Seconds And Irregulars : 9

A Fit-4-U Tale
By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

 

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The truth is, we're not able to say what an "unlogical" world would look like.

– Ludwig Wittgenstein, Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus

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By the time Ozzie finished his beer, he was no closer to a solution. However, he had worked through what he'd say to Camille, once she arrived.

On the one hand, he'd feel compelled to admit – or at least to SAY – that the Fit-4-U guarantee was real; that it worked, and (worst of all!) that he'd been wrong.

Naturally, all those admissions would come bundled with the unstated proviso that Ozzie WASN'T wrong; that he still intended to prove that Fit-4-U was a total sham and a scam, but – given the circumstances – pleading guilty to all charges was going to be the easiest way out of this jam.

As much as he disliked mouthing those three words, at the same time he had to recognize that his saying, "I was wrong," would help soften up Camille's reaction, whatever it happened to be.

Certainly she'd be shocked. Certainly she'd wonder about Ozzie's commitment to his manhood.

Even so, his motive for continuing to put on one article of clothing after another was clear and easy to understand, especially for a woman: Ozzie had hoped to find at least ONE item that didn't satisfy the Fit-4-U guarantee. Obviously!

After he and Camille negotiated their way past THAT topic, Ozzie would point out that he couldn't get the damn clothes off. That, at least, was something the two of them could work on together. He didn't see how Camille could resist a challenge like that!

Every so often, while he waited, Ozzie would fuss with the clothes, trying to lose at least some part of the outfit, but to no avail.

The underwear was the most vexing. He could touch it; it had a texture quite different from his skin. It hadn't become a part of him. His skin felt like... well, it felt like skin. Soft, smooth skin. The underwear, on the other hand, felt like cloth. Fine, high-quality cloth. And yet there didn't appear to be any seam, any place where he could slide even as much as a fingernail underneath.

AND he still needed to use the bathroom. Luckily the need wasn't desperate. Yet.

So... what to do? What to do? Was there anything he could do before Camille arrived home?

Hopefully she'd arrive home alone, without company.

Just think – what if Laura came along! That would be the absolute worst! That would be the end. The end of everything. Ozzie would never be able to show his face in town, not ever again. He and Camille would have to move, wouldn't they. Find a new city in another part of the country. Far far away. Get a new job, a new set of friends.

Hopefully it wouldn't come to that.

He thought about the website, the Fit-4-U website. That's what got me into this mess, he told himself. Then, a thought: Maybe they could get me out? Maybe they had a Frequently Asked Questions page. Maybe they had Support documentation. Something like this... there'd have to a clue. There'd have to be a remedy. It was definitely worth a look.

Ozzie got to his feet and approached the stairs. Again, his skirt blocked his view of the first step, so he eased his little foot forward until it encountered the first riser, and holding the railing, carefully, attentively climbed the stairs. Going up was much easier than coming down, although when he got to the top, he put his right foot up to step on the next step... which wasn't there. He was already on the top step. His foot came down heavily and he almost stumbled. It felt as though he'd been pranked, which didn't help his mood.

Naturally, vexingly, when he sat at the desk, his skirt popped up, touching his breasts. It wasn't in his way – he had no trouble seeing the screen; he could type; but it was annoying to have that mass of fabric standing up like that, reminding him of his (apparent?) female anatomy. Every time he moved, the skirt rubbed the underside of his breasts. And for some inexplicable reason, he was quite conscious of the fact that his legs and crotch were exposed. It was absurd for him to worry over such thing; someone would need to be crouched into a ball under his desk if they wanted to see his underwear. And what did Ozzie care, anyway? It wasn't like he was a girl, for gosh sakes.

In any case...

As it happened, there was a FAQ on the Fit-4-U site, but there was not a thing about clothes getting stuck to the wearer's body.

Ozzie clicked around. He looked at the site map. He examined the links at the bottom of the page. And finally, he quit ignoring a message floating at the top.

In a narrow banner across the top of every page, there was a link for "Support." He clicked there, and found a page that promised all sorts of support. None of it quite suited Ozzie: he didn't want to send a message and have to wait for a reply. An irritating little window kept floating into view. Every time Ozzie shut the little thing it popped up somewhere else. "And did you know?" the little window inquired, "You can use our ChatBot at any hour of the day or night, any day of the week? Just click on the blue balloon on your lower right."

