A Complicated Gesture

“Morality’s a gesture. A complicated gesture learnt from books.”
– Robert Bolt (A Man for All Seasons, 1960)

There are certain individuals in this world, whose acquaintance I have had the undeniably and unquestionably dubious pleasure of making, who seem to display an inordinate absence of guiding principles. A certain part of their paltry personality seems to be missing; like a vanished piece from an ancient jig-saw puzzle.

One such person was a fellow whom I met as the result of my renovation business. In the act of ensuring that the vents going from my clients’ drying machines to the ducts were correctly taking their hot air to the world outside, I made the acquaintance of one Mr. Norbert Guttle, who sold, for the most part, one single product — namely: duct tape.

He provided his product in as many outrageous colours as the reader might well imagine: aqua-green, sarcoline, vermillion, rose, coquelicot, smaragdine, fulvous, amaranth, and — of course — the all-purpose and stalwart favourites the world over: grey and black.

You might think that there is not much of a story to tell regarding a duct-tape salesman; and, ordinarily, I might agree with you — save the currish little fact that Norbert was, indeed, a most unusual and curious character.

According to his life history as he tells it (which may or may not be prone to fabrication or exaggeration — I cannot read minds, nor have any powers of omniscience), Norbert grew up in especially humble circumstances. His father was a barman who, to pick up a little extra cash, would fight in bar brawls for the meagerest of tips. Not perhaps the most delicate of environments in which a young lad might grow up — and his mother took in laundry and did other odd jobs for neighbours at a wage that could only truthfully be described as “starvation.”

There were eleven other mouths to feed in the household, and money was extremely tight, to put it politely. Poverty is often the most fertile ground in which criminality might grow, and Norbert made the acquaintance of many folks who would become the most notoriously violent gangsters in the city.

By his own description, he “wandered aimlessly” through this childhood, until the day before he quit school (at a very young age). In his words, while walking home in a rainstorm, and seeing a small bridge coming apart as a result of the ensuing tempest, a realisation fell upon him, and in the most Newtonian fashion. Like manna from heaven, no less — to wit: that the world’s chaos might be combatted best by attempting to bind together all that which is falling apart; and that the most effective and meaningful manner in which this might be accomplished should be — YES! …duct tape.

Its utility, he recognized, is truly seductive; there is not anything that duct tape cannot fix — nor help with. It is a comfort — a friend — and ceaselessly reliable. “As soon as I hit upon the idea,” he fairly growled at me, “I thought, ‘what a great way to make a buck!’” As his captive, entranced, and semi-enthralled audience, I simply stared and listened. I am not a good talker, but many people tell me that I am a superlative listener.

He continued, “Friends from school became aware of my passion, and I always managed to find the very finest product imaginable, by any means possible, and for the very lowest prices, thereafter always passing on those savings to my clientele…and they faithfully returned to my business every time wherein they required my assistance.

“You remember the kidnapping of Frances Allan a few years back? Did you see the pictures of the young lady with the tape across her mouth?” Norbert fairly beamed at me, as he then pronounced with a massive grimace on his face, “That…was my product!” Afterwards, he proclaimed proudly with an almost hemispheric smile across his face: “I even got questioned by the police! They could prove nothing, of course, and let me go only to be questioned by the local media shortly thereafter. But! Sales — went — through — the — ROOF!Shortly afterwards, my product was used by a multitude of fraternities in the town for their hazing activities.”

I stood before Norbert — a tabula rasa. I didn’t really know how to respond, until I said blankly, “Go on…”

“With pleasure!” he replied unctuously. “Do you remember the mass murders a few years back which were pinned onto Leonard “Po-Boy” Hopkins? Now, he is good people! Good people, a fine gentleman, indeed, most certainly! Known him since childhood…wouldn’t hurt a fly…not a fly…so…do you remember how all the victims were tied at the wrists and ankles before a bullet was put into their temples?”

“Your product…” I barely whispered.

“Spot — ON!” He enthused. “And of course, Leonard was completely acquitted, as well he should have been.”

“Some say there was jury tampering,” I countered.

“Oh, tampering, shmampering,” responded Norbert. “Now, all I heard was that some of the jury members just couldn’t take a joke when they got phone calls issuing preposterous and ludicrous threats which no one in their right mind could take seriously…that’s all…nothing more, nothing less…anyways, I could name you a dozen others who’ve helped my business in a similar fashion with their wonderful sense of timing, and eye-popping publicity.”

I tried not to feel outrage as I digested his words. “Do you ever feel remorse for any of these people who were injured or killed when your duct tape was involved?” I attempted to ask as objectively as possible.

“Of course not. Why should I? It’s not duct-tape that kills people; people kill people. Why, Andrew Carnegie got Henry Frick to bring in a private army to break up the Homestead strike, and they shot and killed nine striking workers, but Carnegie is revered today as a great philanthropist and a soulful individual. People mustn’t shy away from getting the job done, as that doesn’t result in a productive economy, now, does it?”

After my non-response, Norbert queried, “So, how can I help you today?” I mumbled into my breath that I had quite forgotten what I had come for, and would come back again the next day. “Absolutely…ab–so–lutely! Anytime…for a friend!” he gushed, as I stumbled out of the building, haltingly.

I sighed heavily, my whole body shaking — heart palpitating — as I walked towards my car. Once inside, I pushed the button to start the engine. I sat there for a second — vacantly — and waited for the air conditioner to cool the car down. After a moment of trying to regain my composure, and attempting to reduce my hyper-ventilation, I drove off slowly down the gravelly road, towards the main highway. It was a simply stunning day outside: sunny — not a cloud in the beautiful blue sky — and the ocean was rippling and smiling at me as I drove absent-mindedly past it.