Goodbye Sam, Hello Samaritans

“They’re resurrecting Dylan Thomas,” Toby said. 

“Hello, Samaritans,” I said. 

“Could you stop doing that,” Toby said.  

“I’m sorry.  I’m just nervous, it’s my first day tomorrow and I’ve been practicing. It's become a sort of habit.” 

“Saying hello’s the easy bit,” said Kirsty. “It’s how you respond when they start talking about suicide that you need to worry about.” 

Talk of suicide worried me.  “Hello, Samaritans,” I said. 

“Could you just stop with the ‘hello Samaritans’,” said Ed. 

“Yeah, I was hoping to learn more about the resurrection of Dylan Thomas,” said Rosie. 

“Sorry,” I said. “I get nervous and repeat the first thing I leant.  It’s supposed to be reassuring to the caller, a confident, clear statement that support is here, a listening ear.” 

“Dylan,” 

“Fucking,” 

“Thomas,” 

Said Ed, Rosie and Kirsty in unison. 

“Thank you”, said Toby. 

“They’re resurrecting Dylan Thomas,” Rosie said. “What does that even mean? Is a modern-day Jesus opening up Thomas’ tomb?” 

“Pretty much,” said Toby, “Only it’s a team of cryonicists not Jesus." 

“So, Dylan Thomas was cryogenically frozen,” said Kirsty. 

“That’s right.” 

“And he’s being thawed out?” 

“I don’t think that’s quite the terminology they use,” said Toby. “It’s bringing a human being back to life, not thawing out a chicken for Sunday dinner.” 

“Wouldn’t know,” said Ed. “I’m vegan.” 

“Don’t we know it,” said Rosie. 

“That’s not fair. I hardly ever mention it.” 

“You just did.” 

Kirsty interrupted. 

“They’re thawing out Dylan Thomas ...” she said. 

“Yes,” said Toby, “And we’ve been invited to his first appearance.” 

“Why have we been invited to Dylan Thomas’ thawing out?” I said. 

“It’s not a thawing out,” said Toby. “It’s a ...”  I interrupted 

“But why us? We’re just a student magazine that struggles to sell a few hundred copies. If this is true, the resurrection of Dylan Thomas is the biggest moment in Welsh literary history.” 

“They’ve invited journalists from every media outlet in South Wales.” 

“What, all of us?” Ed gestured around the table. “Swansea Arts Magazine?” 

“Just one of us,” said Toby.  “We’ll need to decide who we send.” 

“Well obviously it should be me,” I said. “I did my thesis on what Dylan Thomas would be writing now if he were alive today.  I’ve presented papers at the Dylan Thomas Society and had an article on Dylan Thomas published in Yesterday’s Writers Today.” 

“But you’re leaving SAM,” Ed said. “You’ve got a new job.” 

“Hello, Samaritans,” I said. 

“Oh God, turn him off said Rosie.” 

“I can’t help it,” I said. “I’ve been practicing and practicing, and now I say it whenever I’m prompted.  I’m not leaving Swansea, I’ll still be able to write for the magazine, I’ll just miss these meetings.  I’m perfect for the job, I even run the Dylan Thomas pub quiz team.” 

“No you don’t,” said Ed. “I run it.” 

“I write down the answers,” I said. 

“I drive us to the pub,” said Rosie.” 

“But I’m the captain,” said Ed. 

“Can we just vote on it,” said Kirsty. “We’re going to get nowhere squabbling about the pub quiz.” 

“Good idea,” Toby said. He took a pad of paper out of his bag and handed out a sheet to each of us.  “One vote each, folded up and secret, and I’ll count them.” 

“You’ll count them!” said Ed. 

“I’ll open them in front of everyone and we can all count them.” 

“Okay,” Ed consented. There were nods all round. 

We voted and placed our votes in the centre.  “The first vote is for Ed,” Toby said, opening the first vote.  

“Yes,” Ed said.  “I’m going to interview Dylan Thomas.” 

However, the next vote was for Toby, then Rosie, then Kirsty, then finally me.  I wasn’t worried, I’d voted for myself. 

“Did everyone vote for themselves?” asked Toby. 

We were all silent. 

“Okay, I should have been more realistic,” said Toby.  “Let’s do it again, but this time we each have two votes, so if we want to post one vote for ourselves we can.” 

