Lunchtime

"Hey, Charlie," Ralph said as his coworker took a seat next to him.

"Hiya, Ralph," Charlie said, putting his brown paper lunch sack on the cafeteria table.

"Whatcha got for lunch today?" Ralph asked, making conversation.

"Pastrami on rye," Charlie said as he pulled a sandwich, still wrapped in butcher paper from the deli, from the sack.

"Nice!" Ralph said, nodding his head enthusiastically. "You go to Petrucci's?"

"Nah," Charlie said as he unwrapped his sandwich. "Went to a deli that Rick recommended. Some place called Applegate's."

"Never heard of 'em," Ralph said, picking at his reheated meatloaf leftovers. "They new?"

"I guess," Charlie said, shrugging. He picked up one half of his sandwich, which had been cut diagonally, and took a bite. The sandwich was stacked high with thinly sliced meat and included spicy brown mustard and a healthy portion of sauerkraut. Even though the sandwich had been made about ten minutes prior, the meat was still warm, the toppings still cool, and the bread wasn’t the least bit soggy.

Ralph watched as Charlie bit into the sandwich, envious of his friend’s lunch. However, as Charlie took the first bite, he change: the color drained from his face and dark circles surrounded his eyes, his fingertips turned a ghastly gray and his nails nearly black, his dark brown hair darkened until it was jet black, and his normally plump build shrank until he was gaunt and his cheeks were sunken in. The change was complete almost instantly.

Ralph, not believing what he was seeing, blinked hard. When he opened his eyes, Charlie looked normal again.

"You feelin' okay?" Ralph asked.

"Yeah, why?" Charlie said, his mouth full.

"This is gonna sound crazy," Ralph said, "but you looked like you died for a second."

"Oh, that," Charlie said, nodding to himself. "So, the thing with Applegate's is, by eating their food, I've sold my everlasting soul to the devil and will spend all of eternity being tortured in hell."

Ralph's eyebrows shot up in shock. "You sold your soul for a sandwich?"

Charlie nodded as he took another bite.

"Was it worth it?" asked Ralph, still in shock. "How's the sandwich?"

"I'm not gonna lie," Charlie said between chews, "this is one killer sandwich. I'll probably go there again tomorrow."

Ralph stared at his now-damned friend, his eyes wide with disbelief. He shook his head and looked back at his own lunch. After a moment, he looked back at Charlie, who was clearly enjoying his lunch.

Ralph asked: "Mind picking me up one?"

Support Group

Moore walked into the room and quietly found a seat. The metal folding chairs were arranged in a small circle, allowing the attendees to face each other. A couple of young women were at a small table in the back of the room, helping themselves to the coffee and donuts. Moore had heard about support groups like this one before, but had never attended one until today. Life was hard for him, made all the harder from the feeling that no one understood what he was going through. Still, he felt a little silly being there; after all, how many millions of people suffered fates much worse than him? He started having second thoughts and considered leaving.

As he was eyeing the door, a man started speaking to him. The bespectacled man looked about forty with a long, graying beard that came about a third of the way down his chest. He held out a hand, which Moore took.

"Hi there," the man said, sitting in the chair next to him. "I'm Justin."

"Uh, hey," Moore said, snapping out of his thoughts. "I'm Moore."

"I don't recognize you," Justin said. "Is this your first time here?"

"Yeah. I heard about you guys from a friend of mine, Max."

Justin looked surprised. "Really? I remember Max, but didn't think he got much out of our little group."

"I mean, I don't know," Moore said lamely. "Maybe he didn't, but he said it might work for me."

"Well," Justin said, standing up, "it's great to have you." He handed Moore a pamphlet. "We'll be reading from this in the meeting. And feel free to help yourself to some coffee and donuts."

Moore nodded as Justin walked to the other side of the circle and called out to the other attendees that it was time to start the meeting. As everyone found a seat in the circle, Justin began the introduction.

"Thank you for joining us, everyone. It's always nice to see our little group grow and it's doing just that because we have someone new joining us today." Justin turned from talking to the group as a whole and looked directly at Moore. "Whenever we have someone new, we like to review how these meetings go. Candy, would you like to lead us?" Justin asked.

Candy was a woman who looked like she was in her late twenties or early thirties with platinum blonde hair. She was pretty, if a bit plain, and wore a pretty boring outfit: tan sheep skin boots, black leggings, and a loose-fitting, gray hoody.

"Sure," she said as she stood up, putting her hands in the single front pocket on the hoody. "Okay, so we're all here because our parents gave us stupid names. We meet mainly for two reasons: it helps to know that there are other people who know our struggle and that leads to us to better accept ourselves. We start by reciting our mantra, before moving to the sharing portion of the meeting. Everyone is invited to share, but nobody's forced to. If you do share, introduce yourself and tell us your stupid name."

