It’s the ultimate question. One that seeks to separate the wheat from the all-too-common chaff. It is always delivered with zeal, if not a little bit of venom. ‘What are you – some kind of expert?’ Perhaps it’s the double-barrelled nature of the inquisition that makes it so difficult to respond to. Worse still, it’s the kind of question that demands an immediate response. There is no hope of taking it on notice and coming back. If a person is worked up enough to issue such a challenge, you must immediately answer.
It’s the ultimate question. One that seeks to separate the wheat from the all-too-common chaff. It is always delivered with zeal, if not a little bit of venom. ‘What are you – some kind of expert?’ Perhaps it’s the double-barrelled nature of the inquisition that makes it so difficult to respond to. Worse still, it’s the kind of question that demands an immediate response. There is no hope of taking it on notice and coming back. If a person is worked up enough to issue such a challenge, you must immediately answer.
It was my first day at a new job. I was nervous and shy and somewhat out of my depth. In both my early twenties and a very cheap business shirt, I had secured employment in a call centre. I’d never worked anywhere so large. People were like ants and I had excelled myself by instantly forgetting the name of every single person I was introduced to. I’d had other jobs where the first day was like the first day at a new school; where you have a veneer of mystery and intrigue that is gradually worn down over time. This job, however, was different. Mostly people seemed either disinterested or heavily medicated.
The lunchroom was a windowless, joyless enclosure that consisted of a table, some chairs and magazines that – to judge by their age alone – were from the Neolithic era. At the designated hour, I took the sandwich I had carefully prepared at home to the lunchroom. It was then that I discovered the vast majority of my colleagues obviously ate out. But despite being sparsely populated, I walked blithely into the room and a high-octane literary debate. I assume that the argument was between two people, but I only remember one of them. I only remember Tyrone.
Tyrone was not his real name. But he spoke with passion and volume about a book entitled ‘The Bridges of Madison County.’ For those who don’t recall it, ‘Bridges’ was the ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ of its era. By that I mean it both sold a boat-load of copies and was largely rubbish. I had read the first twenty pages or so but had abandoned the work in favour of something that, in comparison, was more enjoyable; such as preparing my tax return or emergency dental surgery. I think it lost me at the moment it described the male protagonist’s body being extremely fit as a result of a diet of nuts and berries, such dietary information being more than I could stand.
For those who don’t remember ‘Madison County’, it’s the humble tale of a lonely housewife in Iowa called Francesca who hooks up with a photographer named Robert Kincaid for four blissful days. Frankly, I would have enjoyed it more had the affair been with Reuben Kincaid, The Partridge Family’s manager. The idea of the bus getting wedged in one of those covered bridges, the family unable to escape and forced to sing ‘Get Happy’ in an attempt to keep their spirits up until Danny finally snaps about three hours in and beats the rest of the rhythm section to within an inch of its life appeals to me greatly.
Alas, ‘Bridges’ went in a very different direction. One without trapped musical families having to fight for their lives as their bass player goes berserk. Tyrone, however, must have loved ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ very much. With great conviction, he stated that – best of all – the novel was based on a true story. Having maintained something resembling a dignified silence up to this point, I chose this moment to interject. ‘Actually, I don’t think that’s right.’ For while ‘Bridges’ pretends to be based on a true story this is a mere device. I’d call it a ‘literary conceit’ if, indeed, I thought the end result was literary.
Perhaps my comments came as something of a surprise to Tyrone and he turned, eyes blazing. For a moment, I thought he might challenge me to a dual. Having left my good duelling pistols at home next to the stereo, I felt quite vulnerable. Affronted by the fact that I would dare to call into question the integrity of ‘The Bridges of Madison County’, he raised his voice so high that it brushed up against the ceiling. Lips curled, spittle launching forth as he spoke, he yelled the magic words: ‘What are you – some kind of expert?’ Actually, that’s not quite right. To properly convey the sheer magnitude of the confrontation, I need to write ‘WHAT ARE YOU – SOME KIND OF EXPERT?’
It hadn’t meant to offend anyone, much less Tyrone. It was, after all, my very first day. At that moment, I felt I had not only gotten off on the wrong foot but that the rest of my body had quickly followed. Nevertheless, there was the matter of a question to attend to. In terms of a response, the options were extremely limited. I could answer ‘no’ and shrink into my chair, vowing never to darken the lunchroom with my presence ever again. Maybe even offer my resignation. But I had read some books in my time and had been university. So in the heat of the moment and given the limited menu for responding, I elected to go with ‘yes, yes I think I am some kind of expert.’
This was too much for Tyrone, who huffed and puffed and stormed out of the room. I probably turned fifty shades – not of grey – but the deepest, most splendid red. One of the others in room might have told me to ignore Tyrone – it’s all a bit of a blur. I stuck it out with the job but avoided conversations about books. As for ‘The Bridges of Madison County’ any chance I ever had of finishing that sucker was forever lost. I doubt it matters much. Tyrone and I never patched things up. Perhaps just as some books are best left unread, some rivalries are better if allowed to remain unresolved.