A Nice Man

By cloo
- 873 reads
John Dawkins , 53, of 17, Greswell Drive,was a nice man.
'Yeah, I know John, nice geezer.'
'John? Top bloke! Go down the pub with 'im.'
'Dawkins? Yes, works next-door. Seems like a decent chap.'
It was Friday, and John Dawkins stood nervously outside 'Le Chateau'.
He'd arranged to meet some new business associate inside, and had, by a
series of misfortunes entirely out of his control managed to be fifteen
minutes late. What kind of an impression was that going to make? He
took a few deep breaths, re-adjusted his tie, smoothed down what there
was of his hair, and stepped inside. It wasn't his usual kind of
place-he'd always told himself that he didn't go for status. But for a
new associate, image mattered.
'Uhm...reservation for Dawkins. Mr Jonathan Dawkins.' he said,
suddenly realising what an arsehole he'd made himself sound. The Maitre
D' gallicly raised an eyebrow at him.
'Table for two, eight PM?' offered John Dawkins
'I yam sorree. Meester Dawkins 'as already arrived.' sneered the head
waiter, staring at the apparent impostor.
'B..but, that's not possible!,' stammered John Dawkins, 'I am John
Dawkins! I have ID to prove it!'
'Is zat so?' eyebrowed the waiter, 'So does 'e.'
John looked over to the corner table. There was someone who fitted the
description of his new associate, chatting and laughing with a
handsomely attired and generally handsome man of roughly Dawkins' age.
Whoever he was obviously had tonnes more cash than he did.
He waved weakly at his intended partner, who only stared at him
bemusedly. The waiter's stare was getting more intimidating by the
moment, and it soon forced John out of the restaurant. He stood on the
pavement, at a loss for what to do. Who was that man? Why take his
identity? Was this some kind of industrial espionage?
At any rate, he decided to go home.
Next day, in a lousy mood, he stamped into the office. His boss,
Alice, stood up and smiled. 'Why so glum, John? You really impressed
Mr. Anderson last night.'
'I did what?' he muttered weakly.
'The deal's on! I can't thank you enough. Everyone knows what a tough
bastard Anderson is.'
John suddenly became aware that his mouth was doing its best fish
impression, and that everyone was staring.
'Yes...yes, I did. I suppose.' he said, utterly bewildered. A
beneficial impostor? Why on earth should someone do that. Although he
supposed these days, lots of people do lots of things for many
reasons.
With the usual tumult, stress and ulcers created by work, he had
forgotten all about John Dawkins Mk.2 by the time he reached home,
where he was surprised to find dinner not ready. Jackie always had
dinner ready!
'Jackie? Are you there?' he shouted up the stairs.
'Yes, just coming love... oh, bloody heck! Your dinner....'
'So I noticed!'
She hurried down the stairs in her dressing gown, curlers flying from
her hair, and got some beef ready.
' Doing your hair love?' asked John, 'Haven't seen you curl it
before.'
'Don't we all fancy a change sometimes?' his wife answered,
uncharacteristically vaguely.
'Something on your mind, pet?'
'Nothing. Well, I don't mean that there's NOTHING on my mind! That'd
be silly.' she giggled in that way that reminded him of when she was
young, and he found her so much more attractive.
The following evening was Saturday, but John Dawkins was not one for
going out. He preferred to stay in, read a book, maybe have a flutter
at the Lottery, though he knew it was escapism, and he'd never win
anything more than perhaps the odd tenner.
That night, he sat in front of the telly, chewing on a slightly
undercooked spare rib, and checking his ticket against the night's
lottery numbers. He really didn't know why he did it, it was wrong to
get so much money, wasn't it? Would be nice to have the money, though.
To get some valuable stamps for his collection, a caravan, some stocks
and shares, all he'd ever want from life. As per usual, just the one
number- nothing this week. 'Or probably this year, for that matter.'
reflected John Dawkins.
On Monday, the tabloids were filled with news of the latest
'unfortunate' to have won the jackpot. John Dawkins scanned a copy of
The Sun, whilst brushing the crumbs off his jacket, not actually taking
anything in, until he looked at the picture of the jubilant man. It was
the impostor from the restaurant.
'Ha, now we'll see who he really is!' thought John to himself.
'John Dawkins, 53, of Mayfield, is single and a successful business
entrepreneur already. After his lotto windfall, you can bet he won't be
a bachelor for much longer!'
