En Passant: Bye, Jimmy and Doris, hamba kahle

I WAS SITTING in my office last week doing no one any harm when our receptionist put her nose round the door jamb and said, “There’re two people in reception who want to see you, a man and a woman.”

“Did they say who they are or what about?”

“Nope”, she said, “just that they want to see you.”

So I stood up and went round to the reception desk, and sure enough there was a couple there. I dunno, as a couple or as individuals they weren’t old nor young, tall nor short, ugly or beautiful, well dressed or casual. “G’day,” I said, “how can I help you?”

“Can we speak to you in private, please,” said the man, and the woman nodded in agreement with, or reinforcement of, the request.

“OK,” I said, “let me let you in,” and I walked round and opened the inter-leading door and led then through to my office. When we were settled in our chairs I said, “Right, what can I do for you?”

“Bloody hell!” said the woman, “he doesn’t even recognise us. I told you he wouldn’t. After all these years, too. I don’t know why we bothered.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but I don’t remember knowing you, but I admit my memory is not what it was. Maybe it was a long, long time ago and you’ve changed.”

“Well,” said the man, “this is disappointing, very disappointing, especially because you created us.”

“Eh! Created you? No, mate, you’ve come to the wrong place, that’s for sure.”

“No we haven’t,” said the woman, and she looked at the framed Caxton and Sanlam awards certificates on my office walls, then added, “we are partly responsible for you getting those awards.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible,” I said.

“Listen, pal,” said the man, “we’re Jimmy and Doris, the originals.”

I looked at them. “Ring a bell?” said the woman, Doris.

I don’t suppose that I have ever really tried to put a face to Jimmy and Doris. They have simply been anybody and everybody, the prototype, the archetype, the generic Vryheid man and woman. The two people sitting in front of me could very well have been Jimmy and Doris.

“I can even remember the first time you wrote about us in En Passant,” said Jimmy.

“Me too,” added Doris.

“It was your third En Passant column,” said Jimmy, “published on May 9, 1997.”

“Just your third column,” said Doris, “and you wrote, ‘They looked like any husband and wife who had decided to spend the night fishing. There were the deck chairs, the gas lamp and braai, the Thermos of coffee and a bottle of Old Brown Sherry. Both were in track suits and each had a favourite hat on. His hat said “Albert Falls”, hers said “Albert was drunk”.'”

“I remember that!” I said. “You two were camping for the night outside a bank, in order to be the first in the queue the following morning. It was when queues at banks were becoming a noticeable month-end feature on out pavements.”

“That’s right,” said Jimmy, “and in that column you said that you didn’t have the heart to tell us that the next day was a public holiday.”

“Yep, I remember that,” I said. “So that was the first time I wrote about Jimmy and Doris, hey?”

“That column marks our creation, yes,” said Jimmy, “and we’ve lost count of how many times Jimmy and/or Doris have features in your columns since.”

“Lots,” said Doris.

“Scores,” said Jimmy, “possibly hundreds. That’s why Doris referred to your awards.”

“Yes,” said Doris, “you created us and now it seems you are going to retire from the Vryheid Herald, so what’s going to happen to us now? Mmm? What now?”

“Listen,” I said, “you’re fiction, figments of my imagination. What do you want – a share of my pension? Here you go, imagine I’m handing you a cheque for R1,000.”

“Ha, ha, very droll,” said Doris.

“Is that ‘droll” as in ‘amusing in an odd way’, or ‘drol’ as in ‘bokdrol’?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Jimmy. “Just answer the question: what happens to us when you retire?”

“I dunno,” I admitted, “I suppose you can retire too.”

“On what?” asked Doris. “I don’t recollect you writing a column about us paying into a pension scheme. Do you, Jimmy?”

“Nope, never,” he said.

“But you’re fiction!” I said.

“Well, thanks a lot,” said Doris, “now I feel better.”

“OK,” I said, “how about this for a solution to the problem? How about I write that you win the Lotto, a major jackpot? Then you can retire when and where you like.”

“Doris?” enquired Jimmy.

“Yeah, I suppose that’s alright,” she said, adding, “but a major jackpot, right?”

“Yep,” I said, “major. I’ll write it now,” and I turned to my computer and wrote:

The Lotto does not disclose the names of its winners but I have it on good authority that the winner of the latest multi-million jackpot was none other than my old friends Jimmy and Doris.

They bought their R20 winning ticket at West End Supermarket, and plan take a world cruise and then retire here in Vryheid. Doris said she’d then like to buy a new sewing machine to make stuff for their new grandchild, while Jimmy says he’d got no plans other than having his old Ford Cortina three-litre bakkie resprayed purple.

Cheers, Jimmy and Doris.