Ozzie huffed and sighed. The ChatBot was probably a good idea. Ozzie didn't feel up to calling a phone number and discussing his predicament with an actual human. It was too embarrassing. Even if... as he suspected... this supposed "chatbot" was more than likely an underpaid employee, sitting at a desk, typing, pretending to be a computer.

They think we're idiots! he told himself, shaking his head.

Even so, he clicked on the blue balloon. A long, narrow window appeared, with the following text:

Hi! I'm the Fit-4-U ChatBot, Powered with A.I.! I'm happy to assist you!
First, help me understand what kind of question you have!
Please click one:
Fit
Returns
Billing
Delivery
Other

At the bottom of the little window was a space to type, so Ozzie typed "Can't take off clothes" and he hit RETURN.

The bot replied,

Thank you!
Help me understand what kind of question you have!
Click one:
Fit
Returns
Billing
Delivery
Other

Annoyed, this time, Ozzie clicked on "Fit". The bot replied by asking,

Do you have a problem with the fit of our clothes?
Please click one:
Yes
No

He clicked Yes. The bot asked,

Is your Fit-4-U garment too big or too loose?
Please click one:
Yes
No

He clicked no. The bot asked,

Is your Fit-4-U garment too small or too tight?
Please click one:
Yes
No

He clicked no. The bot replied:

Great! Glad to hear it! Do you need help with anything else today?

He typed "Can't remove clothing"

The bot replied.

I don't understand. Please try again. What can I help you with today?

Ozzie typed, "The clothes are stuck on my body!" The bot replied,

I don't understand. Please try again. What can I help you with today?

Growling, Ozzie typed, "HOW DO I GET THE DAMN CLOTHES OFF OF ME?"

This time the bot replied,

It looks like you need to speak with a member of our staff.
You can reach our Customer Support desk 24/7 at this number:

A phone number followed.

Ozzie harrumphed and scoffed loudly. He never called support numbers. Not if he could help it. The so-called support staff usually had no idea what they hell they were doing. Unfortunately, this time Ozzie didn't have a choice. So he punched the number into his phone. The call was answered after two rings.

"Hello? This is Fit-4-U support, Avery speaking. Do you have a question or problem with a Fit-4-U product?"

"Yes, yes, I definitely do."

"I'll be happy to help you. Can you tell me to whom I'm speaking?"

"Ah–" Ozzie hesitated. "Do you mind if I don't tell you my name?"

Avery didn't miss a beat. "No, of course not. I'm here to help. What can I do for you?"

Ozzie took a breath and out rushed the whole story. Everything. The words poured out of him nonstop, like a water gushing from a broken pipe: beginning with Laura's shacket and his suspicions about the guarantee, to the late-night order of the maid costume, to trying it all on (but only to make a point, mind you!), and finally to not being able to take it off. The moment he started babbling, he couldn't stop until he reached the end. He had no idea how long he went on, unloading the entire emotional escapade, but Avery listened patiently, without interrupting, except to occasionally murmur, "I see," or "Oh, my" or some other signal of interest.

When Ozzie finally stopped to catch his breath, Avery summed up the case in a sentence: "The problem is that you ordered a French Maid costume, and now that you're wearing it, you can't take it off."

"That's right," he said. "You make it sound simple, but it's a nightmare, I'm telling you!"

"I'm sure it's quite distressing," she assured him.

"Can you help me?" he asked. "What the hell can I do?"

"I'll do my best!" she replied in a bright tone. "But first, can you tell me your order number?"

"My order number?" he shouted. "My ORDER number? Listen, I already told you: I ordered a French Maid Costume last night. That's my order!"

"I understand, sir," she replied, "But we have many French Maid Costumes. I need your order number so I know exactly what we're working with."

"Oh," he said, in a quieter tone, thoughtful. Then, intrigued: "You said you have many French Maid Costumes? How many kinds of French Maid can there be?"

"Well, sir," she replied. "You'd be surprised. We have two or three that could actually be worn while cleaning. As far as costumes and other maid outfits, We have well over a dozen different versions and variations, and..."

"Hey," he interrupted, and asked in a confidential tone, "Hey, Avery. Just out of curiosity, do you have a... Bottomless French Maid Outfit?"

"Yes, sir," she replied without hesitation.

"Really!"

"Yes, really, sir– In fact..." he could hear her typing, then: "We have *four* Bottomless French Maid outfits. Four different styles... with varying degrees of... uh, daring, I guess you could say. You can find them by searching for bottomless french maid on our website."

"Oh! Yes. I'll do that. I'll, uh–" Ozzie told her, his mouth suddenly dry. "Yeah. I'll definitely do that... later."

