On Matters of Fashion

"Gentlemen," Worthington said, gently swirly the snifter of brandy in his hand, "thank you for meeting me here."

"Here" in this case being the local gentlemen's club to which the gathered members belonged. They were in the library, which meant they were surrounded by shelves upon shelves of books. Despite being a library, the books were for show and were rarely (if ever) read. No, the library was simply a place to gather and sit while indulging in tobacco or alcohol with other men of similar means and tastes.

While some men owned businesses or were retired, Worthington was the son of a textile magnate. He was college-educated, but many of those gathered with him saw him as little more than a child allowed to associate with the adults due to the insistence of his father. Still, Archibald Worthington was a respected man, so his son’s invitation was honored—or more likely, humored—albeit begrudgingly.

"There is time for pleasantries later," Dickson said lighting his pipe as he leaned on the mantle above the fireplace. "Get to the point of this gathering."

"Efficient as always, Reginald" Worthington said flatly. He put his drink down on an end table and walked to stand in front of a bookcase on the northern side of the room. "We are here because there is an untapped market that is begging to be exploited." At the word "market," the group groaned quietly.

"If you had told me this was a business matter," Hornsby said from his overstuffed armchair, his jowls trembling as he spoke, "I would have sent my steward, as he is responsible for such things."

"And that is why I concealed the nature of this meeting until now," Worthington replied, a smug grin creeping across his face. "And besides, while this may be about a potential business venture, I feel with certainty that you will want to hear this firsthand."

"Very well," Fitzpatrick said, cleaning his monocle with a silk handkerchief, "get on with it. The sooner you finish your proposal, the sooner we can tell you 'no' and be on our way."

"We shall see," Worthington said, his smug grin still firmly in place. "Now, what is the one item most difficult to purchase at a haberdashery?" Various responses came from the crowd:

     "Genuine ivory tobacco pipes"
     "Mollusk silk handkerchiefs"
     "Peruvian mustache wax"
     "Polar bear fur coats"

"Perhaps I should have phrased my question differently," Worthington said thoughtfully. "What I mean to ask is what is the most embarrassing item to purchase?" Again, various responses were offered:

     "Leather softened by the toothless gumming of Indochinese women"
     "Icelandic necropants"
     "Opium"

Worthington became visibly uncomfortable by some of the items mentioned and tried to quickly regain control of the meeting.

"I am referring to undergarments," he said over the group, who had continued to reply to his earlier question. "Undergarments can be quite embarrassing to purchase, especially when other customers are in the shop with you."

"And what is your plan to solve this?" Dickson asked incredulously. "Underclothes are not meant to be discussed. They are meant to be purchased with subtle glances and hand gestures while the cost is added to the bill under 'accessories' or some such."

"But why is this so?" Worthington asked rhetorically. "It would be one thing if women were present, but the fairer sex cares little for clothes shopping, so the risk of that is nearly nonexistent. And the haberdasher already has intimate knowledge of our various measurements, so any discomfiture cannot be because of him. No, society has taught us to be ashamed of the male form. In ancient Greece, men regularly exercised nude, but today even a trip to the seashore requires extensive covering.

"I say no longer! I say that we embrace our masculinity and establish our own haberdashery dedicated exclusively to undergarments."

There was quite a bit of muttering from those gathered. Worthington, not wanting to lose his momentum, pressed forward.

"I am so confident in the need for a place where men are able to openly purchase the most intimate of apparel, that I will put my name on the business: Worthington's."

"To be clear," Fitzpatrick said, reaching in his waistcoat pocket for his snuff tin, "I think this concept is foolhardy. However, if the most personal of clothing is to be sold at this proposed shop, why not use your Christian name? Or are you hoping that customers will associate the business with your father?"

"And it should sound more mysterious," Hornsby added, playing with the curled end of his mustache. "Imagine if a man were expecting a traditional haberdashery and walks in to find only breeches on display."

"Very well," Worthington said. "Are we in agreement then? We shall establish as the first intimate apparel haberdashery and finally make shopping for undergarments not only a shameless experience, but an enjoyable one! Here’s to Victor’s Secret!"

One Dark Night

Todd looked at the text message on the cell phone, confirming that he had the right address. All these warehouses look the same, he thought as he pocketed the phone and pulled off his backpack, walking around to the back of the building. He pulled out another phone, this one with a cable attached, though the cable had been cut, exposing bare wires. He wired the adapter into the alarm system, rerouting its signal—if he just cut the power line, the security company would know something was wrong and send the cops. With the alarm disabled, he pulled some small wire tools from his back pocket and began picking the lock on the door.

