The Makers Donkey – A short story.

He waited in the crowded outer office of a tall glass

skyscraper. He stood as there were no chairs suitable for Donkeys. It

would have been somewhat inappropriate to rest only his rear

on a chair, especially as there had been no business suits in

Donkey dimensions in New York and so was not wearing pants.

Looking around the other applicants were mostly young smartly

dressed accountants, mostly female, and mostly very

intelligent. Several clutched framed Harvard Business School

degrees and no doubt reams of recommendations and glowing

references bundled up in neat piles ready to present.

Dunbar Jones didn’t go to university. He didn’t have a laptop

and actually couldn’t hold a pen or type due to his large


The large Mahogany door at the end of the crowded hall

opened. Out came a young lady, looking much less hopeful than

those waiting their turn. If she had been a cockatoo and had

a crest it would have definitely fallen flat.

“Dunbar Jones?” Clipped a secretary with a tight grey bun

from her desk at the door.

“Dunbar Jones you may go in now.”

He trotted down the soft carpeted corridor and nudged the

door wider with his large muzzle. Inside the office was an

enormous cavern of luxurious interior deign. Expensive

couches with equally expensive cushions precluded an even

more impressive games area. Several famous works of art and

fancy lighting fixtures adorned the walls.

“Aha, Dunbar Jones, mind if I call you DJ?” A plump middle

aged man with pale wobbly jowls and decidedly ostentatious

eyebrows greeted him from behind the vast desk.

“I’ve been waiting for you to come through. Been dealing with

all the riffraff. Now you know a Harvard Degree is so blaise

these days, and Oxford? Cambridge? Even had a young lady with

one from each! Pfaff, you can get all that online. No, you

are the type of man that has REAL talent. You have LIVED, you

ARE TMI Investment Banking! Welcome DJ, welcome I say!”

Dunbar felt quite welcome. In fact he felt so welcome he

placed his ample rear end on one of the desk facing purple

velvet chairs.

“Whiskey?, No?” BJ Whyte licked his thick lips and poured one

for himself, it was now 9:15am.

“So, I believe in action DJ. Thats why your application

impressed me. No paperwork, no fancy recommendations,

NOTHING! That told me you are a man of ACTION rather than

words. WE don’t need words. You can’t imagine how many words

all these applicants come out with. Not one of them showed me

what I needed to see, a man with a mission, a man with GRIT.

Thats what it takes in finance.”

Dunbar Jones blinked.

“Got a wife? Kids? Where are you holed up? I’ll get Peggy to

send the Missus some flowers and toys for the kids. They

won’t see too much of you once you start tomorrow! Take her

out tonight, buy her a nice dinner. Peggy will book you in at

Remys’ tonight at 8.”

Dunbar Jones realised it was now time to leave. He stood up

and made his way out of the office. BJ was now shouting into

the intercom for Peggy to cancel all the interviews as he had

found his man.


The wife returned from the supermarket for the two hundred

and fifty thousand and thirty third time. It was 11am. She

made the same journey each week, if not several times. Empty

large hessian bags returned full and heavy. She had thick

strong legs. Her back was broad and her thick fingers able to

pull the relentless weeds fro the dry front garden outside

15 Taupe Road.

She carried the house key on a string around her neck, so as

not to lose it. That had happened once and it was 10 hours

before her husband came home from his office job to let her

in. She had become cold in the night air, but munched on the

bag of carrots from the supermarket.

The family home was comfortable. The wife was a good cleaner,

her hands small enough to scrub between the tiles on the

bathroom, and reach into the crannies beside the old oven to

pull out any spilt food.

Her children were at school all day, and that gave her just

enough time to clean up their breakfasting, do two loads of

laundry, vacuum the house, clean the bedrooms , pay the

bills, and walk the dog. After a small lunch of salad (she

was told she needed to lose weight), she would then move onto

preparing the children afternoon tea, wrapping the presents

she bought for the upcoming children’s Laser tag party and

writing out 150 Christmas cards.

At 2pm the phone rang. It was her husband. She was in the

middle of removing the stains from the hall way carpet.

“Hello? Is that you Dunbar?” She knew it was from the

clunking of the receiver, Dunbar would have to lay the phone

down as he had no hands.

“Are you coming home late again? Thats ok, I will leave your

dinner in the oven all you have to do is wake me and Ill come

warm it up.”

She was told it was rewarding to look after her husband, that

it is well documented that thinking of others inherently made

oneself happy.

Finishing the carpet, she left the house in the car and drove

to the school to collect the children.


DJ had found some pants. It seemed that more and more Donkeys

were now working in Wall Street. Industrious tailors taking

the opportunity to broaden their market. The range was

limited, but better than nothing. Dunbar had been told he

needed to start wearing clothes to work. He had chosen a nice

pair of Grey Flannel pants, a crisp white shirt and a yellow

cable knit jersey. He also now owned a suit for meetings.

Today the offices were all abuzz. There had been apparently

some problems with a big investment deal. Foreign clients had

decided to pull out at the last minute and its was looking

like the firm was to lose at least 2 billion.

Apparently the deal had gone south over cocktails at

Winstons, over on 54th st. BJ Wyte had unfortunately had ten

too many and proceeded to butt heads with the client.

The client happened to be an Ox with a very strong cranium

and a very short temper.