He gave each of us two pieces of paper, and we duly voted and placed our folded papers into the centre. 

Toby opened the votes in front of us. At the end it was another tie. 

“Two votes each!” he said. “Did everyone give themselves two votes?” 

Again, he was met with silence.  

“This is pointless,” said Kirsty. “We might as well just do a lottery.” 

Reluctantly we all agree.  Toby gathered up the papers and put one of each name, folded, into the centre and shuffled them. 

Kirsty took a piece of paper, Toby unfolded it. 

“Terrence,” he said. Everyone swore under their breath. 

I had won. I was going to meet the resurrected Dylan Thomas. The sheer magnitude of the honour hit me. 

“Hello, Samaritans,” I said. 

xxx 

Toby had given me the invitation card: ‘The Dylan Thomas Resurrection, Gower Hotel, Swansea’.  I was shown to a crowded conference room.  “Wait in here,” said a nameless character.   

“You here for the thaw?” said the man next to me.  

“Yes,” I said. “Though I don’t think they like the term.” 

“Tom,” he said, extending he said.  “Evening Post.” 

“Terrence,” I said. “SAM.” 

“Which?”  

“Which what?” 

“Terrence or Sam?” 

“I’m Terrence. I’m from SAM.” 

“Sam who?” 

“Swansea Arts Magazine.” 

“Never heard of it.” 

There was an Awkward silence.  I looked around the room. I recognised a couple of faces from the TV news.  This was a room full of the biggest and smallest media outlets in Wales. If a bomb were to off right here right now there would be nobody to report it.  Maybe nobody would ever know.   

After what seemed an eternal wait, finally there was action.  A small collective of besuited men entered the room, stood on the podium and tapped the microphone.   

“Good morning,” he said, seemingly unaware that it was now after noon and consequently afternoon. “I’m Hywel Jenkins, proud Chair of the Dylan Thomas Society. Thank you all for coming to what is a once in a lifetime event, the resurrection of Dylan Thomas himself.” 

“As you know, we are here for an historic event.  Wales’ greatest ever writer, Dylan Thomas, was cryogenically frozen at the time of his assumed death. Thanks to medical advances, he has now been resurrected and brought back to full health. I am pleased to report that he is alive, healthy, articulate and ready to resume his literary career.” 

“Later this afternoon Mr Thomas will address everybody here, but before that there will be an opportunity for a select number of one-to-one interviews.” 

“I have a list of the journalists from Wales’ main media outlets who have been granted interviews.  However, the committee thought that in the interest of democracy we would choose the honour of the first interview at random. I will select a name from the list of names here today.” 

As he spoke one of his besuited colleagues walked over, carrying a top hat, help upside down.   

“I hope you have prepared questions,” he said, to nervous laughter. 

“Everybody’s name is in here,” he continued, gesturing to the hat.  “So, the honour of the first ever interview with the recently resurrected Dylan Thomas goes to ...”  he fumbled briefly and removed a piece of paper from the hat. 

“The winner is ...” he read the card to himself, and a puzzled look overcame his face. “Terrence Oblong from SAM? Is that right,” he said, “Is there a Terrence Oblong here?” 

I raised my hand. 

xxx 

I was led into a room at the back of the hotel.  There, seated on a comfortable chair beside a table of coffee, tea and Welsh cakes, sat the great man himself, Wales’ greatest ever poet, playwrite, short story writer, the literary voice of a generation, of a nation, looking not a day older than the day he died. 

"You have fifteen minutes altogether,” Jenkin said. “You must submit the draft interview to us for approval before you can publish, those were the papers you signed when you arrived.” 

“Mr Thomas,” he said to Dylan, “This is Terrence Oblong, from Swansea Arts Magazine.” 

“Swansea Arts Magazine,” said the great man, “Never heard of it.  Okay, fire away Terrence, what words of wisdom do you desire.” 

This was it. The peak of my academic and journalistic career. The first EVER interview with Dylan Thomas post resurrection. A chance to build on my existing reputation expertise in the contemporary work of Dylan Thomas. This was my chance to become a leading authority, no scrap that, THE leading authority. I felt the adrenaline rush to my brain. 

“Hello,” I said nervously, “Samaritans.”