Todd was a low-level crook and this wasn't his first breaking and entering, but it was the first time he did it for someone else, a client. It felt weird, like he was working at an office job or something. Come to think of it, the whole thing felt weird.

He was at the gym last week and when he opened his locker to grab his stuff before going home, there was a brown paper bag with ten grand in cash and a prepaid cell phone. The phone had an unread text message waiting for him. It said that the money was a "retainer" payment and if Todd took it, he'd need to be willing to take a job. It didn't feel right, but with the cops sniffing around his pawn shop that he used as a front, he needed the cash. When he got a text a few days later with an address and instructions to "get inside and wait for text," it made about as much sense as anything else had so far.

With the lock picked, Todd walked inside. It was nearly too dark to see inside, but there were a few skylights scattered across the ceiling that let in moonlight, which allowed Todd to walk across the warehouse without bumping into anything. He nearly made it to an adjacent office on the far side of the warehouse when he heard someone speak.

"Decent work disabling the alarm," a slightly nasal baritone voice said. "Too bad 'decent' isn't good enough with me on the job."

"What the crap?" Todd said, turning to face the voice. All he saw was a blur of shiny fabric as the speaker leaped from off a large wooden crate below a skylight and into the darkness. Just then, the prepaid phone in his pocket vibrated, alerting him of a new text message. Instinctively, Todd pull out the phone and read the text.

Having fun?

"You set this up?" Todd shouted into the darkness. "That's entrapment!"

"Actually," the unseen voice said, "only government officials can entrap someone. Also, I didn't set up anything."

The phone vibrated in Todd's hand. He looked down.

He's right

"What's going on?!" Todd screamed, nearly at a panic. Weird he could handle, but everything was getting downright insane.

Suddenly, a man jumped into view. He wore a yellow and gold spandex body suit that covered everything but his eyes, ears, mouth, and chin. A cape hung from his back and he wore glasses over his mask. The man was thin but athletic looking, like a gymnast or diver. He stood in front of Todd in what looked like karate pose: slightly crouched with hands in "chopping" form held up in front of his face.

"Oh, great," Todd said sarcastically, "a friggin' superhero."

"Actually," the other man said, "I have no super powers, though I am a vigilante, operating outside the law."

"Look," Todd said wearily, "I don't want any trouble. I just needed the cash and they said to come here."

"Being destitute is no excuse for breaking the law," the spandex-clad man said condescendingly.

"Who are you supposed to be anyway?" Todd asked. "The Incredible Know-it-all?"

"I'm sure it's hard to see in this lighting," the masked hero said, "but I have a stylized capital letter P on my costume, for I am the Pedant!"

"What, like a pedophile?" Todd asked, backing away slightly.

"Why does everyone keep asking that?" the Pedant asked rhetorically. "A pedant is someone who is focused on details and righting wrongs."

"Or to put it another way," a different, though still nasally voice called out of the darkness, "he's anal retentive!"

"It can't be!" the Pedant said, turning around as he tried to find the new speaker.

"Now what?" Todd asked, his worry replaced with annoyed confusion.

"It sounds like my arch-rival," the Pedant said, continuing his frantic search in the darkness, "but that’s impossible! He's currently under house arrest with a tracking ankle monitor; if he left, it would incur the wrath of county judge Davis!"

"And what if I never left home?" the voice called out in a near laugh.

"But that would mean—" the Pedant started.

"Indeed!" the voice said as all of the lights in the warehouse turned on. Both Todd and the Pedant had to squint under the bright lights. Todd, shielding his eyes, looked around. The front of the crate that the Pedant had leapt off of earlier opened downward, drawbridge-style, revealing a large television screen inside. It turned on, revealing what looked like a man in front of a web camera wearing clown makeup.

"The Annoyer!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.

"The very same!" the man on the screen cackled. "I bet you weren't expecting such an elaborate ruse, now were you, Pee Dance?"

"You know that's not my name, Greg!" the Pedant shouted at the screen.

"You've got to be kidding me," Todd said to himself. "Was this job just to tick him off?" he asked the Annoyer, pointing at the Pedant.

"And you've performed admirably!" Greg exclaimed. "You'll find another ten thousand dollars in the top drawer of the desk in the office just behind you."

