martinsmithstories

Image: “Rumpelstiltskin”, by Henry Justice Ford, from Andrew Lang’s Fairy Tales

‘I booked in to see this shrink. A Doctor Humperdinck somebody. I can’t recall his surname: Dumpster or maybe Dumpling or something like that. No, wait, that’s right. It was Dumptee. Doctor Humperdinck Dumptee. Anyway, after a meet and greet with the Doc, he had me lie down on this real comfy couch, and he hopped up on this wall, set this egg timer next to him and told me he charged by the four-and-a-half minutes. And then the Doc got me talking, and he kept egging me on, and I tell you, it just spilled out.

‘The Doc said, “Tell me about your parents.” And I told him I never really knew my parents as I was not born of the flesh but of oral tradition. As he wrote in his notebook, he said, “Ah! Yes, abandonment issues.”

‘Then the Doc said, “How do you see yourself in the world?” And I told him I’d always looked up to people. As he scrawled in his notebook, he said, “Hmm. Yes, Short Stature Syndrome.”

‘The Doc said, “And tell me more about this spinning straw-into-gold business.” And I told him it was a gift from the Creator, a little something—that and my name—to differentiate me from all those other fairy-tale characters in the Canon, but, despite that, I’d still worked my arse off for the soon-to-be queen. I told the Doc that people might think it’s easy to spin straw into gold, but it’s actually bloody hard work. And even worse when working to a deadline. As he scribbled in his notebook, he said, “Yes. Yes. Delusions of victimhood.”

‘The Doc scratched his bald head, placed his hand under where his chin would have been if he had one and gave me a long, hard look. Then he said, “Close your eyes and tell me what it is that you fear the most.”

‘So I closed my eyes and said, “What I fear the most is … is … is being an antagonist for the rest of my life.”

‘The Doc said, “Hmm, yes, I thought so. Yours is a most interesting case. Indeed, a classic textbook case.”

‘I said, “Oh God, Doc, what is it? Is it bad? Chronic? Incurable? Am I doomed to be an antagonist for the rest of my life?”

‘But the Doc assured me I had a common ailment. Too much idle time on my hands, he called it, and he prescribed I get myself a first name, then either change career or get a hobby or volunteer to help those less fortunate than me. He wrote me a script, and I stood and thanked him as he passed it down to me.

‘The Doc gave me a compassionate look and said, “Come back for another session if things don’t work out.”

‘I said, “Will do.”

‘And the Doc smiled and said, “And chin up. Things may look grim now, but I’m sure you’ll be a protagonist one day. Look at me. In my younger days, I was a bit player, a stunt character, subjected to scrambling, poaching, frying and even the occasional boiling. And I can’t tell you how frightful it was to be laid by a golden goose every day. Then, one day, I found myself a protagonist, starring in my very own nursery rhyme. And now no one remembers all those bit roles. When the world thinks of eggs, they think of moi, old Humpty Dumptee. So don’t lose faith in your quest. I find the day is much more bearable if you try looking at things sunny side up.” And the Doc burst out laughing at his own yolk joke and toppled off the wall and ended up a cracked mess on the floor.

‘I fell to my knees and said, “Oh God, Doc! Are you OK? Is there anything I can do to help you?”

‘He grimaced and said, “I’ll be all right. Happens all the time. If you could just ask my receptionist to pop in on your way out.”

‘I’ll admit I left the session feeling upbeat. I figured if the Doc could put all the pieces together again, then anyone could.

‘I took the Doc’s advice and decided that my first small step towards protagonism was to get myself a first name. I bought a book called Name Your Child and thumbed my way through the As. I thought about Ace, but it seemed a bit too flighty. Then Alabaster, but that was too wishy-washy. I seriously considered Aladdin, thinking it could lead to a whole new world of opportunity, but then I thought maybe not as it sounded like a seedy carpet dealer at a bazaar who, if rubbed the wrong way, would unbottle a whole heap of pent-up anger.

