whilst this may annoy some, me included, trust me I have been there with him, Embla with her calm and warm nature – kind of enjoyed these moments. The unlikely combo, seemed to have found a seamless and comfortable existence, where quite frankly you could never imagine any form of connection.

Yes his stories were funny but pointless, yes he was a distraction if she was trying to read or type or take a call, but he did bring free coffee and cake, and he was very useful at settling her into her new role with a gentle landing. Showing her the ropes. Introducing her to the many new faces who used 333 That Street, the random comings and goings of a diverse community.

‘Ahh now this Gentleman is a real treat’ announced Skips, wagging his finger in excitement, as one of the regular office tenants walked into reception to collect his post and phone messages. ‘Good morning Doris’ he grinned from ear to ear.

The man walked to the mail pigeon holes barely reacting to Skips at all. A slim yet tall man, maybe in his mid forties, dressed in a 3 piece suit as if he was a banker or accountant, accompanied by a shirt and tie as if he were a rent-a-clown at weekends. Shoes could do with a polish to be honest. Embla watched him take his mail and could see straight away the name on the mail slot was not Doris.

‘Doris?’ she mouthed silently to Skips with a quizzical expression on her face.

Skips smiled to himself and put his finger to his lips shushing Embla for his own amusement. Embla was curious. The man was clearly and intentionally oblivious to Skips making his own amusement. He was clearly excited to see the man, whether that was because he missed him or because he saw an opportunity to impress the young office girl was another matter.

Brimming with infectious enthusiasm, the shorter Skips reached up with a beaming smile to put his arm around the much taller man beside him. With undeniable pride in his voice, he introduced his towering companion to a Embla – ‘this is the Puppy Man. We are all so proud of him.’

‘Doris’ or the ‘Puppy Man’ continued flipping through the handful of letters and messages, only faltering a little as the shorter man gripped hard around his shoulder with obvious affection although tainted with slight mockery.

The huge grin on Skips face emphasizing the wealth of camaraderie, albeit it apparently one-sided made Embla giggle. A beautifully awkward and unlikely scene. The warm embrace of Skips battling against the cold indifference of the suited man, laughter from one, expressionless from the other, a portrait of two sides that defied their physical disparities.

The older man couldn’t contain his excitement as he proudly announced to Embla his dear friend had won first prize in a short story competition, with his story called ‘Puppy Man’. His voice rang with pride, and the room buzzed with shared happiness as he began to detail the achievement.

‘That’s why he is known as the Puppy Man’ Skips gleefully explained. ‘He is the most famous person around here. A scholar, a literary genius- we are all very proud of him, aren’t we Doris?’

Unable to contain his joy, the excited Skips couldn’t resist expressing his pride with a beaming smile, and affectionately reaching up with a proud pinching of the cheek of the accomplished writer, as if the fridge was about to have a new crayon drawn picture pinned to it after kindergarten. Embla laughed out loud, the man had a little shake of his head, but not quite enough to reveal any facial expression. Embla assumed he had handled this situation with Skips many times before.

‘Would you like me to tell Embla about your success?’ Skips asked with a warm smile up to the man. A smile of cheek and a grimace which if translated into words would say ‘I am going to tell her anyway, you know I am. There is no stopping me’.

‘Imagine this Embla, me and the good lady wife, the Queen of Romantic fiction, organise each year, for the local creators, a short story competition. It has become quite a celebrated part of the local calendar’ he enthused using his eyebrows as evidence of this. The suited man displayed a tiny wry grin in the corner of his left eye.

Now, many at 333 That Street question the actual existence of Skips wife. Despite the often exaggerated, public, lively phone conversations where he spoke ‘with’ her in animated tones, no one had ever caught a glimpse of ‘The Queen of this and that’.

The mysterious lady seemed to exist only through the muffled murmurs that echoed from the other end of the line, leaving a curious state of speculation. Some questioned if she was merely a figment of  his vivid imagination and possibly the voice of the talking clock, while others wondered if she was a recluse who preferred the comfort of anonymity, mainly avoiding association with her ‘alleged’ eccentric husband. Either way, he was aware of the intrigue and fuelled it at any given moment. For his own amusement as always.

