It has long been recognised that attitude is the key to success. Talent and aptitude count for nothing without fitting motivation. That's what's so good about nowadays. Anyone can be anyone, or at least have the right attitude for it, the right glands stimulated to produce a certain cocktail of moods to create a specific state of mind. It's a science. Though I'm just a consumer. That is to say a pill-popper.
My gift is selling. From an early age I was a dabhand at persuading kids to swap their desirable toys for my lousy ones. This left me with few friends, so I abstained. I had the wrong attitude. One with principles. But I'm a ruthless salesman these days. I earn a top salary. And outside work I'm popular. The abandonment of one principle has made this dual life possible. I no longer believe that taking pills is cheating.
If it's okay to take a pill to stop pain, why not take one to alleviate compunction? This is the age of the right attitude. You can't not have it. It comes in bottles. But be warned, everything has its pitfalls.
Take a day from my life for example. One of those anxious days where two important events coincided. Firstly I had a job interview with a company called Suntap, which marketed the latest domestic solar energy generators. I had done my research into product philosophy and company policies, and felt confident of impressing the interviewer. Only the right attitude was missing. But I could swallow that on the way to Suntap regional headquarters.
My second engagement with self-improvement concerned my love life. I had arranged to take a friend's sister out for dinner. I had grown fond of Dana. She worked at the University library, was stimulating to be with, quite shy. I wasn't sure if this was her real self, but I think it was. It was the self she was outside library hours and I had never seen her with a different character. I therefore presumed that she was so perfectly balanced that her natural attitudes suited her from morning to night. I liked that. It was refreshing.
Our dinner date was set for evening, my job interview for morning. No clash, but the double dose of worry got me down. I had no appetite for breakfast. I could have taken a pill to counteract my anxiety of course. But I like to be me first thing in the morning, in a ritual respect for uncontrived reality. I'm no salesman over my bacon and toast. I'm no casanova either. Just an ordinary guy with no strengths in particular.
Before setting out I checked that I had the two pills I needed for the day's attitude requirements. Pink pill and green pill. Both were safely in my wallet. So off I trotted to Suntap House. What a fiasco I was heading for.
I bumped into Dana's brother, a self-appointed arbiter of his family's affairs who disapproved of my intentions as he saw them. It was only our suddenly strained friendship that prevented me from keeping the dinner arrangement through injury. He left in a huff, warning me I'd better not 'go too far'. I wondered what sort of pill he was under the influence of. He was normally so diplomatic.
Anyway, this unpleasantness shook me up. Not that I was deterred from dating Dana. I took a philosophical view. Resentful brothers and jealous fathers are an unavoidable hazard of wooing the opposite sex. Right now I had the interview to think about, and I took the pill for the right attitude to see me through it. Or so I believed. In fact, because of my flustered state, I took the wrong one.
Let me explain about the pink pill, the one I should have taken, the one I take each morning to set me up for the competitive role of selling business software, my present line. It makes a person dynamic, outgoing, resourceful, pushy and, most useful for a salesman, greedy. This exactly sums up the sort of person I am out on the road. Added to my natural eye for an unexploited market, it makes me a force to be reckoned with. I could sell a harpoon to an anti-whaling lobbyist.
So, not until well into the interview did I realise that this super-charger of a pill was still in my wallet, and that what I had in fact popped was the green one, the one meant to turn me into an irresistible romantic for Dana. For a short while things went well. I shook the interviewer's hand, declined coffee, and got down to the business of promoting myself. My qualifications were excellent. I had a track record studded with awards which included salesman of the year many times over. But it was a struggle to verify this verbally. I was sounding more like a tea vendor at a church fete than a hand-wringing commission hawk. But then what did I care? Love would see me through. Very shortly the interviewer lounged back in his chair and asked the question for which a job seeker should always be prepared: "Why do you want to work for Suntap?"
I couldn't help myself. Much to his bemusement, I tilted my head, sighed besottedly, went dreamy eyed, and whispered, "Because it's the most gorgeous company in the world."
That was the wrong attitude completely. But I was unable to correct it, feeling all soft, wobbly and sentimental. I realised, somewhere in the sunblessed daffodil meadows landscaping my brain, that I had taken the wrong bloody pill, but I went helplessly on to lavish flattery on every aspect of Suntap, remarking with boundless admiration on its corporate beauty. Even its logo, according to my enamoured estimation, was a thing of utmost artistic godliness. The compliments simply spewed forth. By the end of the interview my strategy sounded like a desperate marriage proposal.
I left the interviewer's office with the ominous advice not to call him before he called me. I had blown it. I felt annoyed with myself, not to say close to tears with the heartbreak of being spurned by such a smashing company as Suntap. If that wasn't enough, I had wasted the pill which was to have endeared me to Dana this evening, a pill which, as the interviewer would testify, made one sensitive, generous, loving, chivalrous, aesthetic. Ideal qualities for a candle-lit dinner. It looked now as though I would have to be my romantically diffident self instead. Unless I could get to a highstreet dispensary beforehand.