‘Then I came upon Andrew, and I thought, why not? A good, solid name suggesting manly bravery, strength and courage. Yes, I thought, a chance to tag myself more man, less imp. Better still, why not Andy? So, Andy it was.

‘Next day, I rolled up at the Office of Births, Deaths and Happy-Ever-Afters, filled out an application form and joined the long queue, standing behind this short bloke with a sweeping fringe and the beginnings of a toothbrush moustache.

‘He turned to me and said, “Busy, today, huh?”

‘I said, “Sure is. Hi, I’m—” And I told him my name.

‘He extended a salute and said, “Hi, I’m Hitt La Hunter.”

‘I returned his salute and said, “Hi, Hittla.”

‘But he said, “No, no, it’s just Hitt. La Hunter is my surname.”

‘I said, “Sorry. Are you here to register a name change?”

‘He said, “Yes. Today’s a big day for me. I’m reinventing myself. I’ve worked as a huntsman for twenty-odd years, roaming forests and meeting my cull quotas. Then last month, it all went to Hades in a handbag when this bloody deer came into my sights and I pulled my trigger. This bloke—Walt Disney, I think he said his name was—burst out of the scrub and waved his clenched fist and screamed down a megaphone, threatening legal action, all because he reckoned I’d shot the star of his latest animated feature. He said my name was mud, that theatre-goers would loathe me for the rest of my life, that children throughout the world, now and forever, would despise me and associate my name with theriocide, cruelty, wanton destruction and loss of innocence. And all the while he berated me, this bloody rabbit thumped away at my shins, screaming I’d murdered someone called Bambi. This was news to me, so I told the lot to bugger off, and I headed home. That night, my face and name were all over the news. I tell you, I didn’t leave the hut for two weeks, and when I finally did venture out, I received all kinds of abuse and vitriol. The Hunting Guild banned me from entering the forest, revoked my gun licence and fined me a bag of gold coins for bringing the profession into disrepute. So that’s why I’m here today. To register my new name and seek a new profession. I’ve been thinking about going into community service or maybe even politics, somewhere where I can engage in my love of public speaking and promote this little manifesto I’ve been plugging away at by my campfire over the years. Once I’ve lodged the paperwork, I’ll no longer be known as Hitt La Hunter, the bastard who shot Bambi.”

‘I said, “So what name did you choose?”

‘He said, “I’m dropping Hunter and adding Adolf. Adolf Hittla. I thought it had a pleasant yet authoritative ring to it. And the twin disyllables have a nice symmetry that rolls off the tongue. Who knows, I might win back the trust and adoration of all those people I’ve alienated, and maybe even end up being one of history’s good guys.”

‘I said, “Well, I hope it all goes well for you. And my compliments on that little moustache you’ve got going.”

‘Having had his application processed, Adolf departed with a rapid goose-step. I stepped up to the service counter, and with a booming stamp and a blinding snapshot, I became Andy R—Sorry, I forgot. No last names. Anyway, I departed the Office feeling a million gold coins, exalted at having two names for the first time in my life. Later, in a café bathroom, I stood on an overturned wastepaper bin and admired my reflection in the mirror as I washed my hands. I pouted and said, “Andy.” I grinned and said, “Andy.” I purred and said, “An-dy.” I tilted my face to the side and said, “An-dy.” I went to turn to look over my shoulder to say “An-dee”, but I tumbled from the bin and cracked my head on the hand dryer.

‘My chat with Adolf, coupled with the Doc’s salient advice, had me pondering a career change. Look, I wasn’t interested in the money. Hell, it wasn’t as if I was short of gold. Take my wheel for a spin and, hey presto, I had all the gold I needed. But what to do?

‘Later that week, I met with an employment officer called Claudia.

‘She poised her fingers over a keyboard and said, “Name?”

‘I said, “Andy R—” And I spelt out my surname.

‘She typed and paused and said to me, “Age?”

