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Uncle Jack Among the English... by Jack Loughary
As luck, a sabbatical leave and assertive planning would have it, I was once fortunate enough to spend part of a year living in London. My goal was to live in the city and at least have a sense of how it might feel to be a Londoner. While there, I came into contact with a large number of English people, as would be expected. Being a foreigner from the colonies, I often had to think carefully about connecting my desires to behavior. Here are several short stories written about my adventure. Knowing that the years were 1983-84 may provide a cultural context. Because this visit to London was a work study trip, I brought along my electric Osborne computer and Epson electric printer. I anticipated a pleasant experience, but I knew that even in England everything is not perfect, and that I might have to respond imaginatively now and again to some unanticipated events. I was correct. Today was my first serious problem solving challenge in London. Friday night the electric printer went out. It had been printing along nicely for a week and then the next time that I turned it on it didn't. Nothing. So, this morning I began making phone calls, attempting to locate an Epson dealer. You almost need to have experienced English retail business practices to appreciate what I went through. I began calmly and with great resolution to remain so. The phone calls to computer stores, when they went through, resulted in absolutely no useful information. Either dealers had not heard of Epsons, didn't handle them, or in two instances, the firm seemed to be "computer consultants," and were not able to describe just what services they did provide. (For what it is worth, I have noticed that this is a characteristics of many consultants on both sides of the pond.) None seemed able to suggest a viable alterative to shipping the machine back to the U.S. I then remembered that a week prior I found a tiny electrical appliance shop where the proprietor had been helpful in testing the Radio Shack voltage converter that I had purchased in the US. He didn't think very highly of it, but half heartedly acknowledged that it might work. So, I lugged the printer to his shop, where he confirmed that it wasn't getting any electrical power. He wouldn't nor would I have let him, examine the inside of the printing machine. He did suggest, however, that I might try Sampson's Electronics at the top of the street. So, off I went, printer under arm, working my way in a direction opposite of my digs, to Sampson's. It was closed. But, the friendly Iranian who ran the dry cleaners next door told me that Sampson's kept odd hours. Some days they don't even come in until noon and stay past midnight. However, he continued, Sampson's has a second shop not far away, meaning two left turns through a subway under Marylebone Road, and then a left turn by some garages. His directions were perfect, but the Indian fellow running Sampson's No. 2 said that they didn't do computer printers. Mainly they did wire coil rewinding. So far, this had taken only 32 hours. Then, I recalled seeing a shop on Baker Street a few blocks the other direction from my flat with a sign proclaiming something about copiers and computer. So, off I went still lugging the printer, which was gaining weight with each block walked. Sure, the young middle class English computer salesman assured me, they dealt in Epsons, pointing to one just like mine on the shelf behind me. He listened to my sad tale and then suggested politely that perhaps my little Radio Shack converter caused a fuse to blow. Would I like them to take a look at the printer and sort things out? You bet your sweet butt I would! So, they changed the fuse, which was blown (I didn't know there was a fuse) and sent me off to buy a proper voltage converter at a shop, by the way, located less than 50 yards from Sampson's No.1, about 12 blocks back. I was getting to know the neighborhood. The shop had exactly what I needed. They even tested it for me. I was back in business. It was only 1:00 p.m. and I felt so good that I stopped at "The Hart and Lion" pub for a pint and a pork roll before making the return hike. As you can see, all is well again with the Epson electric printer, except that I can't cure its tendency to misspell ocasionally.
The matter of establishing personal relationships in London is confusing. It is not that Londoners are cold, because they are not. The term Londoner itself is misleading. There are hundreds of thousands of second generation subjects in London. All have one kind or another of a legitimate London accent, but their parents come from any one of 75 countries. So Londoner, while a much used term, is nearly meaningless as a starting point for getting to know Londoners. But, you've got to start somewhere. For me, that means approaching everyone in the good old straight forward American manner, which assumes that you will get some credit for good intentions, even if your style is thought awkward. Actually, I knew better. The great variety of social classes and cultural backgrounds to be encountered seems to doom such an approach from the beginning. But, I couldn't think of a better alternative. So, on guided walks I smile a lot, ask questions and try to be congenial. This has been going on for several weeks and more than a few walks. Nothing. I tried again Sunday. Twenty or so of us were being guided through the London suburb of Highgate. One woman in her twenties made lengthy notes in her foolscap book during the entire adventure. All of us probably noticed. As the tour ended and we all went off to our various tube and bus stops, I found myself walking beside her on the sidewalk, heading towards the Highgate Underground station. "Hi", I said, underscored with my most genuine smile. "Are you doing a report or writing an article?" "Neither", she replied cooly, and crossed to the other side of the street. My landlord still hadn't told me where to put the garbage or how to order milk, but had inquired several times about "How are things"? The shop girl gave me correct change with a smile and then stared blankly when I commented about the nice sunny London weather. The man at the watch repair shop served my needs quickly and well, but I left feeling that I had imposed on his time. The news agent was prompt, but showed disdain when I asked about the difference between the several Sunday supplements. Frustrating! Yesterday, I was walking down Marylebone High Street towards the Baker Street Tube station, when a fellow holding a large microphone and expensive looking audio recorder made eye contact. When I smiled, he moved towards me, stopped, and asked, "Do you watch morning television? " I said that I did, and he wondered if I had seen Independent TV's "Good Morning Britain?" I said no, that I preferred BBC 1's morning show. He asked me why, and I explained briefly. He seemed pleased, if not with my answer then with the directness of it. We talked comfortably for a few minutes. Then, he turned off his recorder, smiled very pleasantly and said, "Lovely! Now, is there anything about London with which I can be helpful?" Friendly people, these Londoners.
