Thursday 9 August 2018

My Revenge On Mr. W

Everyone knows that someone who’s a professional whataboutist. Members of this species tend to strut with a smugness that’s like a body part, and are identifiable by sight from a distance of up to five hundred metres. They’re usually known for interrupting conversations with self-congratulatory cynicism.


“Oh, you’ve given up on plastic bags? Congratulations. Not! If only you’d use your good intentions for something actually productive like helping the homeless people of the nation.”


“I see that you’ve decided to carpool to help the traffic and pollution situation. So pointless. What about focusing on real problems instead? Like corruption in the State government?”


“You think men catcalling women is a problem and you want to call attention to it? This is why feminism sucks. What about real problems like false rape accusations?”


I think you get the idea. It boils down to not doing anything at all to make anything even somewhat better because of course there’s something more critical that you could focus on. And pat yourself on the back for it.


Most days, Goody Two Shoes like you and me tend to ignore this invasive species, but one day I’d decided I’d had enough. I’d fight back.


I started the day early. I knew that Mr. W left home at 7 in the morning to beat the traffic, so I snuck into a moderately large bush near his apartment car park at 6.  Hugging my feet to preserve some warmth, I waited.


Out swaggered W, cloaked in a sweatshirt and arrogance, and put his car key into the slot, which promptly got thoroughly stuck. I sniggered as Mr. W turned the key this way and that, and after a few minutes of utter befuddlement, let loose a volley of curses at the vagaries of fate and the cruelty of life and how he had the most important meeting ever to attend to, and why O why was he so unlucky?


That was my cue. Speaking through a makeshift megaphone, a tinny voice (mine) filtered through like the pronouncement of a malevolent god.
“Oh you think you’re unlucky. Have you ever wondered what it’s like to be an orphan in sub-Saharan Africa? A day that goes without food is a good day, because you did not die.”


Startled, Mr. W pondered this for the briefest fraction before he finally managed to extricate his key from the slot which may or may not have been filled with chewing gum.


A few hours later, while Mr. W was smack dab in the middle of the most important meeting of his life, the fire alarm went off. Nobody paid the slightest bit of attention to Mr. W as everyone in the audience gossiped about which surreptitious stairwell smoker had set off the alarm this time. Just to let you know, I don’t smoke. But I do know how to light a cigarette.


Mr. W cleared his throat most impressively, but his audience continued to joke about the most ridiculous ways in which they had set off fire alarms in their hallowed youths. Exploding rice cooker! Magnifying glass on dry leaf! Too lazy to do laundry, so decided to put underwear in a microwave, which started to smoke most impressively! W watched this with growing consternation until he finally gave up and sat in a corner with his face having what authors like to call a stony aspect.


Eventually, the message about the fire alarm being a false one did come, robotic monotone and all. The contents were a little different though.


“Sorry for the inconvenience. Just remember that any inconvenience you may have felt is negligible compared to the daily troubles malnutritioned children in sub-Saharan African have in obtaining food. Have a nice day!”


At this point, a brief glimmer of something like recognition may have flitted across W’s face - I, watching from my vantage point beside a printer, celebrated - but it vanished. He attempted to pick up his presentation where he had left off, but his audience realized they had another meeting to be at, and walked out.


It was lunch. Usually W’s finest hour, as the everymen and everywomen of the workplace discussed their humble accomplishments, with W on his ivory throne and smirking at the pointlessness of it all. But this time, there was a twist. W’s lunch box was missing.


I assure you that I would never steal lunch boxes from children. That’s evil! Incidentally, and unrelatedly, W is not really a child.


Poor W had to actually taste some of the cafeteria food. The grumbling began even before the eating did. The plates were too plasticky, the food was too watery, the salad was too little, the taste of everything was like a bucketful of sea-salt. I watched from behind my forkful of sea-salty salad and waited for my moment.


Midway through W’s meal, the TV showing the news in the corner suddenly boomed out loud


“Breaking News! Starvation kills ten more in the nation’s worst ever famine. The food you throw away could save lives. Reach out to us now!”


To be fair to W, he shut up. He still threw away the too watery salad though. And I definitely don’t have the kind of smartphone that allows you to control a TV.


As the afternoon wound to a close, W made his way to the office printer. I, who knew his routine better than his mum, knew that this was the time he’d print out some documents to peruse at home.


“F***. F***. F***. F***!”, he bellowed like an angry buffalo.


I casually sauntered in from a nearby meeting room where I’d been waiting to pounce.


“Everything OK there, W?”


Something about my demeanour must have cut through even W’s incredible self-possession. He looked at me, he really looked at me. The mouth opened as if words were about gush out, words dripping with acid, but nothing happened.


“No, no, everything’s fine. There’s no paper in the printer, that’s all. “


I nodded gravely.


“How on Earth can you say everything’s fine? What about the recently published statistic that a child dies every minute due to malnutrition? I cannot believe someone can be so callous as to say everything’s fine. Unbelievable.” With that, I made a hasty exit.


I wasn’t done though. For those of you who still doubt the purity of my intentions, I mean I wasn’t done observing poor W’s day, and nothing more.


A distinctly gloomy looking W may have crawled into bed at eleven in the night, and I may have observed this from my perch on a nearby branch in a nearby tree.


There may have been a confused bird that pecked at his window all night. Strange, right? Don’t look at me, do I look like a bird whisperer? I also definitely did not have anything to do with the pamphlet dropped in W’s frontyard in the morning that screamed:


“UNHAPPINESS IS THE ROOT OF ALL EVIL! SLEEPLESSNESS IS NO CAUSE TO BE UNHAPPY! THINK OF THE MILLIONS OF STARVING CHILDREN!”

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