The People You Meet

...Peter Meyer, inventor of the Office Helmet

So there I was on my own in a bar in Dusseldorf, feeling slightly apprehensive about the business meeting the following day, but enjoying the cold pilsner nevertheless. I was happily spending the wad of Deutschmarks I'd been given by the company travel office to pay my hotel bill with, oblivious to the fact that this was it's purpose, thinking the bill had already been paid directly and the cash was simply a rather generous overnight allowance. The next day upon checking out of the hotel, I remembered I'd put a credit card I'd never used before in my wallet as an afterthought shortly before leaving the UK. Fortune occasionally favours people other than the brave. Anyhow, I digress. I sat at the bar trying not to stare at the rather buxom barmaid who's expression conveyed the fact that she was fed up of being stared at night after night. The clientele consisted of a mixture of professional types who'd lingered too long following an after work drink and affluent locals (the bar was in a 'desirable' part of town). Apart from the odd teutonic temptress, the women looked severe and several of the men had long mustaches. I sat there attempting to look cool, allowing the pilsner to cleanse the stress from my body and soul.

I was woken from my pleasant torpor by the sound of a piano being played. At first it was rather frenetic but the sound quickly became more mellow. Initially I couldn't recognize any of the tunes, which sounded like German orchestral themes, until the player segued into that cheezy latin jazz classic 'The girl from Ipenema' - a favourite of mine. Nice ! Apart from the haunting melody, the lilting bosanova rhythm and the wonderful wonderfulness of the Stan Getz/Joao Gilberto rendition, I've always liked this song because of the image I have of a girl who is from a place called Ipenema. She walks as if she's walking along a beach but she walks in a variety of places. She's beautiful naturally, and of indeterminate race. I wonder if Ipenema is in Brasil. I've never really listened to the words. Perhaps. Anyhow, I digress again. The piano player was a squat man, mid-thirties with a dress sense that was poor even by German standards. He was with a woman who was drunk, but drunk in that benign foolish way that is the way of the best drunks. It was obvious that sooner or later she would come over and start talking to me. 'Hello', she said eventually. 'Guten abend', I replied, thinking it would be a good laugh to pretend to be German. The pilsner was now in my head. 'What is your name', she responded, completely oblivious to the fact that I was attempting to conceal my nationality. 'Er, Steve', I spluttered rather embarrassingly. 'Well, I'm Heidi and this is Peter', she announced as the piano player came over to join us. The three of us chatted in a polite and friendly way for a while and the pilsner continued to flow. A neon light appeared in my head at around 9:30 which said 'LEAVE ! GET TO BED ! GET SOME SLEEP !' but after a while it began to flicker and before long it went out completely. Devils appeared on shoulders, and the conversation began to gather momentum.

Heidi was a management consultant and Zimbabwean exile who hated the British, apart from me that is, her drunken friend. Peter was a local man who was in the process of switching careers from being a design engineer with an electronics company to being an artist. He didn't specify which branch of the arts he was involved with. Perhaps he hadn't decided. They both spoke good English and our conversation continued for a considerable time and covered such topics as race, the environment, Europe, travel and of course beer. I felt so at ease that I even considered mentioning the war, but thankfully didn't. Every now and then Peter broke off to make a phonecall on his mobile. These calls consisted of him ranting and raving in German whilst gesticulating wildly as he stomped around the bar. Heidi found this incredibly amusing. 'He's ringing lunatics', she explained. 'He has a list of lunatics in his pocket and rings them up when he's drunk'. 'Why', I asked. 'For inspiration' she replied as if the answer was obvious. 'Another beer ?'

After a while Heidi began to talk about how she had first met Peter, 'I saw him in a magazine. He was wearing his helmet', she confided. 'His helmet ?', I gasped, as images of nazi stormtroopers went through my mind. 'Yes', she laughed. 'It's his invention. It has a fax machine in it', she began to laugh almost uncontrollably. 'He was trying to sell it by advertising it in a trade magazine. I rang the number and that is how we met' The pesterer of lunatics looked round at this point with eyebrows raised and a wry smile on his face. He curtailed his phonecall and joined us once more. 'You're telling Steve about the hat ?', he enthused. 'Yes dear', said Heidi before bursting into fits of laughter again. 'She thinks it's so funny', said Peter, with a look of ironic bemusement. 'Why have a hat with a fax machine in it ?', I asked, with a look of real bemusement. 'Not just a fax, but a complete office !', Peter proudly proclaimed. He went on to describe his invention in intimate technical detail, the main features of this high-tech piece of millinery being as follows:

The shell is of polycarbonate construction similar to a motor cycle helmet and comes in a variety of colours. It has an aerial on top.

The helmet contains a mobile phone which vibrates rather than rings. Answer mode and mute features are activated by a button on the side.

The sun-visor unclips and folds out into a palm-top monitor/keypad, connected by an infrared beam to a computer housed in the helmet itself.

The computer has a modem, sound card and speakers in each ear. Emails and faxes can be sent via the mobile phone network.

Conventional faxes can be sent and received by using a fax machine housed at the rear of the helmet which also operates as a photocopier. The paper output is delivered downwards from the rear of the helmet providing sun protection a la Beau-Geste !

The helmet is solar powered, although it does have an auxiliary battery and mains adapter.

An air-conditioned version aimed at the important south east Asian market is currently under development.

I tried to listen attentively but each time Peter described a 'feature' I burst out laughing. However, this did not annoy or deter him, quite the contrary in fact. We were brothers in drunkenness. 'But surely it looks so stupid, nobody would ever contemplate wearing such a thing', I protested. 'I think it looks cool !', retorted Peter. 'But who am I to say', he continued. 'Look at it this way. The hat will sell at about 6000DM, but it costs about 3000DM per month to hire an office. It's paid for itself in 2 months and after that it's saving the owner 3000DM per month. Would you be prepared to look stupid for 3000DM per month ? A lot of people look stupid anyway, so it's money for nothing. Add to that the fact that the hat gives the owner complete freedom of movement; one day you could work in a park, one day in a library, one day on a boat on the Rhine. You could even travel.' His arguments were convincing. Well, convincing to a drunk anyway. 'I think I might remove the fax machine from the design', he mused. 'It's a bit cumbersome'. 'Yes', I said, still laughing. 'You should really be aiming towards a paper-less office'. 'JA !', he exclaimed. 'A paper-less hat !'

That was the last coherent string of conversation I can remember, although our discourse continued a while longer. However, just before things become blurred, before noises become slightly quieter and before nonsense starts to make sense and balance doesn't matter, comes the point at which all good drunks are able to see the looming spectre of oblivion and sneer at it. For this is the point at which the drinking stops and the survival instinct takes over. Not everyone can do it. That's why so many people end up in the gutter, or even worse, have to suffer a life of interminable sobriety ! Our conversation had run it's course and the impromptu Dusseldorf drinking club was about to be disbanded. I proposed a final toast to the paper-less hat, and eventually in the small hours, after saying farewell (I think it was ta-ra actually), staggered back to the hotel.

The next morning I awoke with a hideous hangover - a true katzenjammer, but the pain in my head simply served to remind me of a great night out, and as such was strangely pleasant. As the late great Kurt Vonnegut jnr. might have said, 'everything was beautiful and nothing hurt'. Peter and Heidi, whoever you are, I salute you.

We at MartyCam would like to add a short footnote to this uplifting tale by pledging our support to drunkards and nutters the world over. In our ironic world, we share your pain and feel the warm glow of your love. Cheers !