The Entrepreneur

Greg Billington

Hank Simmons lay on his back under the sink and struggled to get his spanner onto the large nut that held the blocked waste pipe. Three…no, four times, he thought he had purchase, but when he applied a suitable leverage, the spanner slipped and three times he caught his knuckles, painfully on a protruding metal bracket that held nothing in place. On the fifth attempt, the spanner gripped, Hank heaved, and with a very sudden and unexpected movement, the nut simply fell off the pipe – and at the very moment that his knuckles lost skin on the bracket, a stream of waste fell on his face. Lurching upwards, Hank connected his forehead with the steel bar that supported the sink.

No, Hank assured the lady-of-the-house, he wasn’t terribly bothered. Yes, he had always been a plumber, as had his father, and where the ordinary person might be bothered, the seasoned plumber took such moments in his or her stride. The lady gratefully provided a clean towel, a pain killer, and an excellent cheese scone; paid the bill rounded-up, and soon, Hank was driving his van onto the next urgent job, which was a blocked toilet in a motel, on the other side of town.

Turning on the radio his attention was caught by someone referring to a plumber. The man on the radio was saying that the great thing about being an entrepreneur, was in not being a plumber. The man was saying that the field of entrepreneurship was almost limitless, and indeed, was constrained only by imagination. He said that the wonderful outcome of being an entrepreneur, was that a great deal of money could be made without having to do any work – at least, the mundane or dirty jobs that were the lot of those who were not by nature, entrepreneurial. Virtually any business, he asserted, was susceptible to the application of entrepreneurship, which would result in better and more profitable ways. There were no exceptions, enquired the radio host? Oh, but there were, the man replied warmly. Plumbing – and accounting, were cases in point. After all, it wouldn’t be convincing to reinvent plumbing, say? Unless one intended to invent a way in which all household wastes disappeared, not down a pipe, but simply into the ether. But one might imagine that though rendered invisible, it might be difficult to eliminate objectionable odours. The radio host chuckled, and the man continued, or, one might imagine that though rendered invisible and odourless, the transformed wastes might cause the atmosphere to become thicker, with the possible outcome that breathing might become more difficult. Perhaps even to the point of suffocation. But assuming that the entrepreneur overcame this problem, was it not possible that the atmosphere could become highly flammable? It would be a most unfortunate outcome of offering a plumbing service that required not a single plumber and thereby avoiding all the mess and pipes and outrageous bills and so forth, if a customer was to strike a match for any reason, and incinerate the entire planet.

The man and the radio host laughed heartily, and the host thanked Meredith Johnson, the enormously wealthy entrepreneur, for sharing his wisdom with listeners, and advised her listeners, that the aspiring entrepreneur should acquire, as quickly as possible, their own copy of the ‘Meredith Johnson, Key to Entrepreneurial Success.’

Hank continued along the Drive and through the town centre, deep in thought. Eventually, he parked his van outside the ‘Sweet Dreams Motel,’ took his bag of tools and made his way to the office. The manager of the motel led him to unit five, and held his nose as he opened the door. “I don’t know what happened here,” he declared in a nasal tone, “But some people…you know what I’m saying?” Hank replied that he had seen it all, but on entering the bathroom, privately admitted that perhaps he hadn’t.

That evening, and prompted by the day’s events, Hank fetched up online, the ‘Meredith Johnson, Key to Entrepreneurial Success.’

‘The Entrepreneur,’ Hank read, ‘is unconcerned with the humdrum of existence. Instead, the entrepreneur is constantly thinking at a higher plane than the average person. This is frequently manifest in a transcendent state, sometimes augmented with psychedelic substances. This author has instead developed a new and proven technique that requires nothing more than the entrepreneur’s native intellect and most importantly, a healthy and unashamed appetite for great wealth. The details of this simple technique, which is guaranteed to result in no less than four innovations per session, will be made available to the budding entrepreneur for the give-away price of just Ninety-Nine dollars.’ Hank puzzled momentarily about when it was that he thought at a higher plane, and mused over whether he had an exceptional appetite, and thought that perhaps he might, whilst also reflecting that this seemed not an unreasonable price, for something new and improved, and read on: ‘The Entrepreneurial Accelerator will transform the spark of an idea that might otherwise be lost in the phantasms of the mercurial mind, into a concrete concept, which, together with a catchy name, may be commercialised at minimum cost but inevitably leading to extraordinary super-profits, and winning the admiration and envy of friends and colleagues.’

