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The Return Of The Prodigal
by Mike Morris
Janaury 19, 2001
You Can Never Go Home Again
I left Blighty many years ago, and landed in the New World, eyes shining and ready to make my fortune. After twenty years the old enthusiasm waned a little, and during a particularly cold Detroit winter, I flew back to the UK, full of American confidence, to take up a new job and show the Brits how things are done.
We arrived on a charter flight in the very early hours of Christmas Eve, just as the airport lights went out and the National Transportation strike began. Most of the passengers on my flight left for the bright lights of London in a charter bus. Five of us were left, sitting around a rickety table, under dim emergency lights in the empty airport. Three Canadians and two Brits (if I could still be counted as one), sat, elbows soaking in cold tea, discussing the best way to get 'up North.' We tried to phone out, but the operators were all out on strike in sympathy with the transportation workers, and cell phones were a long way off in this pre-Maggie Thatcher era. We were all seasoned travelers, only forty miles from London, but we might as well have been in the middle of Siberia. My plans for a triumphal return to the homeland were fast-fading as I looked at my desperate fellow-sufferers in the pale light.
Salvation
A dim figure opened the glass doors of the cafeteria, looked around, and disappeared, shoes tapping the way out to the cold streets. Something about him said taxi driver, and we dashed after him. We were right. He was looking for a cup of tea, prior to getting a few hours sleep in his cozy suburban home, followed by Christmas with his waiting family. No, he didn't want to drive us to Newcastle-on-Tyne, three hundred miles to the North. It was Christmas, he explained patiently to these crazy Yanks (we were all Yanks to him; only mad dogs and Americans go out in the early hours of Christmas eve.)
We surrounded him, offering a fortune in cab fares, pleading, wheedling, threatening. We could starve in the deserted airport. He was adamant. His wife and kids were expecting him. It was Christmas. Finally, one of us wrenched open the cab door and jumped in. We all piled in after him. Nervously, the cabbie drove us towards London and the M1. We pressed money into his reluctant hands, and the ever-resourceful Canadians produced bottles of rum. We all took a drink, and insisted that our driver join us. He had to drive home, he said wheezily after a hasty swallow; otherwise his wife would think him dead, or kidnapped. "Hijacked," someone said, and none of us laughed because it was too close to the truth.
When he got to his nice, neat suburb, two of our party escorted him to his door. We weren't about to let him go. We watched as he gesticulated forlornly at his angry wife, hemmed in by two desperate travelers. He came back wearily, and we started off for the North of England.
No Room At The Inn
We finished off all the rum, and the cabbie had to stop in the wilds of Yorkshire to throw up. He dropped us off and escaped finally. I was in the wrong part of town, and I was, of course, hours late for my appointment. My new manager and I should have, by now, gotten to know each other over a cozy pint in a cheery English inn. It was late Christmas Eve, and all self-respecting Englishmen were home with their families. I hiked to my inn. My host must have been a self-respecting Englishman, because the place was locked and barred and he wasn't about to leave his warm fire to open any doors. I stood numbly outside. All I could think of, fuzzily, was how to retrieve something from this disastrous situation.
I fumbled with my wallet and took out the crumpled scrap of paper I'd been carrying for days. I had gotten on well with my new boss over the phone, partly thanks to some false enthusiasm on my part about his local soccer team. Listening to him talk, and agreeing that soccer was the best game in the world, seemed a small price to pay to avoid difficult technical questions in a phone interview. He had given me his home address in case of emergency, and this was certainly an emergency. My old soccer pal would be pleased to see me. He would probably invite me to spend Christmas, in his home with his happy family. I started hiking before I could sober up and change my mind.
His house was in a little dead-end street, and I banged on his door. It opened abruptly, and I was looking at a spruce, fit-looking man at least fifteen years younger than myself. "Cul-de-sac," I said brightly to him, breathing rum in his face. "Hey, man, it's Mike. I'm here to start work." And I laughed heartily at my hilarious joke.
Christmas Cheer
I was drunk, unshaven, and barely coherent. It speaks volumes for his self-control that he hardly flinched as he adroitly kept me from entering the neat hallway, hastily pulling me on to the front lawn as I threw up. Unfortunately for him, instead of sobering me up, this had the effect of totally shutting down what was left of my rational mind, and as he turned his back to get the garden hose, I slipped into the house to generously donate some Christmas cheer to his family. His kids were great, laughing uproariously at every word I mumbled, but his wife seemed a little tense, especially when I leant on the china cabinet.
He eventually got me into his car, and I was deposited at a dark and depressing YMCA hostel. I don't remember much of Christmas day, but, a few days later, the hostel superintendent called me to the office to receive a call. I picked up the phone with some trepidation.
"Hello, Mike. This is John," my boss said, scratchily. "We were expecting to see you today."
Begone!
Something in his voice told me that he was not expecting to welcome me with open arms. I was right. I couldn't really have expected anything else. I was, however, surprised and a little disappointed with him for the excuse he gave for not hiring me. It was my age, he said. I sounded a lot younger over the phone. He understood that in America, it was not the done thing to discriminate because of age, but, really, in Britain firms preferred younger, more flexible workers.
So I sneaked back to the States, and got a pretty good programming contract, and forgot about John for about five years. Then, on a contract in Kansas City, I met up with a British guy who had worked with him up in Newcastle. I told how I had gotten drunk and made a fool of myself on Christmas Eve, and lost the contract. I even mentioned the lame excuse John gave me. The British guy looked at me strangely.
The Real Deal
"You've been away a long time," he said, "You don't really think he was bothered about you being drunk? We got drunk most nights after work at that place," he told me. "We usually stayed drunk from Christmas to the New Year. Hell, I've seen John tipsy more times than I can count."
I told him about my awful behavior in John's house.
"Did you throw up on his carpet?"
"No," I admitted.
"I did. Twice. Didn't make any difference. John moved Heaven and Earth, to keep me on his team."
"You must be really good," I said.
"Pretty good. Too old for it, now."
I stared at him. He was at least ten years younger than me. He started to chuckle. "You don't get it, do you? You really impressed John over the phone. He was convinced you'd make a great member of the team."
I started to protest that I was a good team player, always met deadlines, willing to work overtime when we were behind schedule.
"You really have been away a long time,' he laughed. "I'm not talking about overtime and deadlines, and deliverables and all that stuff."
"What are you talking about?"
"He really thought he had a winner until he saw you. He wanted you for the soccer team. We had a great company soccer team that year. John said he spoke to you on the phone, and you were a real pro. We were in the regional finals and he needed someone at left wing. Anyway, he managed to get someone to take your place. Young kid straight out of school. Ran like the wind, drank like a fish, and couldn't add two and two." He shook his head. "Imagine, you actually thought he wanted you for your computer skills!"
Mike Morris was born in the UK, and has worked with computers since the dawn of civilization. Prior to that, he worked in factories and foundries in the now derelict industrial heartland of Britain, known as "The Black Country." He lives in Henderson, Nevada, and travels a lot as a computer contractor.
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