Seconds And Irregulars : 4

A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

Ozzie went to bed, but he couldn't sleep. Sometimes alcohol had that effect on him. It was strange; it made no sense. Most of the time, nearly all the time, when he drank, he'd sleep like a fallen log. He'd lie down and sink deeply, directly, immediately into dreamland. Other times – not very often, thankfully! – but other times, like tonight, the alcohol would keep him awake for hours. Wide awake. As if it was the middle of the day. He had no idea why or how, but here he was again. Awake, alert, with no possibility of sleep.

He kept checking his phone. Time dragged like a lame tortoise. Only twenty minutes has passed since Camille went to bed, but it seemed hours.

So he turned on the light. He examined that god-damned jacket. There was only one label. It read:


Fit-4-U
Womens Shacket
100% Magilon
Hand Wash Only
Guaranteed 2 Fit

 
"Shacket?" he said aloud. Oh, the foolishness of women! "What the hell is a shacket?" He examined the material, running his hands over it. It was different. Special, somehow. Really... well, it didn't seem manly to admit it, but the material was a delight to touch.

"Weird," he commented to himself, aloud. "So, so weird."

He carried the jacket – or shacket, rather – into his office and fired up his computer. First he looked up "shacket" and found it was, basically, a jacket. "They could have just said so!" he murmured.

Then he looked up "magilon."

The search came up with a page full of results, all of the links pointing to the Fit-4-U website. He clicked on one at random.

"Oh!" he exclaimed to himself, "It's an online catalog!"

With one look at the site, Ozzie forgot completely about shackets and magilon. The phrase guaranteed fit fell by the wayside. Here was something far more exciting, far more titilating! Ozzie was sucked right in. Open-mouthed, he pored over, drooled over, gasped at the pictures of bewitchingly attractive models and irresistably sexy clothes.

Several times he had to slap himself on the chest to remind himself to breathe.

There were clothes of all kinds: dresses, short dresses, minidresses, shorts, short shorts, booty shorts, sportswear, bathing suits...

Ozzie was awash in a superabundance of female beauty. He couldn't stop licking his lips; his mouth kept going dry, while the website, the online catalog, seemed inexhaustible.

Now time was moving quickly. The first moment that he looked up at the clock, an hour and a quarter had passed. It felt like five minutes. The next time he looked up, another 45 minutes had shot by... and Ozzie needed to use the bathroom. (Another side-effect of the alcohol.)

He trotted to the bathroom in the hall, because it was the closest.

He hustled back to his office and continued to explore Fit-4-U. The question of the impossibility of the guaranteed fit was all but forgotten, especially when he came upon the Costume section. Some of the selections were practically pornographic. Sexy Nurse! Sexy Santa's Helper! Sexy Policewoman! And then, he discovered the Cosplay section. At one moment he was moved to moan aloud, but quickly caught himself. Camille was two doors away... it wouldn't be a good idea to wake her while he was investigating.

Ozzie began breathlessly saving pictures to his hard drive, for future reference. His heart was pounding, and he thanked God that Camille was a deep sleeper.

Next he carefully perused the lingerie pages, listening with one ear for Camille's footstep in the hall... and then... spontaneously, the thought of Camille brought the glimmer of an inspiration... An idea began to form itself into a plan: a plan that would prove once and for all that the "guaranteed fit" claims were pure nonsense, nothing but a crock...

He returned to the swimsuit offerings, and made a note of the models with figures far more generous in the breast and butt than both Laura and Camille. He also bookmarked models that were taller, slimmer, more statuesque.

His idea was pretty simple: he'd order something that couldn't possibly fit either woman. "And then they'll see!" he cackled.

He leaned back and imagined each of the women struggling to get into those– oh my God– those sexy strips of tight clothing...

... and then his flight of fancy fell heavily to earth when he saw the prices. Damn! Financially intimidated, he was almost ready to abandon his plan, when he realized that he hadn't bothered to click on the link to SALES.

Of course! Why would he have ever looked at Sales? That's the sort of thing that women do.