But first I had to go to work (lying to the boss that I'd overslept). I should not have bothered. The effects of the green pill lasted all afternoon and, while winning me many friends, did not produce a single sale. But I pressed on. In a way I enjoyed it. That afternoon was the only time I could ever say I loved my job. I wept when I had to go home.
Washed, changed and in a hurry, I found a moment to nip into the dispensary before my date with Dana. A dispensary is like a pharmacist shop, only specialising in attitude pills. A browse around the shelves can be confounding. To a newcomer, choosing what's on offer can require a pill in itself. There are thousands of different types, boxed, bottled or sold loose. The best advice is to make for the catalogue. And that's what I had to do. You see, the exact pill I wanted, the green pill no. P557/2, was out of stock.
I keyed into the catalogue. A menu appeared on the screen: 1-TASK OR OCCASION. 2-ATTITUDE. 3-CONSTITUENT MOOD. 4-CONSTITUENT QUALITY. 5-COLOUR. PLEASE SELECT. The colour coding of pills was a useful guide. I needed something in the green range, approximate to the unavailable P557/2. The spectrum went from pale green (the lowest of which produced a mild, placid, inanely smiling near-vegetated user) to bright violet (forceful, merciless, snarling near-homicidal maniac). These were the two extremes. I wasn't sure who resorted to them, or for what purpose, though I've heard that bright violet is popular with product testers for companies which make straightjackets. GREEN. There were several hundred options or 'shades' in this category, so I cross-referenced to TASK OR OCCASION, and narrowed it down to INTIMATE SOCIAL INTERCOURSE WITH OPPOSITE SEX. It was then that I got the jitters. All the pills available here were new to me. One had to be careful with personally untested pills. Specified effects were not guaranteed (read the small print, where manufacturers claim no responsibility for rogue attitude stimulation). It is recommended that you dummy-run any new pills before intended use. With no time for that and not wishing to purchase, say, 'sensitive', and ending up feeling squeamish, I decided that experience was the best policy. I cross-referenced to CONSTITUENT MOOD, keying through, SENSITIVE, GENEROUS, LOVING, CHIVALROUS, AESTHETIC, but had no better luck. Should I risk it? Take the nearest thing to P557/2, and hope not to transform into someone who'd be better off anywhere but on a dinner date with a beautiful girl?
Then I had a brainwave. Some months back I played host to an insufferable relative form abroad. Uncle Jake found fault with everything and never stopped saying so. It would have been a weekend of misery. I needed a pill to rescue me. I recalled taking B774/somethingorother, in the bottom end of the green range. But where?
It took ten minutes to find. I searched through all the likely CONSTITUENT QUALITIES: TOLERANCE, MAGNAMINITY, SERENITY, PATIENCE, GULLIBILITY. And there it was - B774/9. A lifesaver. It was linked to a number of TASKS OR OCCASIONS, ranging from ATTAINING A STATE OF BLISS IN DREARY COMPANY to BEING IMPRISONED. The one I was interested in was halfway down the list. FORMING INDISCRIMINATE AFFECTION. There were pills more specifically formulated for this, but I knew from my own experience that B774/9 worked. In fact I grew rather fond of insufferable Uncle Jake while under the influence of this pill. It had been an enjoyable weekend. The one unpleasant side-effect was that I asked him back for another.
I could only hope that the B774/9 would have the same effect on Dana as it had on me the weekend. You see, I had no intention of taking it myself. It was, surreptitiously, for her.
I planned in the absence of familiar suitable pills to negotiate our date with a clean system. It was a measure of my low self-esteem, my lack of social courage, my fear of being dull, which drove me to this act of subterfuge. I would slip her a pill that would warm her to any company, no matter how dreadful.
Jackson's restaurant was a classy establishment but had unscrupulous staff. This was lucky for me. Nervous as I was, I easily bribed the waiter into letting the B774/9 find its way into Dana's first course (he raised his eyebrows at the colour; waiters are more accustomed to handling aphrodisiacs, in the red range). The bribe was expensive, for the waiter had to grease the chef's palm, and a kitchen porter's silence had to be bought. Still, it was worth it, for a girl like Dana.
Picture her: tousled blonde hair, the bluest of blue eyes, quite the fairest complexion, and lips that, for me, made the most bewitching sounds of gentle moistness. It had taken wild impulse to ask her out. My one hope of her accepting hinged on the tantalising smile she gave whenever encountering me with her brother (I checked her reaction to other people to confirm that this smile was not routine). When she said yes I was struck by horror. I felt as if I'd taken the wheel of a huge ocean liner without a seafaring bone in my body. Then it was a day of self-searching and manic preening. Me? Me and her? The sweetest madness!
