Day 25: 42,032 Words

Interestingly, I now have the opposite problem that I've had all along: I have too much plot! I have no idea how any of this is going to resolve, but I think that the overall effect is, nonetheless, pleasing. 

Abigail and Fernando looked at each other as they approached the shop door. The Emilio Estevez streetlight [Ed: which was a middle finger to the neighbourhood historical society, who had tried to convince the owner to install a clown streetlight] was giving it an eerie glow, rather than a welcoming air. A creepy jorts-laden mannequin in the front display appeared to move, of its own volition, closer to the window. They both shuddered.

Abigail hesitated at the entrance, causing Fernando to squeeze her hand. 

She realized then that if she had to be at the 24 Hour Jorts and Piquette Emporium, she was lucky that it was with Fernando. And really, she would rather go any place in the world with Fernando rather than without him. This feeling gave her the strength to walk through the threshold of the strangest store she has ever entered, and would ever enter in her life, hand in hand with Fernando. 

The inside of the store was spooky and quiet, both of which they expected. What they did not expect, however, was an unnervingly eager salesman with a large nametag reading “Cranston” to rush over to help them. But Abigail supposed that this made sense; no one probably ever came into the store, so Cranston was just excited.

“Is there anything that I can do to help you?” Cranston shouted, even though he was well within earshot. His voice sounded like it was written in all capital letters. 

“We’re just browsing,” Abigail said automatically. 

“Browsing?” Fernando repeated to Abigail, sounding incredulous.

“Browse away!” Cranston screeched. “We have a fine selection of jorts—acid washed, distressed, cargo, elastic waistband, high-waisted, cut-offs. Are you shopping for yourselves? Can I get a fitting room started for you? Would you like to try some piquette while you browse? Do you need a gift receipt? Have you tried turning the device off and then on again? What about unplugging it? Just let it sit for at least one minute and then plug it in again?”

All of them realized that something was off about what Cranston was saying at the same time, including Cranston. Abigail and Fernando gave him confused looks, while Cranston just stammered and tried to pretend nothing had happened.

“I’m going to get a fitting room started for you,” Cranston said, shuffling off hurriedly. 

“But we don’t have anything to go in the fitting room yet!” Abigail called after him. 

“What is that guy’s deal?” Fernando said, once Cranston was out of sight. 

“I don’t know, but is it possible that Cranston is the weirdest part of this place?” Abigail asked.
As if on cue, another man emerged from the back room and made his way towards Fernando and Abigail. He was decidedly spry for his age, and wearing a nametag reading “Jorn.”

“It’s Cranston’s first day,” Jorn told them with an insincere smile, leading Abigail to believe that it wasn’t Cranston’s first day at all. “How can I help you?”

“We’re not looking for jorts,” Abigail started.

“Let me show you to our fine selection of piquettes, then,” Jorn replied. “We try to stay true to their origins—you can practically taste the depression and desperation of the French lower-classes, who could not afford to drink anything else!”

“Dear god, no!” Fernando said quickly. “Please, do not show us your selection of piquettes!”

Jorn appeared taken aback, but still calm. 

“If you aren’t looking for jorts, and you aren’t looking for piquette, then I’m confused about how I can help you.”

“Well,” Abigail said, “we are looking for Alan.”

Jorn didn’t look like someone who was surprised by much. But he was most definitely surprised by this.  

“Alan?” Jorn spluttered. “Do you mean Alan Shearer, the English football pundit and retired footballer who is widely regarded as one of the best strikers of his generation and one of the greatest players in the history of the Premier League?” 

“I don’t know,” Abigail said. “Do we?” She made sharp eye contact with Jorn, and refused to look away.

The truth was, Abigail genuinely did not know if Alan was Alan Shearer, Alan Alda, Tim Allen, or even Lily Allen. But she had learned from James that if she acted confident, everyone else will just give her what she wants.

Jorn held her gaze. They were locked in a battle of wills, with Fernando helplessly looking on. 

Finally, Jorn relented. 

“No, I suppose not,” Jorn said deferentially. “I’ll make some calls.”

“Please do,” Abigail said after him.

Jorn left them alone on the store floor, surrounded by a bunch of drunk-looking, jorts-wearing mannequins. Given the low alcohol content of piquette, those mannequins must have really been going at it for a while. 

Mannequins are creepy at the best of times, and this certainly was not the best of times. 

After what felt like hours, Jorn and Cranston returned from the back room. Cranston had removed his sweater, revealing a red t-shirt with white, loopy scrawl. Abigail wondered if it was announcing his affiliation with the Department of Social and Political Thought at York University. She had once had the unfortunate luck to be at Jackie’s Place in Toronto where she had seen many of those red t-shirts, when they were hosting what was supposed to be a celebration to mark the end of the academic year. It was not especially celebratory, though. They each mostly appeared to be trying to get one another to read their dissertations, and they were getting increasingly agitated when nobody would. When one particularly galling faculty member started quizzing his colleagues on the ten year retrospective of his dissertation, Abigail had left because she was too depressed.

As Cranston was creeping closer, though, she was relieved to see that he was not affiliated with the Department of Social and Political Thought at York University. Thank god, she thought. She really didn’t have time to read anybody’s dissertation.

It was odd that it took her so long to recognize the shirt, since it was the same one that she was wearing. 

Cranston was a Celebrity Feud Support Group Supporter. The realization hit her like a soccer ball to the head, kicked by Garth Ball.