Reuters – a short story

My grandfather found himself in a space and a time much distanced from our own, stepping towards what appeared to be a veritable cathedral of shopping surrounded by soaring towers of crystal. He gaped. He stood in his own reflexion which was the wrong way around, or rather the right way around but the inverse of a mirror image. He looked good, but the clothes bundled inside a coat under his arm looked incongruous against such a massive statement to the indulgence of glamour.

Transported by his own momentum, he crossed the threshold which dissolved around him.

“Excuse me, Sir.” He was being challenged by a man in a commissionaire’s uniform, two-tone and felted. “You do not appear to be carrying your Reuters pass, Sir.”

“My Reuters pass?”

“Yes, Sir. You Reuters pass.”

“Why would I have a Reuters pass.”

“In order to enter the building, Sir. The usual formality.”

“Yes, but why a Reuters pass?”

The uniformed man did not miss a beat, replying as if asked the same question by clergymen and high court judges every day “Because it is a Reuters building.”

“This is owned by Reuters?” Grandfather was awestruck.

“Yes, Sir. Is this the first time you have visited us?”

“It is.”

“And you do not have a pass from any of our other stores?”

“No, I didn’t even know that Reuters had stores.”

The uniformed man laughed uncertainly, hesitating as to whether Grandpa was joking or had recently arrived from another planet.

“We have 6,546 stores around the world, Sir. I am surprised that you haven’t noticed even one of them. In which case, welcome to Reuters, Sir.”

Grandfather let his gaze drift around him in wonderment. “The pleasure is mine,” he replied.

“However, Sir, as this is your first time with us, we need to conclude certain formalities …..”

“Certainly, certainly .…”

“If you would be so kind as to step this way, Sir.”

The uniformed man led him along a short corridor and turned right at an electronic display proclaiming “The new collection from Kelloggs” and portraying several variations of luminous crotchless panties. Grandfather frowned. “Can you eat those?” he asked the man, pointing at the display.

The man grinned. “If you buy them, Sir, I am sure that you can do anything you want with them. Eat the panties, devour the contents …. This way, Sir.”

The man led him into a smallish room of a thousand screens scanning the store. You must remember that this was still the 1950s, and my grandfather had never seen anything like this before. He was overwhelmed. He even found himself dribbling momentarily before he surreptitiously wiped it away.

The man motioned him to a chair. “If you would be so kind as to hand me your Oxfam standard identity card, Sir.”

“What on earth is that?” thought my grandfather and was on the verge of denying being in possession of such a thing when he discovered a thin plastic card in his hand.

“Thank you, Sir,” said the man as he proffered it. “This will not take a moment, Sir.”

He slid the card into a slot in the desk and all grandfather’s records flashed up on the screen in a dizzying sequence. They were entirely new to him. The title ‘bank manager’ caught his eye. “Oh, that’s good,” he said to himself. There then followed a kaleidoscope of photographic images, portraits presumably, but they were too quick and too unfamiliar for him to fasten onto any of them. However, he did think he caught a glimpse of the girl he had seen in Harrods. “I look forward to that,” he said to himself.

“All done,” concluded the man. “If you would be so kind as to sign our standard terms and conditions on the desk in front of you.” There was a pen on the desk, but otherwise its surface was entirely clear. Grandfather gaped for a second or two. “If you would be so kind as to pick up the pen and to sign anywhere,” the man prompted him.

“What terms and conditions?” my grandfather inquired, recovering himself.

“Just the standard ones, Sir. The ones all retail premises use, as regulated by the government.”

“May I see them?” my grandfather asked.

The man was beginning to stiffen. He was in the process of realising that my grandfather was one of those rare difficult customers. “You can obtain them from the government’s website,” he enunciated carefully.

“But could I see them now?” my grandfather insisted. “I have always been brought up never to sign anything I haven’t read first.”

“You are concerned that we may have inserted some additional clauses, are you, Sir?” The man was trying to rationalise my grandfather’s behaviour.

“Something like that,” my grandfather confirmed.

The man cloaked his face in a reassuring smile. “Reuters is a most respectable organisation, Sir. We would never do anything like that. We simply follow government guidelines, as do all reputable retail outlets.”

“I don’t doubt it, but I would still like to see your terms and conditions to make sure. You can never be too careful,” insisted my grandfather.

“That is why we employ them in the first place,” observed the man curtly.

“Exactly,” concluded my grandfather.

“Exactly, Sir,” the man emphasised. “Unfortunately, we do not have them to hand. I suppose we should, but this is the first time in three years in this job that anyone has ever asked me for them.”

“You can never be too sure,” repeated my grandfather.