"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "And now, we'll all stand and say the mantra together, found on the inside fold of our pamphlet," he said, holding it up. "Alright, Killian, will you lead us?"

Killian nodded and stood up. Killian was chubby and looked like he was still in high school. He had a head of dark, bushy hair and smelled strongly of body spray. He cleared his throat before beginning, with everyone joining in.

"Our names are stupid, but we aren't. Our parents chose names that are stupid, but that doesn't mean that they are. New people in our lives will make jokes and comments that are stupid, but that doesn't mean they are. We cannot control how the world sees us and that's okay. Our names are a part of us, but they do not define us. We are more than just our names."

With the chant finished, most of the group sat back down, leaving Justin standing.

"And now," he said, "we'll move on to the sharing portion of our meeting. I'll begin. My name is Justin Tyme."

"Hi, Justin," the group said together.

"As many of you know, having a name based on a phrase is not easy. As a child, I struggled with people constantly making the same joke about my name: 'you got here your name.' It's happened so long that I don’t actually remember a time when it wasn't already old. But, having this stupid name has also helped. I learned to appreciate really clever jokes, even ones about my name. When my son was born, I even posted a picture of him on social media with the caption 'a little Tyme.' I just repeat the mantra and remind myself that I didn't choose this name and it doesn't define me.

"Okay, who'd like to share next?"

"I'll go," said Candy, who introduced the basics of the meeting. "My name's Candy Caine."

"Hi, Candy," said the group.

"I've met other girls who go by Candy, but it's usually short for Candace. My mom figured that I'd just go by the nickname, so that's what my birth certificate says.

"It was tough when I was a teenager. I'd tell people my name and get told that it was a 'stripper name,' nevermind the fact that my best friend at the time was a girl named Sinnamon with an S, which literally has 'sin' in it. But, no, Candy Caine was the stripper name. But just as our mantra says, I refused to let my name define me. I figured out that people telling me that I have a stripper name was a reflection of them, not me.

"I work in marketing now and just got promoted to junior VP at my firm. The VP above me said that one of the reasons I got the promotion was because I worked so hard on everything. As I'm sure you all know, when you have a stupid name, you have to work harder than everyone else to prove to people that you're not as dumb as your name. At first that was a burden, but now I see it as a kind of gift that my mom gave me. Thank you."

"Thank you, Candy," Justin said. "Who'd like to go next?"

The meeting continued, with members sharing how having a stupid name was a struggle, but how it also served as a blessing, forcing them to be more than just their names. The other attendees included Polly Ester Williams, who admitted that her name was only stupid if she included her middle name; Krystal Ball and Crystal Bell, who met in high school and often got confused for each other, despite being different races; Killian Smalls, the chubby kid who led the mantra and said he was named after a catchphrase from a '90s movie, which meant that the only people of a certain age knew how stupid his name was; a couple of guys who had the same first name as their last name: William Williams and Adam Adams; and Queenie Stephens and Julian Butts, the only attendees who had just one stupid name.

With everyone else having shared, Moore felt everyone's eyes on him. He knew that he didn't have to say anything, but he also felt like everyone expected him to, so he stood up.

"Hi," he said, his hands in his pockets, "my name is Moore Orless."

"Hi, Moore," everyone said back.

"Like the rest of you, I've been frustrated about my name my whole life, but I learned something recently that suddenly made having this name even harder. I grew up without my father in my life. I knew lots of kids growing up without dads, so I didn't think too much of it. What was different for me was that he left me with a stupid last name. My mom named me Moore after my great-grandfather, which I understand, but with my last name, it's a combination that's, well… stupid.

"I recently decided to track down my father and confront him for not being in my life and leaving me with a stupid name. I ordered a copy of my birth certificate and it turns out that my father's last name isn't Orless, it's Thompson. I asked my mom where my last name came from and she said that she just made it up. Made it up! I spent my childhood getting made fun of and even got beat up a few times because she wanted my name to be a stupid phrase.

"I was telling all of this to a buddy of mine, Max Powers, and he told me about this group. He only came a couple of times, but he said I might get something out it. I guess it helps to know how many other people have stupid names, but it's still tough because my last name was just made up, you know? I spent a long time being mad at my dad and learning that he's not to blame for my last name, it really shook me. Like, you go your whole life knowing something only to learn that it's a lie.

"Anyway, I want to forgive my mom, but I'm not ready yet. Maybe coming here will help me let it go and move on. I don't know, but I figure I'll try. Thanks."

Moore sat back down, feeling a little better to get all of that off his chest. Justin stood back up.

"Thanks for sharing, Moore," he said. "I can't speak for everyone, but it took a while for me to forgive my parents for my stupid name. But I was able to forgive them. If you need someone to talk to, just one-on-one, let me know and I can set you up with a sponsor.

"And with that, we'll adjourn. Thanks for coming and I hope to see everyone back here next month."

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."