Hank paused to touch gingerly, the part of his head that had made violent contact with a steel bracket that very morning and wondered about the phantasms of the mercurial mind – which he was fairly certain he had seen at the moment of contact, and he brought to mind the Sweet Dreams toilet and pursing his lips, he read on: ‘The budding entrepreneur will likely be aware that many economists and bankers have tried to discredit the Entrepreneurial Accelerator on the spurious basis that the number of millionaires it is creating, virtually overnight, is upending economics as we know it. And all for a mere Ninety-Nine dollars, but discounted to Eighty-Nine dollars if you act now! Make your remittance to the bank account below and the Entrepreneurial Accelerator will be with you instantly! Do not delay. The great wealth you desire is finally within your grasp. Act now! A multitude of viable business concepts is waiting only for the key – The Entrepreneurial Accelerator. For the next thirty seconds The Entrepreneurial Accelerator is yours for the absurdly low price of Seventy-Nine dollars. Do it!’
Hank clicked on the link and secured this astonishing bargain with seconds to spare. Shortly, the link was delivered and he opened it with considerable anticipation.

‘Welcome to the Entrepreneurial Accelerator and congratulations! You are now within minutes of learning the secret to creating great wealth from ideas that have passed others by.’

The secret, Hank learned, was to enter into a trance, which could be induced by repeating the phrase, aloud and for no less than fifteen minutes, ‘I am a Master of the Universe. Unimaginable wealth resides within me.’ However, he read, whilst this proven method had resulted in various global businesses, it was possible that some individuals may employ, unconsciously, a ‘meta blocker,’ or that is to say, a collection of negative thoughts that could derail the transcendent experience. If this proved to be the case, then the budding entrepreneur could ‘absolutely overcome the meta blocker by purchasing the proprietary Meredith Johnson, Anti-Meta Blocker, available on this website and at the heavily discounted price of $199.’

Perhaps I’m already an inventor, pondered Hank as he emptied the dishwasher. Perhaps he didn’t need to enter into a transcendent state. Indeed, recent experience seemed to indicate that he was indeed one of those rare individuals thwarted by meta blockers and thus causing interference with entrepreneurial inspiration. He had been chanting “I am a Master of the Universe. Unimaginable wealth resides within me,” for some thirty-three minutes without a glimmer of an idea, when he was interrupted by his wife, who said the manager of the Sweet Dreams Motel was on the phone, and sounding quite agitated. Hank replied shortly, “Tell him I’m not here. Tell him…I’m no longer in plumbing.”

The following morning, Hank realised that he had had an idea. Perhaps it had come to him in his dreams. Perhaps it was simply a delayed effect of a transcendent state. In any event, Hank repaired hastily to his workshop, and went to work. He manufactured an oblong box about a metre long and half a metre in the other dimensions, to which he fastened several pipes and inside which, were a series of rotating brushes reminiscent of an automatic car wash. Several hours later, he had completed the prototype. As he had been building the prototype, an especially catchy name had come to him. The contraption would be called, the ‘Doggo Cleano.’

“For thousands of years,” he exclaimed to his wife, “What have we done? When the dog needs a bath, we fetch a bucket or a hose. And what’s the result? The owner ends up as wet as the pooch and fed up to the back teeth. I believe that this device will do for dog owners what the automatic washing machine did for the housewife, or husband as the case may be.”

Hank situated the Doggo Cleano in his back garden, ferreted out the vacuum cleaner and admired his work. The prototype was ready for its trial run. All that was required, was a test subject. As it happened, the test subject was at hand. To wit, the dog going under the name, ‘Doc Cod’ and owned by his neighbour, Mildred Titsman. The dog was named for Mildred’s deceased husband, who was Doctor Codalink Titsman, but Mildred shortened it for ease of use, and as it happened created a palindrome. As in, ‘Too bad I hid a boot,’ or, come to that, ‘level,’ or ‘civic.’ Same word, or words even when read back-to-front. Entrepreneur Simmons was unacquainted with this figure of speech, and so, remained unaware as he poked his head through a hole in the hedge, that he espied a palindrome, who was, as usual, snoozing on the front porch.