"Very good, sir," she said, sounding very much like Stephen Fry's Jeeves. Ozzie missed her faint gibe. He was busy telling himself, I'll do that later... tonight.

"Okay, now!" he said, returning to the charge. "So what do I do?"

"You can tell me your order number," she repeated.

"And where on earth do I find my order number?"

"There should be a copy of your order in the delivery box. Is the box close at hand?"

"Yes, it's right here," he said, "but I've been through it several times and I'm sure there's no..." He put the phone on speaker and set it on his desk. A quick look in the box uncovered a hair ribbon and a choker tangled together, and a neat 8.5x12 sheet with the words YOUR ORDER at the top of the page. "Oh, here it is! Got it!"

"Great! Your order number will be in the upper right corner. Can you read it to me?"

Ozzie, pedantic, cleared his throat and in a condescending tone pointed out. "Yes, I see what you're calling the 'order number', but – just a quick FYI – this isn't, strictly speaking, a number. It's numbers and letters mixed together."

"Yes, sir," she said. "That's a good observation. It's actually a hexadecimal number. Do you know what hexidecimal means? It uses the letters A through F for the values 10 to 15."

"I know what a hekka-dekkama number is!" he barked. Angry, a little stung in his vanity, he read off the order number as quickly as he could: "14180a18-00a1-R! That's the order number! Did you get it?"

Of course she didn't get it, so he repeated it with painful slowness, as if he was speaking to an idiot child. Then he told her, "I'm sorry, but I can't help but point out that R is not hekka-dekkama. You said A through F. The letter R comes much later in the, uh, hekkama." He felt quite superior, having caught her out.

"No, sir, of course you're correct. The R simply means that this item is irregular." Then, after a pause, with a slight tone of surprise: "Oh! I see this was one of our free items!"

Ozzie's ears pricked up that. "What are you trying to imply?" he demanded, a low warning in his voice.

"Nothing, sir, I'm not implying anything at all. It's only that–"

"It's only what? That you won't help me because it was free? Is that what you're saying?"

"No, sir, not at all! I'm happy to help! It's only that... irregular items are, by definition, unpredictable. I'm sure that's why you're having trouble with it."

"Unpredictable?" He tried to give an experimental tug at his underwear, but was still unable to get a grip on it. "Are you saying that this – what's happening to me – that you didn't KNOW it would do this? Are you saying that this kind of thing has never happened before?"

"Oh, no, sir, I'm not saying that at all! In fact, I'm quite sure we've encountered this situation before. Not with this item in particular, but... Let me see... if you could give me a moment..."

While Avery consulted her computer screen, Ozzie blistered and complained, "I don't understand how you can manufacture clothes that are, for all intents and purposes, practical jokes at best, and humiliating TRAPS at worst. And you send these sartorial boobie-traps willy-nilly, out loose in the world, to make fools out of people, preying on their trust and... their naivete! Can you explain that to me?"

"Sir, that's not our practice. That's not what we do."

"Oh ho! Oh ho! No, no, my girl! That IS exactly what you do! It's what you've done, right here, right now! It's what you're *doing* to me! Tell me, how many people in this great country of ours are stuck right this minute, unable to free themselves from some ungodly outfit you've saddled them with?"

"Honestly, and I'm sorry to say it, but I believe that you are the only person at this moment who–"

"Only me? Only me? Is this some kind of sick practical joke, at my expense? Is this personal somehow?"

"No, sir. Not at all! If I could only explain–"

"Go on, then!" he said, leaning back in his chair, causing his skirt to pop up even higher (to his irritation!). "Explain."

"The costume that you received, the one that you're wearing, is not our *regular* costume. And I have to admit, the full-price costume is a bit... expensive. However, if you had THAT version of the outfit, you'd be able to put it on and take it off as much as you like, without any difficulty.

"However! *This* version has a defect." She paused. "It doesn't behave the way the full-priced item would. And that defect caused us to mark it IRREGULAR."

"Can you tell me why," Ozzie asked, interrupting, "If you knew that this outfit was going to get stuck on me, why didn't you just get rid of it? Or when you sold it, why didn't you put in a little note that said, Hey, watch out! if you put this thing on, you won't be able to take it off again! I mean, why didn't you do that? It would have taken all of five minutes to drop in a warning like that."

"Because we didn't know it would behave in exactly that way," she replied.

"Oh, bullshit!" he exclaimed.