There were some prize winning modern flats; very beautiful and efficient, so the papers said. When I think of paper it is that which was put on the walls of my place with a flour and water paste. It turned down like a worn book cover where walls met ceiling. The telephone in my room accepted a hard and fast limit of two out of three domestic calls, rejected half of the incoming long distance calls, and gave you 3 to 5 odds that you can't make a local call the first try. Sitting next to that instrument was a black box about the size of a electric alarm clock and which kept track of all my telephone activity. It was for my landlord's convenience. According to him, it never fails. One hundred percent efficient, like gravity or the loo, for that matter. There is a phrase here that is used a lot regarding technology. It is "get it right." It has several forms, of which the most frequently used include: haven't got it right, haven't got it right yet, we've about got it right, we'll get it right yet, we should get it right eventually, they may get it right, they ought to get it right, do you think they'll get it right, and one wonders if they'll ever get it right. I think I got that right. Until one eventful day, my conscious association with technology in England had been minimal. Automatic ticket vending machines at the underground, Visa card imprinters, escalators, window shades, light switches; you know the sort of thing. But, on this day it was time to climb to another level of British technology, namely the electric washing machine. There were several of these in a shop about a block and a half around the corner from where I lived. The shop didn't have a name, and I had never seen an operator or owner, that I knew of at least. One to three of the local lads were usually hanging about, watching the dryers go round. There were four of these and eight electric washing machines. All, according to the stamp on the coin slots, made in Brooklyn, New York. In fact, the name of these machines was Americana, but they took English coins. Technology is flexible. I checked out the electric washing machine place pretty carefully before I became involved. Seemed straightforward enough. The directions were printed on the underside of the lid, just like in Brooklyn. I understood these and then had a good idea as well. A local lady told me that one cycle on the electric washing machine lasted about 30 minutes. Just long enough for a short run in Regent's Park, I estimated. So, about 4:00 p.m. I loaded my clothes, added detergent, put the coins in the slots and started the electric washing machine. The red light goes on, and I take off on my run, returning about 4:30 p.m., pleased and optimistic, expecting to find my clothes ready to be dried. A little too eager, perhaps. The electric washing machine was just entering its rinse cycle. I could tell because of the high technology system of four red lights. I must have had a look of slight distress, because another kind lady explains that the machines take quite awhile; "Longer than a thirty minute thirty minutes," is how she put it. Okay, I thought, having planned ahead and brought my shopping bag along. I'll just run down to the corner grocer and pick up groceries for the evening. Should time it just about right. Eleven minutes later I return, groceries in bag and ready for the spin dry. Except that somehow the electric washing machine was now back into its wash cycle. There was a suspicious looking guy sitting in the corner, and while I certainly wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, I was pretty sure that he probably screwed up and put his money in the wrong electric washing machine (mine), discovered his error, and then went on to start another machine. I smiled and asked him if he knew much about the machines. "Which machines?" he asked. "The electric washing machines", I explained. He offered that they just take a long time. Very slow. Because of my great faith in technology, I knew he was lying. But, what can a person do, being a foreigner in a foreign country, and all. Remaining cool as a European cucumber, I waited, whistling Yankee Doodle Dandy, and examined the collection of cigarette butts on the floor. After a while, this fellow's dryer stops and he removes his laundry. "Slower than hell", he comments as he leaves. I was still on wash. Figuring that I had a good 20 minutes, there was plenty of time to go home and take a quick shower and return just about the time that the electric washing machine would finish. So, I was just a little upset when I returned after a hot but quick shower, to find the electric washing machine beginning its rinse cycle. Nothing else to do but let it do its thing. Maybe, because of circumstances like these, there was a pub just across the street. By now it was nearly 6:00 p.m. and so the Queen's Arms is open. Ten minutes and a half pint later, I'm back and the electric washing machine is somewhere into its wash cycle. (I know, Mother, I should have remained there and watched the damn thing, but I have this undying faith in technology!) By now, I had made an important technological observation; when the lid is open, the machine doesn't operate. The solution came to me intuitively, probably because of my extensive science background. I waited until the electric washing machine wound down its wash spin, and then the instant before it started to inject rinse water, I competed a technological intervention by quickly opening the lid and interrupting the seemingly perpetual motion of the electric washing machine. After that, I was clever enough not to become further involved with the electric washing machine. No Mam, I simply took my 3 pairs of socks, 2 Jockey shorts, 1 bath towel, a white shirt and a pair of Levis back to my flat to a cold rinse in the bath tub. Then, I draped them over the heat radiator. They should have been dry in the morning, especially if the landlord got the furnace working. He didn't, so it two days later that the project was complete.