Shortly, Doc Cod, who was a very gentle and aging hound, was inserted into the Doggo Cleano. When the lid was closed, only his head was visible, protruding dolefully through the aperture at that end. Hank connected the inlet valve to the garden hose, and employing an extension cord, the small motor that would drive the cleaning brushes was ready to start. Into a small funnel on top of the Doggo Cleano, the Entrepreneur poured a quantity of dish wash. He then plugged the vacuum cleaner into the evacuation port near Doc Cod’s rear.

How splendid it was! Entrepreneurial inspiration transformed into the first working prototype, and now, the first trial of a device that would surely earn the Entrepreneur – and a plumber no more – the world’s thanks and decent riches. The dog owner could flick the switch and then go make a cup of tea whilst the device went through its cycle, which is what Hank intended to do. The garden hose was duly turned on and in moments, water filled the Doggo Cleano and poured as intended, out the overflow. At the sudden ingress of cold water, Doc Cod’s eyes widened and he emitted a most peculiar sound. Then the motor was activated and the array of paddles, commenced to give Doc Cod a strenuous scrubbing, at which the peculiar sound that dog had been making went up several octaves.

“Take no notice,” cried the Entrepreneur to his wife, “He’ll get used to it.” But his assurances were belied by the strident and agitated trumpeting now emanating from the front end of the Doggo Cleano – though due to the copious amount of foam squirting from several places, the front end of Doc Cod was no longer discernible. Across the veldt, Doc Cod’s distress carried to the ears of Mildred Titsman. It was no use. Nothing that Hank could say would placate his neighbour, and nor could he make head-nor-tail of what it was she was trying to say. Nevertheless, there was the possibility that through her emotional exertions she might pass out, and that, the Entrepreneur concluded, would be inconvenient. He turned off the motor and Mildred fell to her knees, sweeping aside the foam to reveal, as Hank remarked, a perfectly intact dog that was now also a clean dog. Soon, it would be a dry dog also, and he turned on the vacuum cleaner, but realising too late he had forgotten, what with all the noise from Doc Cod and his owner, to switch the vacuum cleaner to blow rather than suck – which meant that the vacuum cleaner ran for about five seconds before emitting a plume of blue smoke and a vile electrical smell, before blowing up.

Meanwhile, Mildred Titsman had extracted Doc Cod and was carrying the senseless animal off the property whilst crying out, far too loudly, “I’ll sue, you swine!”

The Police Constable filed his report. His senior complimented him on his clarity and the concise nature of his prose. His senior said that if all police reports were as breviloquent, police productivity would escalate. He glanced down at the Constable’s report. “Following an interview with the complainant – the shrew Mildred Titsman – and examination of the object of the complaint, the hound Doc Cod, and an interview with the subject of the complaint, Mr Hank Simmons, this officer discovered no evidence whatsoever of malice on the part of Mr Simmons who appeared to this officer to be the owner of an admirably good nature, and nor was there any evidence of wilful mistreatment. It was this officer’s view that a thorough cleaning by the Doggo Cleano may have at most, dislodged some loose hair about Doc Cod’s buttocks. In the considered opinion of this officer, and given that Doc Cod’s behaviour suggested only that Doc Cod was likely senile, the complaint should be regarded as vexatious and dismissed.”

The Constable’s senior said he was particularly pleased that the Constable had placed some emphasis on assessing the ‘natures’ of the parties involved. Too often, he said, police officers focused solely on the tangible evidence – blood and hair and so forth. But the good type of officer understood that the police were dealing with the trickiest of animals, and he wasn’t referring to the likes of Doc Cod, though goodness knew, dogs could be tricky animals. No, he was referring of course to the human animal – and he used the term most advisably, since good police officers knew damned well from long experience in the field, that shrews, like for example the Titsman woman, wove webs of deceit and mayhem for reasons that challenged even the police eggheads, or psychologists as they were also known. Webs of deceit and mayhem, continued the Constable’s senior, were the hallmark of the very tricky animal that was otherwise known as a human. But the good police officer, and God, knew only too well, a human was nothing more than an animal disposed to lie, cheat, invent and abuse simply in order to get to the front-of-the-line, and not to mention the animal’s general proclivity to do-the-other-man-down, which behaviour had only recently been exemplified in all its beastliness, when the politicians had voted to reduce the Police Pension Fund.