“I can tell you the gist,” the man continued. “In broad terms they state …… and these are not the exact words, as you will appreciate ….. that the Reuters organisation and its employees will not be held either responsible or liable for any detrimental event that should take place on its premises or as a result of your have been on its premises, or of you intending to enter onto its premises, whether that event is caused by the design and construction of the building, or by any fixture or fitting present in the building, or that might be present in the building but is not so to be found on the specific occasion of the incident, or by any employee, former employee, potential employee, or future employee of Reuters, or by another visitor to the building of whatsoever kind, or by a terrorist or an agitator, or by an agitated terrorist ….” The man giggled. “….that’s my addition, you will appreciate, or by any security official, whether an Oxfam official or otherwise, or by the climactic conditions internal or external to the building, or by an subterranean disturbance beneath the building, or by anything surrounding the building deemed to be a disturbance or otherwise, or by the nature and the quality of the air within the building, or by the nature and quality of the noise within the building, or by anything said within the building, within hearing or otherwise by any living person or artificial device, or anything deemed to have been said by such person or artificial device …..” The man stopped and began to count his fingers. When he got to “twelve” he seemed perturbed. “I am sure that I have missed something. Is there anything you have noticed that I might have forgotten to mention, Sir?”

“The effects of aliens?” my grandfather proposed, but this sortie went ignored and unappreciated.

“Plants!” declared the man. “Merchandise! Promotional items! Giveaways not intended as promotional items. Implements, such as pens and measuring instruments. Organic or inorganic substances transported through the air or along surfaces including floors, walls, false walls, ceilings, false ceilings, staircases, elevators, escalators and the roof.” The man gave a smile of triumph. “I don’t know if that is everything, but at least I have got past twenty.”

“OK,” my grandfather sighed. “I’ll sign.” He did so, scribbling directly onto the wooden desk, watching his signature flash up onto a screen.

“And if I might just have your second signature, Sir, accepting liability for any damage you might cause within the shop to any person on the premises, whether a present, past, potential or future employee of the organisation, or any person whatsoever on the premises, or who has been on the premises, or who has the past, current or future intention to be on the premises, or to any item on the premises whatsoever, whether it be ….” He stopped. “I am sure that I do not need to list all that lot all over again. “….whether the damage is caused deliberately, recklessly, carelessly, unintentionally, unconsciously or during an act of self-preservation or self-defence, during a terrorist attack or other act of force majeure or of God, or by an consequence of the state or ambience of the building, or any act, whether deliberate, reckless, careless, unintentional or unconscious of any present, past, potential or future employee of the organisation, or any person whatsoever on the premises, or who has been on the premises, or who has the past, current or future intention to be on the premises.”

My grandfather sat back. “And all this simply to be able to buy a sandwich?”

“We don’t serve sandwiches here, Sir. We cannot take the risk, as you might imagine.”

“Ah.”

“We did away with selling anything organic on the premises years ago, way before my time.”

“I can imagine.”

“I am sure you can, Sir.”

My grandfather signed. By now he was irresistibly intrigued.

“Thank you, Sir. I will print your copy to your Oxfam card. I will show you back to the sales floor.”

*  *  *

‘Greetings, from Karl Findus’ appeared to be the heavily promoted perfume of the week, rivalled by ‘Truth, from Pravda’. On the first floor it was ‘Sexy, from Ginsters” for the latest women’s fashionware, to be rounded off with Tumbleweed accessories. My grandfather toured every floor – ‘Good Night mattresses, from Schlumberger”, the latest in kitchen design from Zip!, men’s clothing from ‘man at Dow’. Nothing made sense to him, not the fashions, not the names, not the items themselves. “I now know what it is like to be seventy,” he told himself. He picked up a toy talking cactus with real self-detaching prickles which lodged in his forefinger and thumb. “Nothing makes sense.” At least the people seemed real, although their appearance grandfather considered esoteric to say the least – Mohawk haircuts, trousers with gashes at the crutch, women’s dresses open to the breast line, clunky jewellery that stretch the earlobes, bolts through the younger girls’ noses. “Is this the future?” he asked himself. “Or is it an array of all the fashions nature has discarded?” He couldn’t persuade himself to leave the shop for over an hour he was so baffled and confused and in need of concocting some kind of explanation for himself.

“That’s really bad,” an elderly man declared with a huge smile on his face to his elderly female companion. “Really wicked.”

“I am sure glad you like it, Gnosher,” she replied, beaming back. “I found it in the over-priced sale. Couldn’t resist it.” She glanced over at my grandfather. “What are you staring at,” she asked. “Don’t be so intrusive. Mind your own business.”

Grandpa had entirely forgotten that people might take notice of him here. “Sorry.”

“Watch your step,” the elderly gentleman warned him, or I’ll call the Salvation Army.” He nodded forcibly attaching it to a grunt as if to say “And that will sort you out.”

This disconcerting flash altercation broke my grandfather’s spell, and he resolved to abandon the shop, problem unsolved, travelling down successive flights of Wall’s escalators.

Out in the street he was still awestruck by the sheer quantities and height of the sheet glass of which the buildings were comprised, each rectangle publishing some kind of widescreen information or advertising at passersby who were largely ignoring it. For good measure, there were also screens set into the pavement every few steps. Worse, most of the screens seemed to know who he was because he was continually being bombarded by exhortations addressed to “Eric!” Either the whole world was called Eric, or these systems were interactively directional, although he wasn’t yet equipped to think in exactly those terms.