‘I said, “Sorry, I can’t give you an exact age as I don’t have a birth certificate, but if I were to hazard a guess, I’d say I’m in my early fourth century.”

‘Again she typed until she paused and said to me, “Work experience?”

‘I said, “Nearly three hundred years as a professional imp, with all but thirty of those years working in textiles. My last job was an on-call contract at the palace.”

‘Claudia’s fingers hovered over the keyboard as she said, “Would your last employer be willing to act as a referee?”

‘I said, “There might be a bit of a problem with that. Though I met all my performance targets, there was a fallout over remuneration. Besides, I’m looking to pursue a new career path.”

‘She said, “Like what?”

‘And I said, “Something involving children.”

‘Claudia turned, gave me a deadpan look and said, “Hmm … we don’t get many imps in that industry. Particularly male imps. Frighten the children, apparently. And the parents.”

‘I said, “Gee, that’s a tad discriminatory. Surely, in this day and age, society is beyond casting stereotypes. I thought it was all about diversity, these days.”

‘She said, “It is. But diversity’s a one-way current, and a pale, stale, male imp like yourself will always find himself swimming against the tide of diversity and inclusion.”

‘I sighed and said, “That’s disappointing.”

‘She returned her eyes to the screen before her and said, “Besides, you said you’re over three hundred years old. It’s going to be an almighty struggle to get you any form of employment. These days, employers are looking for younger staff—team players brimming with innovation and youthful enthusiasm.”

‘I said, “Do you have any work for which I might be suitable?”

‘Claudia clicked through a couple of screens, paused and said, “Well, there is one position we have available at the moment. Actually, I’m having a hell of a time finding anyone to take on the job. And taking into account your age, your work experience and your general disposition, I think you’d be perfect for it.”

‘I sat straighter in my chair and said, “What is it?”

‘She turned to me and said, “An antagonist in a fairy tale.”

‘I’ll admit I went home that night more than a little disillusioned. Over the weeks that followed, I became increasingly despondent and desperate. Each night my zip glowed white and my melancholy gloomed black.

‘I consulted a cosmetic surgeon and asked her if I could get a nip and tuck to make me a bit taller, a tad darker and a whole lot more handsome. She drew a whole heap of blue lines and crosses and circles over my face and then shook her head. She said she was a surgeon, not a miracle worker, and that, besides, no matter how much tinkering she did with my outside, I’d still be the same person inside: an ancient imp unable to be taught new tricks.

‘I said, “What about gender reassignment surgery?” Why not go the full monty, I thought, and transform myself into a damsel? Weren’t most protagonists in fairy tales fair maidens? Surely with a snip and tuck and strict compliance to a prescribed hormonal therapy regimen, I could don a gown, a wig and a heavy application of foundation and pass myself off as a heroine. Better still, add a concocted death-defying dilemma, and, voilà, I’d be protagonist and damsel-in-distress in one.

‘The surgeon shook her head and said, “That would be a waste of your and my time. No one ever saves an old damsel-in-distress. No matter how thick a foundation you apply, your hands will always give your age away.”

‘I said, “I’d keep them hidden until after the fairy tale has finished.”

‘She chuckled and said, “Not likely. Trust me, Andy, it’s impossible to plead for saving without waving your hands about. Look, I can’t help you. You need to train your mind, adapt your behaviour, if you want to turn your life around and become a protagonist.”

‘It was sage advice from the surgeon, and as I walked home that day, I resolved to find my inner protagonist.

‘Later that week, I enrolled at night school.

‘The following Monday, I sat amidst a group of fellow wannabes in a studio. A pig wearing a bow tie, a beret and a pencil moustache stood before us and said,“Welcome to Performing Protagonism 101. I’m Ham. This is my sister, Gammon.” Another pig—wearing a sweeping pink scarf, a red beret and a beaming smile—raised a trotter and waved at the class. “Together, we will be your instructors for the next five weeks.”