Camille, for example, was always going on and on about sales: how this store or that store was having a sale. How she'd bought such-and-such on sale. Ozzie, naturally, found her recitals boring and irritating. If something that supposedly cost $200 was now "on sale" for $50, didn't that mean that it really cost $50 in the first place? Of course it did. "Sales" was another word for scam.

But now, now that he was nearly ready for fork over his own money to prove a point about clothes... well, there was no point in throwing away good money, when any old Fit-4-U product would do, right?

The SALES link brought him to a submenu with the choices CLEARANCE / SECONDS / IRREGULAR.

"Seconds?" he read aloud, puzzled.

And then once again, right then, he had to pee.

He dashed into the hallway, and this time very nearly physically bumped into Camille, who was coming out of the bathroom.

She was sleepy, moving slowly, while Ozzie was antsy, full of beans, nearly dancing with the need to relieve himself.

"What are– what are you doing up?" he asked her, trying to sound casual, but failing -- he sounded nervous, he gave off strong guilty vibes.

"I had to pee," she said. "What else would I be doing up?" She gave him a suspicious look. "What are you doing up?"

"Nothing! Nothing!" he answered, a little too quickly. "Just couldn't sleep. That's all. Heheh."

She rolled her eyes, shook her head and turned to go, but he stopped her. "Hey," he called. "Hey, can I ask you something? I'm curious about something. Quick question: What in the world are seconds?"

She blinked, irritated, but even so, she replied, "Tick tock, tick tock. That's seconds."

"No, no... not seconds on the clock... seconds! You know?"

She frowned. "It's when you've already eaten your share, but you load up your plate with food all over again." She gave a puzzled gesture. "Why are you asking me that in the middle of the night?"

He scoffed impatiently. "No, no, not food! I'm talking about cookies!"

"Cookies?" she repeated.

"What did I say? No, no – stupid me! I didn't mean clothes! I meant cookies. I guess I'm still a little drunk. No! Clothes! I meant clothes! Clothings! I mean, clothes."

She blinked and blinked again. "Clothes? Why are you asking about clothes in the middle of the night?"

"I'm still curious about this... Fit-U-Up craziness. I think I'm onto something."

She drew an incredulous breath. Her eyes widened, full of fire. She glared at him, a menacing gaze that could melt cast iron. She turned, without saying a word, and returned to bed.

"I guess she doesn't know," he muttered as he stood at the toilet. "Can't admit when she's wrong. Too proud to admit it."

He returned to his computer and read the following explanation of Seconds and Irregular Items:

Always ready to find fault, Ozzie observed to himself that for symmetry's sake they should have explained the Clearance category as well.

He made his way through the pages of seconds, but it was uninspiring. He couldn't find any of the supposed defects. He also couldn't see much of a difference in price.

The Irregulars were disappointing as well: there were plenty of them, but most of the items were only accessories. He did pause for a few minutes over a pair of shoes. Shoes would certainly prove his point, wouldn't they? It was physically impossible that a single pair of shoes could fit both women. Right? It would be like Cinderella, wouldn't it. Or the opposite of Cinderella? Maybe both. Anyway, he was fairly certain that Laura's feet were smaller than Camille's, but then again, he wasn't 100% sure. Was there a way he could find out? Could he possibly ask, as if it was a simple matter of curiosity? He couldn't see how. He might come off as a foot fetishist, and that wouldn't do.

What it came down to, was the money, once again. It would be a shame if he wasted his God-given money on a silly pair of shoes if both women had the same size feet.

And then– !

He clicked on the next page, and saw the very last of the irregular items.

His jaw fell open.

It was a costume. Not only a costume; it was a FULL costume. And not only a full costume, but a french maid costume, the fantasy of every red-blooded, heterosexual man's man. There was the built-in corset, the short, shiny, wavy, black skirt, covered by the smallest, laciest, whitest apron possible. Under the skirt, but plainly visible, it had the white petticoat with a double set of ruffles, and up top, the white frilly blouse with its short, puffy sleeves and low, daring neckline. Ruffles and lace everywhere. Femininity rampant. And not only that – not only ALL OF THAT: but it came complete with a ridiculously tiny pair of shoes and three pairs of knee-high stockings, each one capable of provoking a full-on coronary event.