As we sat together in the restaurant talk was small but delightful. It ranged from the weather, for we've had freak conditions recently, to her brother. To my glee she called him a sanctimonious oaf who should mind his own business. She asked how my interview went. I lied my head off, saying I'd changed my mind about the advantages of working for Suntap. She remarked that I sounded rebuffed. I hastily changed the subject. She told me about the difficulties she was having selling her house (she wanted to move closer to her work). Perhaps I had some tips? Sorry, I'm no estate agent. I know lots of jokes about them though. She laughed. I melted. I eventually coaxed her into talking about literature, her forte. Although I'm no lover of crafted words any interest of hers had an infatuating appeal that I felt the need to lap up like a kitten.
I began to regret the coming B774/9. Things were going superbly without it. My shyness had vanished. I felt calm and confident. And she really did appear to be enjoying my company as it was, or as she was as the case may be. But it was too late to halt the process. I could smell the garlic of her first course wafting in from the kitchen.
It arrived. The waiter winked at me before retreating. Never before had I so painstakingly watched somebody eat. Any mouthful might bring about the change in her. I felt rotten. A scoundrel. Just what did I think I was doing meddling with a personality so perfect? But it showed how much I treasured her, going to any lengths to secure her affection. It was immoral, but this was love. All's fair, as they say.
They also say that lightning never strikes twice. Don't believe it. Next time you're struck put on your insulated boots immediately. For if the day I'm recounting is anything to go by, lightning doesn't ignore an easy victim. It was during the second course that I realised I'd boobed once again.
We were engaged like an enormously sophisticated couple in a discussion about theology, once I'd deduced the meaning of the word by the frequency with which God was mentioned. I'm not particularly religious; being a salesman I have scarce time for ethics of the secular sort never mind the higher kind. But, like I say, any interest of hers was alluring. The odd thing was that she had wound herself up into a raging passion of debate. This was not the change in her I had expected. She had become overbearing and horrifyingly chatty, furiously so. I couldn't get a word in. Yes, I said. No, I said. Is that a fact, I marvelled. As she gassed on, rising to her feet and gesticulating wildly, I had never heard an argument in favour of God's existence be so convincing. She made it sound like an amenity, like central heating. Her zeal spiralled. I began to worry that she might take to the floor and use the menu in place of a bible to thump.
But when she seamlessly shifted to the subject of her hard-to-sell house I realised what had happened. At first I thought with a gulp that she was inviting me back, as she described the bedroom seductively. But when she went on to describe the rest of the house, measurements and all, listing its main advantages, its proximity the bus terminal, its mod cons and so on, its scope for ample conversion, I saw that she was trying to sell me the bloody thing!
Horrified, I excused myself and darted to the privacy of the restaurant's lavatory. I looked in my wallet and found the B774/9 I'd bought from the dispensary. What a numskull I was! For the second time today I'd messed up on the pills. What I'd handed the waiter to slip to Dana was the one I should have taken for the interview. That meant I'd turned Dana into a pulsating saleswoman. DYNAMIC, OUTGOING, RESOURCEFUL, PUSHY, GREEDY. Worse, I was having dinner with my daytime alter ego. In that case, I was in for a terrible time. She would spend the whole evening fixing a price on everything she saw, touched or thought of. I'd never last out.
Well, there was only one thing for it. I obtained a glass of water and popped the B774/9. It was the only way to stay approximately sane in Dana's super-charged company. What a fiasco. I wished I was having dinner with uncle Jake. At least I could have throttled him.
And so, already feeling the serenity induced by the pill begin to wash over me, and equipped with caring patience of Saint Francis taking a snail for a stroll round the garden, I returned to Dana. She looked lovely again despite the faults I had imposed on her. That glaring greediness in her contorted face made me whimper with love and desire. She was taking the waiter through an Avon catalogue from her handbag. I think he ordered six gallons of cologne.
One result of that disastrous date is that I am now the owner of two houses. Another was a black eye. This was inflicted by her brother who, a connoisseur of attitude pills, who takes all kinds simply for kicks, guessed what I'd done from the story Dana told him. He laughed himself hoarse when I confessed that I got the pills mixed up. I hoped it would make him lenient. It didn't. So now I've lost a friend as well.
As for Dana, she accepted my letter of apology, but not my claim to have had the best of motives. I don't blame her. Spiking meals is a dastardly act. It's also illegal. She didn't file a complaint, so I got off lightly. But she no longer trusts me. These days we don't speak. I'm left with the relentless torment of her being forever untouchable. And all because of my stupidity. God, I'm desperately miserable these days.
Of course there are pills available, in the blue range of the spectrum, that provide an attitude impregnable to misery. Let me tell you about them...
Psi-fi
THE END
Psi-fi
Copyright 1994 UK. Daniel pope. This story may be copied unaltered to another computer, or may be printed unaltered from a computer, but it may not be published in the traditional sense without the author's permission. Any comments: D.Pope, 23 Corunna Crescent, Cowley, Oxford OX4 2RB.
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