The Constable’s senior tapped the report approvingly, “There…a most edifying outcome to an exemplary investigation. And I must commend the use of the term, shrew. In itself, as you have apprehended, the shrew is an unimpressive animal. An oblong animal, with a rodent-like body; sporting greyish brown fur; a small head with a pointed snout; and small and untrustworthy black eyes.” The Constable’s senior paused as he contemplated this unimpressive but distasteful animal. “Do you know, Constable, that foul-smelling secretions from special scent glands are supposed to help to protect the shrew from predation? It is not uncommon, that another animal may kill a shrew only to refrain from eating it because of the strong odour. Which shows, among other things that the shrew is also a stupid animal, since special glands that work only after death are pointless to say the least.”

The Constable was unaware of these facts. The Constable’s senior was surprised, since it used to be an important part of Police Training and in fact had been written by himself. But never mind. The Constable’s senior enquired whether, in his dealings with the complainant Titsman, did the Constable detect a foul-smelling secretion? The Constable apologised that he had not detected a foul-smelling secretion or indeed an odour of any description. The Constable’s senior seemed to be mildly disappointed at this, but then he brightened and asked whether the complainant possessed a pointed snout, and was greatly cheered when the Constable confirmed that the complainant Titsman, did indeed have a somewhat pointed snout. Not a sharp snout, perhaps, but definitely somewhat pointed.

The Constable’s senior quickly made a sketch on his pad and asked if the Titsman snout was similar to the snout in his sketch. The Constable felt that perhaps, it was not quite so upturned. If the Senior didn’t mind? He took the pencil and altered the snout a little and declared that the Titsman snout was more like this.

The Constable’s senior considered the sketch and with an “Ah ha!” declared it to be very, very interesting. He said that what the Constable had encountered was somewhat like a shrew, but it might more accurately be likened to the snout of a pigmy vole. Was the Constable aware that two pygmy voles could produce up to 100 offspring in a single year? This meant, the Senior observed, that an unchecked population of pygmy voles could grow quite out of hand, in a very short period, which was clearly problematic for an already over-stretched police force. The pygmy vole, the Constable’s senior added, is a very randy animal. He asked if he had noticed anything about the complainant Titsman, that might suggest an inclination to randy-ness? No? Well, no matter. The case of a vexatious complaint was well established and would be dismissed. The Constable’s senior might even write a formal note to the complainant to caution against the further wasting of police time. Or not.

Meanwhile, and heartened by the commonsense deliberations of the Constabulary, Entrepreneur Simmons repaired to his office in which there were various books on the subjects of pipes, drainage, hot water systems, septic tanks, thermostats and so forth, and he tossed them all into two large boxes and deposited them outside. Then he hung a sign, closed the door, and then opened it again, to return to the kitchen to remind his wife that he was not to be disturbed, and then again repaired to his Place of Inspiration. This was one of the Big Things, according to The Entrepreneur’s Guide, in defeating the meta-blocker. It was analogous to powering up a jet engine. The entrepreneur would focus on an object with such intensity, that it might spontaneously combust, and indeed, it had happened that a handful of nascent entrepreneurs of a rare and particular kind, had spontaneously combusted. Barring that misadventure, at such times, ideas of exceptionally profitable provenance might appear in the entrepreneurial night sky like a blazing comet. This method of brainstorming, said the Guide, was only to be used if the chant, “I am a Master of the Universe, etc,” had not produced the desired results. Only the truly stout of heart should attempt this method, advised the Guide.