Down the street, three roadworkers were pummelling the pavement with power drills, exposing the cracks in their arses like overblown hamburgers. ‘McDonald’s Construction Services’ proclaimed the reflective panel on the backs of their jackets.

“I suppose I had better try to find a hotel,” grandfather mused, clutching the clothes under his arm tight. “Time for a shower.” He wasn’t sure how he would pay for such a thing. He couldn’t even afford a hotel room in his ordinary life, but somehow his needs seemed to be being provided for.

He stopped a friendly-looking woman. “Excuse me, Madam. Do you know where the nearest hotel is?”

She burst into an incandescent glare and slapped him hard across the face, almost felling him to his knees, and marched on, tossing a curse over her shoulder.

“What happened there?” my grandfather asked himself. Two uniformed officers approached him at speed. Both were wearing Salvation Army badges and carrying some fearsomely bulky weapons labelled as ‘Googles’.

One of them drew his Google and aimed it barrel-forward at my grandfather. “Did you proposition that woman?” demanded the other one.

“No,” explained my grandfather. “I merely asked where the nearest hotel was.”

“So you did.”

“So I didn’t,” my grandfather insisted resolutely.

“How else do you explain your choice of words?” demanded the second officer.

“Exactly as I meant them. I am looking for a hotel room.”

“What for?”

“To sleep in.”

“Only to sleep?”

“Well to sleep and to eat in possibly.”

“So you maintain that you were not demanding sex from that woman?”

“No.”

Both officers fixed him with eyes like soul-incisors. Grandfather maintained his level gaze. The second officer pointed his index and middle fingers either side of his nose. “We are watching you,” he menaced. “One more small mistake and you will be dodging rocks.”

It seemed a strange threat, but clearly intended as such, high on the Richter scale.

“I am sorry, officers, for the misunderstanding.”

“Be good,” cautioned the first officer, stuffing his Google back into his trousers where there was a concealed holster.

High on a building opposite there appeared to be a 24 hour news programme showing. The scenes meant nothing to him, nor did the people featured, but one image really shook him. It was of a group of, presumably, criminals of some type being trussed together with rope and having some inflammable liquid ceremonially poured over them before, with equal pomp, it was set alight. The camera showed close-ups of the victims’ faces contorted in terror and agony. It also lingered on the impassive executioners whose badges clearly read ‘Salvation Army Special Services’. At that point my grandfather gained an instant terrifying understanding of what those rocks might be that he could end up trying to dodge.

Luckily, next to the ‘news building’ he could see a flashing sign proclaiming “The Frigidaire Hotel”, and a bit further down the street another which advertised “The Whirlpool Hotel”. Of the two, the Whirlpool seemed more enticing so my grandfather decided to check it out. He crossed the road, failing to notice that a car was approaching him rapidly from the left (he was expecting the cars to come from the right, never having ventured outside England before). The car hooted urgently but didn’t slow down, almost relieving him off his clothes bundle as it past. At the driver’s wheel, as best he could see her, was a cool dark-haired woman in immaculate sunglasses. Grandfather jumped smartly back onto the pavement. The two officers approached him again. “Now we believe you,” one of them commented. “You are right to pick cars to dodge. They’re slightly easier, and finish you off a lot quicker if they hit you.” They both chortled to each other and moved on. It seemed to my grandfather that there was something of an unnatural relationship between them but he couldn’t categorise it exactly, not having had much exposure to that sort of thing in those days.

The foyer of the Whirlpool hotel was vast, classy and almost bare in its marble dominion. “Yes, Sir?” the male receptionist greeted him.

Grandfather hardly dared to say it. “I would like a room,” he said.

“Certainly, Sir. For one?”

“Definitely for one.”

“For how many nights?”

“One to start with, if I may.”

“Of course you may. With extras, Sir?”

“With which extras?” my grandfather inquired.

The receptionist reached down beneath the counter and produced a long laminated card containing the pictures of about twenty girls in extremely explicit poses. He flipped it over and found the male equivalents beckoning him in their turn. My grandfather blushed bright red. “Not tonight,” he said.

“No problem, Sir. If you change your mind, you know where to come. We guarantee that you will have the lady or gentleman of your choice within fifteen minutes of ordering. Here at the Whirlpool hotel we understand that such desires are very much an impulse purchase.” Grandfather noticed that some of the images appeared to be rotating. “You can find a similar card in your room, Sir, so you can make your choice at your leisure. Could I have your Oxfam card, please? Thank you.”

The receptionist stroked the card against some kind of lit lens. “Thank you, Sir,” he said, handing it back. “Have a most pleasant stay, with or without.” He flashed the promotional prostitute roster at Grandpa one more time, both sides. Grandfather shook his head.

Grandfather got into the elevator where an attendant was awaiting him. “Fourth floor,” the attendant informed him, but grandfather never got there.

*  *  *

This was an extract from the upcoming ‘The Blue Food Revolution’.