This made him more confused than ever. Maybe he should ring up The Sun
with an exclusive- 'Lotto winner stole my identity!'. 'Yes' he thought,
'and did a much better deal for me than I would have managed.'
Jackie was smiling over his shoulder. 'What a lucky man.' she said,
with a distant grin.
'Fancy him having the same name as me' remarked John Dawkins, 'and
living round here, as well'.
'Does he?' she replied, 'I hadn't... hadn't really noticed.'
The week passed uneventfully, with two days spent at a conference at a
Trusthouse Hotel next to a Trusthouse-Hotel type new town. He rang
Jackie a few times- but the answering machine always seemed to be on.
What with all the work of the conference, he didn't have the energy to
worry about anything else.
The following Saturday, John Dawkins went out for a walk through the
park, despite the bitterly cold weather. He tutted to himself as he saw
a group of children playing on the dangerously thin ice over the lake.
Maybe he should warn them off, but you never know how kids might react
these days.
Suddenly there came a yell as the ice gave way beneath a young boy.
John was the nearest person, he ought to do something. He took off his
coat, as he thought it's the kind of thing you're meant to do, but the
lake was freezing, he might get hypothermia, he wasn't a good swimmer.
Equally suddenly, another man rushed from nearby, pulled off his
jacket, and leapt into the lake, surfacing moments later holding the
child. A family walking by applauded and cheered as the samaritan
wrapped the child up in his dry coat. John Dawkins was about to join
in, when he took a look at the man's face. It was John Dawkins, Mk2,
stealing what should have been his thunder again. He was suddenly
filled with an almost irrational anger, and stamped towards the other
man. But before he reached him, his way was blocked by an admiring
crowd, and he slunk off back home.
Predictably, headlines were soon all over the locals and tabloids
'Watta Lotto Hero' etc. This man was really beginning to irritate John
Dawkins. He knew he shouldn't really, it was petty to dislike someone
just on account that they were richer, better looking, more successful,
confident and brave than yourself. The way he had the same name was
what really got to him, and the restaurant incident was still
unexplainable. This man had done...all the things John Dawkins wanted
to do. Really wanted to do, that is, whatever he subconsciously told
himself.
So, John Dawkins began to think of the things he really wanted to do.
To get this other man out of his system, he'd change, he'd actually do
them for a change. One night, he decided to surprise his wife, who had
become increasingly distant lately. He told her he'd be out, but in
fact, he was going to return later with some champagne, roses and black
lacy lingerie for his wife. And then, then, he was actually going to
make love to her. Properly. Mad passionate love! As he thought of it,
he steadied himself against a chair. Still, it would be nicer if she
was just a few years younger...if he was a few years younger,
too...
He crept up the stairs, towards the bedroom, where, to his horror, he
heard a man's voice, then his wife's.
'No, its quite alright, my love' she was saying, 'he's out until
late.'
He couldn't quite work out what the man was saying, but heard his wife
roaring with laughter, the way she used to do at his jokes.
Anger built up within him, and he barged into the room
'You bastard!' he yelled, 'Don't think I haven't had you sussed from
the start!' Which was a lie, but it made him feel better.
Somehow, somewhere within his soul, it came as no surprise to see John
Dawkins lying in the bed.
'John!' he said calmly, pulling on a bathrobe, 'Pleased to meet you!
Well, finally in the flesh.' and cordially extended a hand.
John Dawkins stood in shocked stillness. He ought to hate this
son-of-a-bitch, but he couldn't help but like him. In a way.... a way
he'd always hoped people would feel about him.
'Come on, John, ' said the other man, 'we've known each other for
years!'
And at the moment, he knew that they had.
'Don't be bitter, mate' said his apparent nemesis, 'I'm only doing
what you really want, now that I have the opportunity. Everyone has a
ego, John, but not everyone has one separate from themselves.'
He was flabbergasted- all he could think was 'Talk about a rampant
ego!'
Jackie smiled sheepishly. 'I didn't think you'd mind, John,' she said,
'seeing as he is you, and everything. I mean, I thought you
knew.'
'Well, he's NOT me!' John Dawkins said, finally finding the power of
speech, then realising that indeed, he was him. The him he'd always
wanted to be. With that thought came another one- 'Oh bugger!', as he
faded out of existence.
A few days later, Jackie Dawkins, 49, of 17, Greswell Drive, started
her dream Caribbean cruise with her husband John. Everyone who met him
on the cruise remarked to one another 'What a nice man.'
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