"I'm sure gramps would be so proud of how you're spending your inheritance," the Pedant sarcastically said as Todd walked towards the office.

"I'm not the one going around beating up people and saying that I'm making the world a better place," the Annoyer said, rolling his eyes. "And at least I picked a name that makes sense, Alan."

"I've explained my title to you," the Pedant said, annoyed (appropriately enough). "You know it makes sense."

"If it makes sense," Greg said, "then why do you need to constantly explain it to people?"

"That's just because people are undereducated," Alan replied.

As the two grown men wearing either a costume and makeup continued to bicker, Todd walked out of the warehouse, another stack of hundreds in his backpack. Once outside, he took the prepaid phone he had been contacted on—apparently by a guy named Greg who just wanted to annoy his brother or cousin or whatever—and chucked it as far as he could down the street. When he heard it crash a block or so away, he started walking back to his car in the opposite direction.

Lesson learned, Todd thought. There’s no such thing as "easy money."

Name and Address

Darryl the deliveryman walked up to the house and rang the doorbell. This was his last delivery of the day and he was anxious to get back to the warehouse so he could clock out and go home. Beyond just wanting to relax, his girlfriend, Joslyn, was making lasagna for dinner tonight and he'd been looking forward to it all day.

After a short wait, a tired-looking woman holding a baby answered the door. She was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized, stained t-shirt, with her greasy hair tied in a loose ponytail. The baby in her arms smiled at Darryl, all the while drooling on to the bib that made up the only clothing it was wearing, apart from a diaper.

"Yes?" she yawned, a look of weary indifference on her face. "Can I help you?"

"Hi there," Darryl said politely. "I’ve got a package here for a … uh, a Muh… Muhbil… aw, geez. I’m sorry, but this one is a tough one."

"The name’s Stromberg," the woman said flatly.

"Wow," said Darryl, "I would not have guessed that from the spelling." He scanned the package’s barcode with a handheld scanner, tucked the cardboard box under his arm, and turned the scanner around so that the screen faced the woman. "Please sign here."

She took the stylus and distractedly signed her name. A crashing sound came inside the house. "Jeffery! Knock it off!" she shouted behind her without taking her eyes from off the scanner. "Sorry about that," she said as she finished signing her name. "My husband’s on a business trip and I’ve been all alone with the kids for nearly the whole week."

"Don't worry about it," Darryl said, taking the scanner back and pressing a few buttons. "You just yelled at your kid. I didn't have to run from a dog or someone with a weapon, so I still count this as an easy delivery." Having marked the package as delivered in his scanner, Darryl handed the woman the cardboard box. "Just out of curiosity, how do you pronounce your first name?"

"Gretchen," Mrs. Stromberg said, a little confused.

"Huh," Darryl said, surprised. "Well, you've got some creative ways to spell your names. Have a nice day!" Darryl started walking back to the delivery truck as Gretchen read the label on the package.

"Hold on a second," she called after him, her eyes still on the box. "This isn't for us."

"Really?" Darryl asked, one foot already inside the truck.

"Yeah," she said, the annoyance in her voice intensifying. "We're the Strombergs, not the Mmm… Muhbellawannas," she said less-than-confidently. "And this isn't even our address. We're on Elm Street, not Elk."

Darryl paused. He considered just driving off and letting someone at the distribution warehouse worry about it, but since he already scanned the package, it would eventually get traced back to him. He took his foot out of the truck walked back towards the house and Gretchen.

"Sorry about that, ma'am," he said, his voice flavored with irritated disappointment. "Mistakes like this are rare these days, but they do happen. Lucky us." He scanned the package a second time, pressed some buttons, and took the box back from Mrs. Stromberg. "Sorry to bother you," he apologized.

"That's okay," Gretchen said, a slight smile creeping onto half of her face. "If I'm being honest, it was just nice to talk to someone about something other than dinosaurs or princesses."

"Well," Darryl said, grinning, "I'm glad I could give you a couple of minutes of human conversation. Have a nice day."

Gretchen waved as she stepped back inside and closed the door. Darryl got into his truck and typed in the address from the package into the GPS mounted on the dashboard, mentally kicking himself for not catching the typo. When the route loaded, he breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that his destination was only eight minutes away.

As he drove away, Darryl laughed ironically to himself. He must have really been thinking hard about lasagna if he thought Gretchen Stromberg could somehow be spelled "Ayo Mbelewana."