"Sir–"

"You said that you've seen this before: that this outfit gets stuck on people!"

"No, not this outfit. It's a rare thing. It doesn't happen often, but it has happened with other irregular items..."

"So what can I do? I'm waiting for you to help me."

"Okay," Avery said, taking a breath to steady herself. "Can I ask you, are you wearing the entire costume at this point? The complete outfit?"

"What the hell difference does that make? Do you want to know whether I look like a complete idiot? Is that what you're asking?"

"No, sir, of course not. What I'm trying to ask... what I want to know is: if you look in the mirror, do you see yourself completely transformed?"

"Transformed?" he echoed, incredulous. "I'm not transformed! I'm just– These damn clothes make me look like a girl, for cryssakes!" As he spoke, he walked to his bedroom and consulted Camille's full-length mirror. "I look like a goddamn girl!" he bellowed. "Except for my head. It makes my head look huge, in comparison! I look like one of those idiotic bobblehead dolls!"

"I see," she responded, gently.

"You see?" he repeated, full of anger. "Do you fucking SEE? I am stuck in these stupid clothes, do you understand? Stuck! And I need you to tell me how to get out of them!"

"Yes, sir, I'm trying to help you do that. We're going to get you out of those clothes. Do you mind if I start a video session, so I can see that state of things from your side?"

"Hell, no! There's not going to be a video session, or pictures, or any tom-fool thing like it! There's no need to make this any more complicated than it already is! All I want, all you have to do, is tell me how to get these goddamn clothes off!"

"Yes, sir," she responded, but her patience was wearing thin.

"You know," he informed her, "these clothes – if they're going to do this, if they're going to... to behave this way... they ought to come with a warning."

"Yes, sir," she agreed. "You said that. And they DO come with a warning. As you're well aware, irregular items come with an element of risk." He balked, but she pressed on. "AND, with irregular items, the lower the price, the higher the risk. Free items have the highest risk level of all. You know this."

"No," he retorted, "No. I do not know this. I am not well aware. Don't talk rubbish. All I did, was order some clothes. An outfit. A costume. How in hell was I supposed to be well aware?" He snorted dismissively.

"Do you recall, before you were allowed to place your order, you read and accepted our disclaimer?"

Scoffing loudly he shot back, "I didn't read the damn thing! Nobody–"

"But you accepted it, sir," she cut in. "Your acceptance is recorded in our system. You agreed to the Acceptance of Risk."

He floundered. She was right: he had agreed to the damn thing, whatever it said, without reading it. Still, there had to be something he could object to... so he asked, "Why is the risk higher... I mean, why, if it costs less, is the risk higher? Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Because it's a gamble," she explained. "The full-price version is, frankly, quite expensive, but what makes it expensive, beyond the quality of the clothes, is the effect that the costume has on the wearer. The full-price version only does what you expect it to do: it does exactly what you paid for. It's the quality of the clothes, and the overall effect."

She paused and ventured to say, "It sounds like your outfit has a marked effect on you. Am I right?"

Ozzie didn't reply. He was thinking, looking for a hole in her explanation.

"So...," she continued. "Someone who wants the look and feel of the full-priced version AND the effect it creates, but doesn't have the money to afford it, they can take a gamble, they can assume a little risk, and go with the irregular version. If there is one."

"What do you mean, If there is one. Don't you always have irregular items?"

"No, irregular items are rare. In any case, hopefully the person who orders an irregular item is ready for the risk, whatever that may be. In your case, unfortunately, you feel quite, um, inconvenienced–"

"–I should say so!"

"–but at the same time, you can't argue about the price. In fact, the effect that you're experiencing... if you wanted a full-price item that would do the same thing, have the same effect on you, it would cost a pretty penny. But if you're willing to gamble... to accept a certain level of risk... you can get the same effect. Sometimes for free!"

"Why would anyone on earth want clothes they can't take off?"

"No one would. That isn't what I meant, sir."

"Then what–"

"You *will* be able to take them off if you work with me, sir."

"Fine! Then let's quit farting around, and tell me what to do! That's what I've been asking you for, this past hour or whatever it's been!"

"First of all, the fact that you can't take the costume off yet – I want to be sure you understand that if you bought the full-price version, you wouldn't have this difficulty. And that this difficulty is part of the risk you willingly accepted when you ordered an irregular item. Do you acknowledge that?"

"Oh, so it's my fault now?"

"No, sir, it's–"

"Are you calling me a cheapskate?"