Ozzie very nearly had an orgasm just looking at it.

And then, to top it all off, the price: THE PRICE!

The item was FREE by God! With free shipping.

Unbelievable!

And... only one left in stock? Could it really be?

He was ready to order it, but then stopped himself.

His heart was in his throat, but Ozzie had to check one thing: just one more thing.

What size was this costume? If it fit either woman, it wouldn't quite prove his point, would it.

Nearly trembling, heart pounding like a bass drum, Ozzie ran his eyes over the product description until he found it.

Size six.

Excellent! Too big for Laura; too small for Camille! It wouldn't fit both of them... either of them... neither of them... Oh, whatever!

It was the wrong size for everyone, and that made it perfect!

The maid costume hit every checkbox, every single one! It was a bona-fide miracle.

AND, it was sexy as hell. Maybe after he proved his point to Laura and Camille, after he'd driven an nail into this "guaranteed fit" bullshit, he could find a woman who fit EXACTLY into the costume.

Oh my God! THAT would be the cherry on top!

And what if she could clean their house? Wearing that outfit? Or... even better... what if she could pretend to clean their house? When Camille was not at home? Ozzie leaned back in his chair, eyes wide, breath still. He was paradoxically paralyzed with excitement.

Now that he'd found what he'd been looking for, a great tiredness flowed over Ozzie. All the excitement, all the palpitations, had worn him out. He just had to order the damn thing, and then he could go to sleep.

He clicked on the item, filled in his address, checked this, clicked that, and it was done, except–

Except for a huge Disclaimer, Warning, and Acceptance of Risk that filled the screen. Ozzie groaned. He glanced at the text – it began by asking the customer (Ozzie) to acknowledge that the irregular item he was about to purchase was "untested in certain respects" and "may have unpredictable side-effects" or "might possibly, in a small number of cases, function in ways similar to items at Fit-4-U's highest production range, cost, or value..."

Ozzie, irritated, tried to click his way past the screen, but the "Accept" button was grayed out, and the Escape key had no effect whatsoever.

After several unsuccessful trials, Ozzie at last discovered that he was obliged to scroll through the entire Disclaimer, Warning, and Acceptance of Risk screen by screen, as if he was actually reading every line. Of course, he wasn't reading the damn thing at all, but if he wanted to acquire the maid costume, there was no other way.

Once he reached the end of the message, he was able to click "Accept" and was rewarded with a THANK YOU FOR YOUR ORDER screen.

Exasperated, exhausted, and a little exhilarated, he turned off his computer, made one more visit to the bathroom, and – with a satisfying sense of accomplishment – threw himself bodily onto his big bed, alone.

Now he could fall asleep.

Ozzie rolled over, onto his back, chin in the air, mouth wide open. He dropped like a stone into dreamland, while in this world he snored like a champion, deep and long and loud, all night long. Camille, who (as we said) had armed herself with a set of earplugs, and had separated herself from Ozzie by two closed doors and a length of hallway, was already deeply asleep before Ozzie let loose his deep-throated clamor. In spite of all that, in all her dreams that night, Camille heard the sound of a distant train: An endless freight train, without beginning or end, that rumbled and roared past waterfalls, landslides, and explosions as it barreled through the darkness. Its wooden parts creaked; its metal parts screamed as it leaned perilously through steeply-banked turns, but nothing in either this world or the subconscious could stop or slow that train. In her last dream of the night a series of careless trainmen spilled two dozen billiard balls in every single boxcar. The colorful ivory and acrylic spheres racked, clacked, and rolled across the bare wooden floors, sweeping from one end of the car to the other, in perfect alignment with Ozzie's rhythmic rattle, and pausing near the tops of the hills each time Ozzie's breath stopped. A pregnant silence fell across the land while the train hung in perfect stillness at the crest of the hill, waiting... then abruptly careening madly down like a juggernaut's car, the moment Ozzie at last broke the silence by drawing a death-defyingly loud and powerful snort of air and woke the dog next door.

The train, and every trace of it, vanished in the morning, when a beam of sunlight poked through the bedroom curtain and struck Ozzie in the eye, waking him with a gasp of surprise.