‘So our local short story competition soon became the talk of the community,’ Skips continued, glancing with pride between them both. ‘And this young man here’ he growled, grabbing around the shoulder again ‘won the very first competition, with the highest scores ever and went on to repeat the success many times’

For Embla this moment had all the vibes of the first day she met Skips. She had no clue what was real and what wasn’t. This ‘Puppy Man’ was giving no clues away and there seemed no point or end to any of this information. She was however fixed on the scene, coffee in hand, muffin unwrapped and ready on her desk.

‘I was 6’ said the suited man eventually.

‘Which makes it all the more remarkable’ exclaims Skips with exaggerated astonishment. ‘6 years old and already writing a master piece. Have you ever heard such a thing?’ remarks an incredulous Skips, shrugging his shoulders with a face of fake bemusement towards Embla. She laughs and takes a bite of her muffin enjoying the show. It would be popcorn in a bucket if she had been better prepared.

‘I mean, what 6 year old can write romance and magic and mystery, and despair? The normal child can hardly tie their shoe laces at this age? And yet….’ he pauses for dramatic affect, the only thing missing being crocodile tears ‘this man, this boy, this child.’ It all appears too much for Skips as the lump of pride at the back of his throat gags for clearing with an emphatic cough.

‘We just read his story, the Queen of Sheba and I, and knew it was the winner immediately. There was no point reading any more of the competition short stories. We just knew he was the winner. That guy right there’ he proudly pointed with wagging finger.

‘So you just let him win and didn’t read any of the other short stories?’ asked a confused Embla.

‘I mean, was it even worth reading any others? You tell me Embla’ he asked as if there could only ever be the one answer; ‘a story of romance. The boy who couldn’t get the beautiful girl because she only loved fluffy puppies. The magic as he found a way to be turned into a puppy, the heartbreak and frustration of a puppy being helpless to communicate its feelings and hopes. The despair as puppies don’t live as long as humans. What is not to love. It has it all. The only surprise is that Hollywood didn’t pick it up for the silver screen.’

She was starting to grow accustomed to this point of each of Skips ramblings when the truth may or may not reveal itself, where the point of the story may or may no even exist at all. Yet with a tiny amount of curiosity and bucket full of playfulness she asked ‘so what did you do with all the other shorts stories?’

‘They go in the runners up capsule’ he flipped out casually.

‘Capsule?’ she asked.

‘Yes, you’ve heard of the time capsules people bury underground with items for future generations or aliens to find one day, to give a glimpse of times gone by?’ he replies so matter of fact.

‘You bury them for future generations and Aliens to discover?’ she laughs.

‘Well it’s more of a large shoe box, well a few shoe boxes now’ he replies ‘in the loft not buried underground.’ he grins. ‘All in pristine perfect condition. Preserved out of respect for the young writers who gallantly challenged our hero here.’

‘All unopened and unread scoffs’ the Puppy Man.

She laughs. Then she feels weird for laughing when she thinks about what she is going to say next. ‘You didn’t even read any of the others? Just gave him first prize?’

‘Well yes’ replied Skips, with a grin that maybe had a pang of guilt attached to it, ‘of course you are making it seem darker than it was. There is nothing untoward happening here. We saw a masterpiece and knew it couldn’t be beaten. In fact it would have shown compassionless disrespect to even challenge its masterly worth.’

‘And for the next 5 years it appears’ added Puppy Man with a slightly more obvious grin in the corner of his eyes.

‘Hence so many shoe boxes’ smirked the naughty fake janitor.

‘You never ever opened or read any of them?’ she squealed with rhetorical delight. ‘For 5 years?’ she howled heavenwards.

‘There was no need. The previous years winner always had to be read first. Competition rules.’ declared a serious faced Skips.

‘Rules invented by you’ huffed the Puppy Man with a sarcastic breath.

‘Every year was a new masterpiece’ continued Skips ignoring the last comment, ‘and because of this it was never worth considering a challenger.’