Avery permitted herself a soft sign, but after biting her tongue said, "No, sir, of course not. I'm just explaining. This is part of the unpredictability and risk that you–"

"Explain this to me: how am I supposed to go to the bathroom? Am I supposed to wet myself? I can't get these damn panties off!"

Instead of giving a direct response, Avery asked, "You said that your head is unchanged, is that correct?"

"Nothing is changed!" he shouted. "It just makes me *look* different!"

"But your head– your head still looks the same, as it always does?"

"Yes, of course! Why do you keep asking me about my stupid head? It's right there, looking like it always does! It didn't go anywhere!"

"Okay..." she said, forcing herself to use a gentle tone (and beginning to get more than a little frustrated; she had to fight to keep her cool), "there is a hair ribbon and a choker that came with that outfit. It sounds like you haven't put them on. Am I correct in saying that?"

"Who gives a good goddamn about a hair ribbon!" he shouted. "You're not listening to me! I HAVE TO GO TO THE BATHROOM! Do you get it? Do you get it yet? Hello? Is anybody home there?"

Avery closed her eyes and took a few calming breaths. Maybe she could try another tack. "Sir, could you give me a moment to consult our Knowledge Base?"

"Of course!" Ozzie replied, with mock equanimity. "Please do!" Under his breath, he muttered, Knowledge Base, my grandmother's ass!

Naturally, Avery heard him, and her cheeks burned with anger and embarrassment.

She held her breath for a moment before responding. "Let me see – "Okay," she said, after a bit of typing and a bit of reading. "If you're not willing to complete the outfit–" he began to bluster, but she pressed on, pre-empting him– "it's possible that another person could help you out of those clothes. It's possible. Again, irregular items are unpredictable, but we have seen this work in another case like this, so it's possible that it could work here, now."

He scoffed. "Another person? Another person has to see me like this? Fuck that! Tell me, Avery: can *you* come here and get me out of this situation? You're another person, aren't you?"

Avery closed her eyes and held her breath for a moment before responding. He heard her typing. "Let me see – You live in Schenectedy, is that right? did i pronounce that correctly?"

"Yes," he responded tersely.

"I'm not sure that it would be helpful," she told him. "It would take so long for me – or for anyone from Fit-4-U, to reach you, that... well, it makes more sense for someone, anyone, physically near you, to help you."

"And what if they can't help me?" he objected.

"If they can't help you, it's unlikely that anyone here can help you, either," she answered, at the limit of her patience. Then, as he began to speak, she cut in: "Look, I'm telling you: you need to wear the whole outfit, the whole thing, including the hair ribbon and the choker, and if you do, the problem should resolve itself!"

Avery quite justifiably felt a burning anger, an anger that Ozzie fed and stoked throughout the conversation. Avery was known to her colleagues as a person of great patience and tact, and she had a great faith in her ability to win over the most difficult and annoying clients. But Ozzie was too much, even for Avery. She could see that she was dangerously close to losing her temper, and thought it might be wise to either cut the phone call short, or kick it upstairs to her supervisor.

What she didn't realize, was that while her patience was being steadily worn down and frayed thin, Ozzie was also banking his fire. He wasn't a patient man to begin with, and he was always on the lookout for an opportunity to put his foot on the neck of another person. Any other person.

Avery was still talking, but Ozzie was no longer listening. He was pretty much an expert in not listening, and he decided that his little cup of wrath and resentment by now had overflowed and drowned out every word Avery said. Ozzie told himself that he was "fed up to here," and in desperate need of physical relief, and for those reasons, felt fully justified in lighting into the poor woman, explaining that he wasn't about to embarrass himself by asking any man, woman, or child, cat on the face of God's green earth for help, because he'd never live it down.

From there, he quickly descended into threats and insults, some of them quite vile and highly offensive. He treated Avery to all the bitter, acrid bile he had in store, and he had plenty. He described legal actions he might inflict upon Avery personally and all of Fit-4-U as a company. He predicted that dire economic calamity would follow her and everyone she knew or would ever come to know, and that he, Ozzie, would not only take possession of her house and her car, but also of her entire paycheck from now until the end of time.

Avery had never experienced as much vitriol in her entire life as Ozzie unloaded upon her in those few minutes. Ozzie indulged himself by unleashing every barb, every bomb in his arsenal of humiliating and personal attacks.

Once he warmed up to it, Ozzie let himself be carried off into paroxysms of acrimony and misogyny – carried so far that he wasn't aware at which point Avery ended the call and fled from her desk, trembling and in tears.