Entrepreneur Simmons understood that Meredith Johnson was a genius, simply because Hank struggled to understand quite a number of the concepts and ideas in the Guide, nevertheless, he grasped that his choice of a focus-up object, was important. It could be the pewter beer mug gifted when he had finished his apprenticeship. But then, why not the painting of a woman dancing with a platypus. Now that he was looking at it again, Hank wondered what on earth his Uncle had been thinking. Clearly, it was a physical impossibility for the platypus to be in that position. The creature was flat and designed to stay flat, and to the best of his knowledge, rather less than a metre-and-a-half long – or tall. What was the woman thinking? Life was indeed, full of mysteries. His eye wandered and was caught by his wastepaper basket. Instantly, he felt this to be a most suitable focus-up object. It was a proper heirloom. Part of a meagre legacy bequeathed by his grandfather, Hank’s grandfather had shot the elephant that had owned this foot, that was now his waste-paper basket, whilst on safari in darkest Africa. The details were hazy. It was difficult not to suspect that the elephant in the photograph on which his stern-faced grandfather sat, had been dead for at least a month already, but his family put that down to the quality of the photograph.

Entrepreneur Simmons placed the elephant foot on his desk. The technique, he read in the Entrepreneurial Guide, was to clasp the focus-up object – since the physical connection was important, and then to fix the gaze on one to two hundred points on the object, since a very broad depth of field was paramount, and thence to ‘cast oneself adrift in the Entrepreneurial Cosmos.’

Entrepreneur Simmons placed a hand on either side of the elephant foot, and wondered idly whether the elephant had a name. Not an English name, of course, but in his elephant language. Was he known to other elephants as ‘Oowoombe,’ for example? But no matter. It was his own future that needed to be contemplated. Entrepreneur Simmons began the task of fixing his gaze on more than one hundred points on the foot, and found he wasn’t progressing beyond two, and really, that was only one. For several minutes, he strove unsuccessfully to bring in more points. He held his breath until he could hear the pulse in his ears. He widened his eyes until he felt the eyeballs might pop. He increased his grip until he felt cramps developing. And then, a breakthrough! A sudden soaring of the number of points. Dozens of extra points were appearing until, he was certain, he had exceeded one hundred. No longer was he conscious of his office. No longer could he feel his chair, or his knuckle-white plumber’s hands. He was entering a new domain. The mists were clearing. There was money! A wave of exultation enveloped him. He cried out, as required: “I cast myself adrift in the Entrepreneurial Cosmos! Speak to me!”

Something was there! Something was materialising from the vapours. Incandescent – an idea was about to be born. The road to riches was about to be revealed. In ecstasy, and as required, Entrepreneur Simmons cried, “Come forth. I command you to come forth! Make yourself visible! Come! Come now, I say!”
The Entrepreneur’s wife said, “There’s no need to bellow, you know? I thought you didn’t want to be disturbed.”

Entrepreneur Simmons stared wildly at the dancing platypus. Speaking in tongues, he cried, “Oowoomba! Bawana mo kawanka!” And then he fell, quite senseless, from his chair.

It was an extraordinary triumph! The President of the International Society of Entrepreneurs took his seat and pressing the button on the arm of the chair, allowed the Automatic Barber to descend to fit neatly over his head. And comfortable? The President exclaimed that he could barely feel the large silver helmet placed just so, by the Automatic Barber’s robotic arm. The President said “Simmons. Genuine entrepreneurs are hen’s teeth. Hen’s teeth! But wannabes – liars and fools we call them, are-a-dime-a-dozen. A dime-a-dozen, Simmons! Should be on salary. Should be in the warehouse, or the back office, Simmons. That’s where they belong. Not an entrepreneurial bone in their bodies. No bone, Simmons – that’s my guess. They’re like goddamn jelly fish. Boneless!” And the President roared with laughter, “Most of them couldn’t invent a tooth pick, Simmons. Not if their lives depended on it.”

Entrepreneur Simmons laughed along with the President. After all, Entrepreneur Simmons had invented and successfully commercialised the Automatic Barber and the very catchy franchise, ‘Barbomatic,’ with the tagline, ‘Get the cut you want. No inane chat.’ And here was the President himself – so impressed with Barbomatic he wanted to buy the company. This very day, he told Entrepreneur Simmons – for a pile. Was Entrepreneur Simmons interested? Then he touched the start button on The Automatic Barber’s arm and said, “A light trim. Leave a bit over the ears. Sideburns to the mid-ear and take a fraction of weight off the top.” Then he pressed the ‘Go’ button and within thirty seconds the cut was done, the silver helmet lifted off and without a loose hair to be seen, the President admired himself in the mirror and cried, “Absolute genius. I’d come close to killing my barber, Simmons. It was all I could do. But now he’s gone – fired. I’ll have the Automatic Barber installed immediately. Three. At home, the boat, and the villa. Three, everywhere!”