This haircut was not a big deal, until I began looking for a barber shop. That was about 3 weeks prior. Casually, at first, just checking out the neighborhood on the way to the underground. Then, as I realized I had not spotted a barber shop, with a little more attention. I found salons, hairdressers, trichologists, hair stylists, hair studios, hair artists, hair designers and a place called Roots Hair. I hurried right by that one. But not a barber shop in sight. It was clear that all of these hairy places did women, but where could you buy just a plain, regular, man's haircut? On a walk to the Xerox copy shop that Friday morning, I found myself on a short lane just off Oxford Street behind Selfridges, the department store, smack dab in front of the Unisex Hair Dressers. Persistence had paid off again! Let's get it over with, I thought, and with that went in and asked the receptionist if they cut men's hair? Yes, they dress both women's and men's hair. I tried to explain that I was not interested in having my hair dressed; just cut. It is too long and needs to be shortened, I explained, needlessly going into detail about being a foreigner not having a hair cut for eight weeks. I was informed that sometime after 4:30 p.m. they might work me in. I shot a quick look around the place, which had a lady smell to it, and got a glimpse of some guys under hair dryers reading magazines. Smiling, I backed out, pulling the door shut behind me. Lost my courage; simple as that. It was about one mile from the Unisex salon to my flat, and as I completed just over half of the distance, walking along back streets and enjoying exploring, I rounded a corner and faced another hair dressing establishment. I could see through the window into this small salon. There sat a man getting his hair cut. In I went, quick as a duck's ass. "I would like a hair cut," I said to the young woman at the reception desk. Before she could answer, a dark complexioned guy appears from nowhere, and announced that a styling would be six pounds. "Man," I'm afraid I said, "can I just get a plain haircut?" I went on to explain that my hair was too long and the I wanted it cut to look about like this, holding up my Oregon driver's license picture. He studied it carefully, if momentarily, and smiled reassuringly. "You want an shampoo and a styling," he stated. "No," I pleaded, "just a hair cut." "But I must at least wet it. It is for your sake," he explained. "It is better that way." "Okay, " I surrendered, "but no styling. Just a hair cut." Immediately the tension which had been building in the salon lessened. The receptionist took my coat, and then helped me into a white cotton garment, the likes of which I have seen only in hospitals. More than a sheet, but less than a gown. She sat me down in an old swivel desk chair and stuffed a dirty brown Turkish hand towel between the back of my neck and shirt collar. With a flourish, the maestro (the guy with the six pound announcement) reappeared and took over. He soaked my head with water from a squirt bottle and began 30 minutes of cutting and snipping and putting long clothes pins in my hair. Wet blobs of hair fell all over me and the surrounding area. During all of this, the receptionists sat and starred at me, sometimes smiling, mostly just looking. I could tell that we were nearing the end of the symphony when the assistant approached us with a brush and dustpan in hand. Just then the maestro performed his final flourish with his air blower and brush, stood back, bowed, held up the rear view mirror and asked if it was satisfactory? I said sure, it was nice, having absolutely no alternative response readily in mind. I mean, what can one say to such a question? He quietly disappeared. The assistant swept up the hair droppings, and then took the cloak like garment off of me. It hadn't been as bad as I had feared. Now to pay. I had only a 5 pound note and three or four twenties. The shop had no change, the constant condition that haunts small businesses in London (and all the rest of the British Isles, for that matter). Fortunately, a friend of the maestros's comes into the shop and to the rescue (a plant?) with change. After leaving a generous tip from a twenty, I stopped in front of the wall mirror and took the first really good look at myself since arriving. My God! I really looked different than when I came into the shop. It was a new me looking back from the mirror. My hair was swept back on the sides, the hair itself seemed more coarse and for the first time since I was a small boy, I had a part in my hair. I looked like something you would find on the back porch at Brideshead. God, I had been styled!
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British
technology ranges from loos (toilets) to the Concorde. Both can be found
in London. I read an article in the Sunday Times that featured electronic
gadgets. Everything from a voice activator in the newest automobile to
robots for the kitchen. Lots of English homes have such electronic magic
permanently installed, or so I understood. The edge of technology in my
London bedsitter was an old American manual can opener which the last
tenant jammed shut with tuna fish, and a loo that only produces water
after you do two pulls.
If
I were to say that one of my more notable events on the following Friday
was getting a haircut, you would probably conclude that I was at a loss
for a topic. That is not true, because on that Friday, for the first time
in my then 52 years, I had my hair "styled". It all happened
before I knew what was going on.