‘Spontaneous clapping came from the students sitting before our porcine teachers.

‘Ham continued, “Before we commence, let me tell you a little about our background. I suspect you all know about our ongoing performance in Hansel and Gretel. But what you may not know is that we started off in the Grimm Brothers’ Little Brother and Little Sister, then as siblings in The Enchanted Stag.”

‘Ham paused to snort from a silver snuffbox. Then he said, “We know what it takes to become a protagonist, and, more importantly, how to sustain longevity in what is the most cut-throat of industries. Mark my words, it’s all about suspending disbelief to ensure the reader imagines your character and not your true self. Look at my sister and me. For centuries the world has imagined Hansel and Gretel as two human children—one resourceful, the other dimwitted—but never once has the reader had the slightest inkling a pair of pigs are playing the lead roles. Porcine protagonistic perfection, I like to call it.”

‘Ham paused to twirl his moustache. Then he continued, “Now, before we start, I must warn you. Out of our class of 30 here today, only a few may reach a second draft, and of those few, maybe, and it’s a big maybe, one of you will make the big time and see your name in print as a protagonist. Even then, you are more likely to be identified by your role than your name, and more likely to be a flat character than a rounded one. And it will probably take you centuries to reach classic status. To be frank, most of you will never appear in a fairy tale, let alone as a protagonist. But don’t let me discourage you. If you work hard, push yourself to your very limit and beyond, you may just make it.”

‘Ham paused to pout and preen and admire his profile in the studio’s mirrors, before he returned his attention to us and said, “During the next five Mondays, you’ll be asked to shed your comfort zone, confront your innermost and outermost fears and survive the most dangerous and difficult of dilemmas, all while garnering empathy from your readership and doing everything in your power to reach out and grasp that elusive happy-ever-after. So let’s get started. Pair up!”

‘And so for the next five Monday nights, I learnt the art of protagonism. I paired up with plumbers and Prince Charmings, delivery drivers and distressed damsels, waiters and witches, firefighters and fairies, garbos and goblins, electricians and elves, tattooists and trolls, and optometrists and ogres. Just common folk looking for a break, a chance to make a name for themselves as protagonists.

‘We started with Grooming and Deportment, focusing on key skills like letting your hair down when standing next to high, open windows, colour coordinating when selecting an outfit to wear when walking in the woods on the way to visit elderly relatives, maintaining a quiff, tanning (for gentlemen) and sunscreening (for ladies), avoiding swollen feet after a night at a ball and avoiding pash rash when snogging during denouement.

‘Next week, we studied Voice. We learnt how to scream in distress, how to speak to wolves, beasts or strange men to encourage them to place our life in peril, how to sing in dulcet tones when sitting amidst the innocent creatures of the woods, and how to solve riddles with clear enunciation.

‘Week Three, we focused on Movement: how to walk along a path in the woods, how to cross a troll-infested bridge, how to climb a beanstalk and how to clean a hearth full of cinders.

‘The next week was all about Spatial Awareness: how to get lost in the woods, how to swoon in front of a Prince Charming, how to nibble the poisoned part of an apple, how to avoid burning your tongue on hot porridge, and how to not hit an artery when pricked by a splinter.

‘Our last week focused on Crisis Management: how to quell nausea when kissing a frog, how to bite your tongue when chastised by ugly step-relatives or living with persons of short-stature, how to avoid a panic attack when being entwined by a forest of brambles and thorns, and how to avoid frostbite in colder climes. I missed the session on how to coerce an unsuspecting other to do your dirty work as I went for a loo break. As I re-entered the studio, I saw Ham packing a spinning wheel and Gammon sweeping wisps of straw into a dustpan while the students lolled about with shifty looks on their faces and stuffed pockets.

‘I graduated top of the class. My peers voted me “Most Likely”. A dwarf gave the valedictory speech. We signed each other’s Month Books, then threw our mortarboards in the air and our hopes to the wind.