And whilst Entrepreneur Simmons considered the ludicrously large sum offered by the President, the money rolled in. No unseemly toilets. No blocked waste pipes. No tool bag…merely a torrent of cash. Good days indeed! But then the Founder of Barbomatic received an ominous call. Something untoward had occurred. Something very untoward, it might be said – at a franchise in Glasgow. There appeared to be a bug in the software. Had it been hacked? Perhaps, but regardless, the bug appeared to be directly related to and confounded by the incomprehensible Glaswegian accent. Fortunately, there was a CCTV clip that showed exactly what happened. Unfortunately, the clip had now received just over a billion views on Meta, alone. The Founder of Barbomatic was alarmed. The Founder watched the CCTV clip, taken that previous afternoon – even as the Founder considered the offer from the President of Entrepreneurship. But such was the volume of cash rolling in every day, from the millions of punters who revelled in the cut they wanted without the banal wittering’s and gingivitis of a live hairdresser, the Founder of Barbomatic couldn’t quite bring himself to accept. And now, the Founder watched a video showing a Glaswegian gasfitter, as it transpired, taking his seat in the Automatic Barber. He spoke something completely unintelligible and pressed the green button. The Automatic Barber did not respond. How could it, the Founder asked himself? How could any person, let alone a machine, understand that gibberish? The gasfitter persevered and quite quickly, became agitated and the Founder gathered, largely from the gasfitter’s gestures, that the gasfitter was threatening the Automatic Barber with a good bottling.

At his last attempt to give instruction, which entailed much shouting, repeated jabs of the button, and at one point, several severe whacks to the helmet, the Automatic Barber shuddered. The gas fitter’s eyes widened unnaturally and then he emitted a blood curdling, Scottish cry. “Good God!” cried the Founder of Barbomatic. The Glaswegian gasfitter had become a Glaswegian Singing Fountain! Mercifully, as his torso slumped, the shrieking stopped. The Automatic Barber raised the silver helmet from the customer and the Founder of Barbomatic observed that the customer no longer had a head.

The Founder of Barbomatic sat bolt upright and emitted a cry to waken the dead. The Founder’s pyjamas were soaked in sweat. The wife of Entrepreneur Simmons also sat bolt upright.

Entrepreneur Simmons said hoarsely, “Bad dream.”

The wife of Entrepreneur Simmons suggested that he had over heated. He should try his summer pyjamas. She rose to fetch him a long glass of water.
Entrepreneur Simmons declared, “I’ve decided against the Automatic Barber.”

His wife replied, kindly, “You know dear, you’re really a very good plumber. I don’t know how many calls I’ve had this week. People need you.” She squeezed his hand.

Hank Simmons stared sightlessly into the darkness. “I foresee pitfalls,” he said. Then, as his heart-rate returned to somewhere near normal, and he drained the glass, he added, “I’ve been thinking. I should take on an apprentice. A young chap, or person, who could climb under the sink and so forth.”

His wife replied, “That’s a very good idea…you know, plumbing is a very honest trade.” She added, “I’m happy to be married to a plumber.”

“That’s good,” said Hank Simmons, and fell asleep. It was a pleasant dream. It seemed to make sense. He saw a factory. He saw the owner, outside, waving cheerily to several young plumbers setting off to deal with problematic toilets, dishwashers, heating systems and so forth. The owner was himself. The owner, who looked suitably affluent, wore a clean pair of overalls that clearly never saw the underside of a kitchen sink. The sign on the premises displayed the very catchy name, ‘Hong Kong Horse – no pipe too big.’

~0~

Greg Billington is a New Zealander, living in the South Island of Aotearoa New Zealand. He has worked extensively in business and briefly in public service. He is the author of several novels.

In Judge Anisha Bhaduri’s words, “The Entrepreneur is an extremely funny satire on humankind’s never-ending thirst for more. Brilliantly done”