BJ called DJ into his office for a crisis meeting. Dunbar

Jones had a vague thought he should change into his suit, but

without fingers it was pretty impossible.

With his pale flabby face now an florid crimson and his

forehead sporting a very large bruised egg, BJ erupted into

an expletive riddled rant.

“That bloody OX is going to cost me a fortune!” The crimson

patches had now combined to create one completely scarlett

mask of fury.

“YOU! You’re the man to fix this. YOU FIX IT! I don’t want

to lose any money you hear! NONE!”

Dunbar Jones blinked. He wasn’t sure whether to sit down.

“All I did was call him a girl because he wouldn’t get up and

do Karaoke. I’d just sung “Don’t you want me” you know by

Human League for gods sake. Now he’s pulling out all his

investment in the Chicks ’N Chicken chain. We have already

built 5000 outlets across America, and broken ground in

France. Thats not cheap!”

Dunbar Jones decided to sit down after all. He was also

wearing a new pair of Dinky Donk Shoes. The shoes looked good

but really pinched if he stood for prolonged amounts of time.

“Heres what we are going to do. YOU are going to go MEET with

Brian. YOU are going take him out for lunch, take him to that

new swanky joint on 23rd St. Then take him to a boxing match,

or baseball or some kind of sporting thing that Russian Oxen

like. Give him as much beer as he can take and buddy up. I’d

suggest a fishing trip but we don’t have time. We have to

close this deal tonight. Make him your best mate, spark a

bromance. GO to Brotown. Do some Brogramming if that’s his

thing. Go Manspread yourselves allover the NYC subway system.


By now BJ had worked himself up into such a lather that the

heat generated was beginning to fog up the large glass

panoramic windows.

Dunbar Jones stopped by Peggys desk on his way out and

collected the black company credit card. He had to carry it

in his teeth as he had no hands.


Rimsky’s was the new joint on 23rd Street. It was popular,

what with being new and also because the beer was Belgian.

Peggy had booked the round table in the centre of the

restaurant, and managed to reserve the only two quadrupedal

stools they had.

DJ arrived at 8pm. Brian the Russian Ox at 8:05pm.

The beer was good, the dinner excellent and the conversation

was as minimal as it could possibly be without being

described as silence.

Neither DJ or Brian were known for much more than a few

grunts, but they were able to discern a few things. DJ worked

out Brians eye motions weren’t a tic but a polite request

for the salt and Brian helpfully nudged the plate of carrots

closer to DJ after deciphering nose flaring.

It could be said the high profile top financial executive

working dinner went well.

Walking the New York streets afterwards, the two executives

also realised they had allot in common. They had a similar

gait, seemed to both want to go the same way and even stoped

to sniff the same hedge outside the Shaving Soap Store on

Fifth Ave.

Dunbar Jones still wasn’t too sure what BJ had been telling

him back at the crisis meeting, but it seemed he was very

upset. Perhaps he had lost something or had stood on a

thumbtack. Either way, the two animals had enjoyed the night



It was the end of the financial year. A time when the offices

of all the big banks and investment firms seemed to emit

radiant tones of gold and green. Profits were good. The

executives were happy. Boozing went long into the night with

only the most junior or least male of the species vacating

early due to embarrassment. Entertainments were booked that

weren’t to everyones taste.

The donkeys stayed. They were amongst the most highly paid

these days in the city. A meritocracy of high achievement and

rich rewards resulted in an ever expanding Donkey percentage.

The Donkeys seemed happy, the tailors and various Donkey spin

off businesses such as Jonny Maas Equine Fake Fingers, Dinky

Donk Shoes and Marchellos Hoof Gloss were over the moon.

Dunbar Jones sat at his desk. The office was empty as most

important workers had headed down to the basement bar tonight

was the Bro Glow Happy Hour.

There were no papers, no computer and still not even a pen on

DJs desktop. He hadn’t managed to workout the Fake Fingers

most Donkeys sported these days.

“DJ, My MAN!!” In came BJ, clutching a very large bottle of

Scotch and puffing on a cigar.

Dunbar Jones blinked.

“We did it! YOU did it Bro!” The middle aged bloated business

man was sweating. Perhaps from excitement or just fatigue

from walking down the adjoining corridor.

“YOU got the raging Russian Bull to sign! They tried to get

out of it, said it wasn’t legal but Chicks ’N Chicken is up

and running. Already 450 stores have opened their greasy big

doors and the green is flowing our way!”

After the night out with Brian, the Russian Ox, DJ had

visited his boss and entered his office just as he was biting

into a rather over sauced hotdog supper. The tomato sauce had

blurted out and down his chin.

“Give your napkin!” He had yelled. Meaning the napkin from

Rimsky’s which somehow had become lodged on DJs Donkey suit



The napkin in question had a hoof print on it. This was

Brians. Brian had stepped on it as he walked out of the

restaurant, a gust of wind had then blown it up and it was

caught up in Dunbars suit.

Apparently this was now legally Brians signature.

The rest was history.The firm made allot of money that year.

Allot of city firms made allot of money on other deals that

year. The city was humming with the self congratulatory

parties late into the night.

All over New York Donkeys saw the morning in, surrounded by

very grateful bosses. Most of them sat down, most of them

wore pants and one of them was even called Dunbar Jones.