So you knew him when he was younger and fixed him to win? She asked bemused.

‘Nope’ he nodded with conviction. ‘We didn’t know he existed before his creative cloud landed upon us like a comfort blanket. Puppy Man was such a discovery we were obliged to encourage him and his God given muse.’

‘All for your own amusement’ was the reply from above Skips this time with a slight chuckle.

‘Yes and look at you now’, said Skips standing before the taller man, adjusting his tie without invitation ‘you earn an incredible living as a wordsmith, you are the finest master of disguise behind the images you create in your mind, you take plagiarism beyond the heavens. A master charmer.’ He bows like a Shakespearian actor.

‘Charmer?’ asks Embla. This time with genuine interest.

‘Yes my dear’ replies Skip with a warm voice of reassurance. ‘But don’t you worry, you are safe when you enter his office on the first floor. There is no woven basket. The sound you hear would be meditation music not the whistle of a flute. He won’t be crossed legged on the floor yearning for the python to raise from the basket. Not that kind of charmer. Just a good all round smooth guy using his charms for fraudulent fun. Good old fashioned fraud, not like todays online cat fishing, real golden creative web weaving.’

‘Thanks’ replied the tall man with lots of fake nick-names yet his real name no closer to being revealed. Why? That’s what we call a page turner in this industry. The answer will appear when the story is ready, it’s not discarded in a shoe box capsule for the aliens to find in the future. All will be revealed in a further episode, and more than likely an anti climax for you.

Well now, as the tall man made his way to the reception office door, intending to move for the elevator, Skips said he would drop by his own office later and have a drink with him. He had something that might be of interest for the charming masterpiece writing.

‘Yes’ announced skips with pride ‘I too have been writing a book and I would like your advice and recommendations on the manuscript.’

‘Sure’ replied the charmer grabbing his papers ready to leave.

‘What’s it about?’ asked an intrigued Embla.

‘Oh’ sighed skips ‘just the new Harry Potter book.’

The other two couldn’t help bursting into laughter in complete rhythm. Skips stayed straight faced.

Skips, always the provocateur, leaned forward, a mischievous glint in his eye. ‘You know, well I got thinking. J.K. Rowling has been ‘cancelled,’ right? So, technically, anyone can write a Harry Potter book now! So I have. Harry Potter and the Temple of Doom’.

‘There is so much wrong with that’ laughed Puppy Man with a raised sceptical eyebrow, ‘Cancelled or not, I’m pretty sure the Wizarding World is still under copyright. Plus half the title brings in the lawyers of Indiana Jones too’.

Skips waved a dismissive hand. ‘Details, details. Besides, you’ve got away with it all these years’ Skips throws up his arms with fake confusion.

They both burst into laughter.

Skips leaned forward, clenched hands rested on the desk, unfazed. ‘Oh, you doubt my literary prowess, my friend? Well, guess what? I’ve also penned a brand-new legal thriller series – the John Grishma Chronicles!’

They both burst into laughter. Again.

Embla almost choked on her coffee. ‘Grishma? Really? You mean Grisham, right?’

Skips winked. ‘Nope, Grishma! It’s like Grisham but with a touch of spice and a hint of mystery. My legal dramas have a side of super red hot curry, you know.’

‘There is more to plagiarism than changing one letter.’ Puppy Man advises for free,  and thus walks through the door waving his hand in the air as a sign of ‘catch you later’.

‘If you are doing that’ grinned Embla ‘ I am going to write a series of raunchy romance novels’

‘Oh really do tell me more’, he sparkled with excitement for his young student.

‘The Jolly Cooper Chronicles’ she grinned proudly.

It took a few seconds but Skips being Skips, with his crazily wired imagination laughed out loud. Pointed several times at Embla with delight and shook his head with pride.

‘You girl just made your first plagiarism joke. Just the one letter.’

He replicated the exit the Puppy Man made waving his hand in the air and laughing loudly on his way to the elevator.

She had made her first plagiarism joke. What a day.