Vestus Virum Facit

I couldn’t believe this happened to me either, but bear with me ok?

So it’s a completely regular Tuesday. It’s not especially hot outside, it’s jacket weather, there are clouds in the sky but they’re not remarkable; the sun is there, sometimes.

I’m going shopping. After the weekend I can never face shopping on Monday. There’s something too scripted about it. New week, new contents for the fridge, something like that. I think everyone goes shopping on Mondays for the sense that they’re getting it out of the way at the start of the week, but because of this you get to the supermarket and everyone’s there, getting it out of the way, getting in your way. Hate it. Too scripted.

So anyway I’m in the supermarket, I’ve got a trolley, I’m putting things in it. Milk, some oranges. I existentially contemplate a bag of spinach for a very long time before putting it in the trolley too, even though I know it’s going in the bin Wednesday evening, Thursday if I’m lucky.

Supermarkets make me nervous. This is another reason I don’t like going when everyone else is going. It’s too crowded. Also, I once watched this thing that mentioned how some of the produce is at crotch level to every single Fanny and Bob that walks by; ever since then I get nausea if I stand with the fruit and veg for too long, and now I always have to get the produce that’s way at the back you know? So nobody's crotch has rubbed on it.

Anyway, I’m in the supermarket, I’m nervous in the fruit and veg aisle, I take my jacket off, sling it over the trolley, carry on with my shop.

I’m just a regular guy, you know? My shopping is regular. I get the essentials: the bread, the eggs, the butter. There’s only one thing really that sets me apart from everyone else I’d say, and that’s this love I have for nori. You know that seaweed from Japan? Kind of flat, papery, I think they use it in sushi or something. Anyway, I love it. I get three packs every time I shop and I’ll eat one of them before the day is out I swear. I know it’s an acquired taste but what can I say? Love it.

So I pick up three packs of this nori. I carry on shopping. I get about halfway down the pasta aisle when I’m like ‘oh no, forgot to get puree’ which is on a shelf down the aisle before this one for some reason. Stupid isn’t it? It’s a pasta related item so keep it with the pasta, right? Anyway it’s a bit busy down there and I’m nervous but I don’t want to be that guy who tries to turn a whole trolley round just because he forgot something so I leave my trolley, cross the supermarket, grab the puree and then head back.

Supermarkets can be so disorientating sometimes, don’t you think? I return to the pasta and for a second I can’t remember where my trolley actually is. Stupid, right? Hate it. But then, you know, logic kicks in and of course my trolley is the one with the jacket over it and three bags of nori. No problem.

I finish the shop, I struggle a bit getting my card wallet out of my trousers, I think to myself that I’ve definitely shrunk them again, the cashier helps me pack.

I have two bags, one in each hand, and my jacket sort of slung over the crook of my arm as I exit the supermarket. It’s not a very ergonomic choice and this was evident to me as soon as I’d left the checkout but I didn’t want to put my jacket on in front of the cashier. Something embarrassing about that, right? And I’m nervous enough as it is.

Anyway I’m outside the supermarket and I put my shopping bags down and I put my jacket on.

You’re not gonna believe this but I swear it’s true, ok?

It’s not my jacket.

I panic! Of course I panic. And don’t even get me started on how embarrassed I am now. There are other people outside the supermarket you know, like, milling around and whatnot. I can’t just take the jacket off again can I? How insane would that look? And then how insane would it look if I went back into the supermarket and started shouting around trying to find the actual owner of this jacket? Too insane. Hate it. Can’t do it.

So I go home, I go home. In my head hopefully it’s not a completely anonymous jacket. Never mind the fact that my jacket is completely anonymous, I’m not five you know, I’m not sewing my name inside the collar, but I’m hoping and praying for whatever reason that this guy does, so that I can get his jacket back to him and he can give me mine.

I like my jacket. It’s classy. It’s tailored. It’s that nice shade of beige. The stranger’s jacket shares all of these characteristics but it’s not mine, you know? So obviously I want mine back.

Anyway, I get in, bags are down, the jacket’s off. Collar? Nothing. Inner lining? Nothing. Labels? Nothing. Damn. It’s another completely anonymous jacket.

I’m a bit peeved so I go to put the shopping away to take my mind off things. Sometimes menial tasks can be like that, right? A bit numbing, a bit remedial. I’m putting away the oranges and the eggs and the pointless bag of spinach and I’m about to put the milk away when I stop. I look at the milk. I realise something. This is not the brand of milk I buy. I move away from the fridge in a daze and go back to the bags. I rummage through. It’s not the right brand of bread either, nor is it the right brand of butter. The only thing that is unmistakably the same is the nori.

I have to sit down for a bit. I’m nervous again you know? Like I’m stuck in the fruit and veg aisle and there’s crotches everywhere. How did this happen? In my head I just thought there had been some sort of unfortunate jacket swap incident, but for me and this guy to have had pretty much the exact same trolley? Now, what are the chances of that?

Anyway somewhere in the middle of this I remember the jacket has pockets, of course it does.

I get up, I check the pockets. Boom. Notebook.

It’s a really nice notebook, leather-bound, silky to the touch, really smart size. It’s the kind of notebook that has a name in it, a ‘return if found’ section near the front. It’s a godsend. So I open it and the guy hasn’t filled it out. That’s weird, right? I think so too at the time, but then I flick through it thinking that maybe there will be some other helpful indicator written down that will help me in my endeavours to get my own, dearly beloved jacket back.

Don’t get me wrong, there were plenty of names and addresses written down in that notebook, but they’re all crossed out, finito, no more. I’m turning and turning and turning and there’s just line after line after line until finally, right near the end there’s a name… and an address… and it’s right round the corner from me. There’s a time too, 7pm.

So ok, I’m not stupid right? I know this isn’t the guy’s name, or where he lives, but if he wrote the address out he probably has intentions to be there, you know? Or at least maybe the person who’s written down there will know who the notebook belongs to, you know?

So I leave my house at about 6:45, I have the other guy’s jacket on because it’s an average Tuesday and you know it gets cold in the evenings. I get to the address. It’s just a normal house round the corner, there’s a light on in the front room, there’s a flyer sticking out the letterbox.

I knock on the door.

It takes about a minute when some guy answers. He’s nervous, he’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen a man be before, and that’s saying something because I know what I’m like even just thinking about shopping on a Monday.

He looks me up and down and he ushers me inside, no words at all. Weird, right?

Once we’re inside we’re joined by another extremely nervous guy who says to me, “you’re not as tall as I thought you’d be.”

And then the other guy immediately says, “oh my God shut up Vince, are you trying to offend the guy that’s just walked in here to help us out big time or what?”

I’m raising a hand to begin an explanation or a question when Vince continues, “I’m just saying, to actually turn up here, to do this, you can’t help but imagine a bigger guy.”

They’re continuing to bicker and I’ve got a million questions that I’m trying to organise in my mouth, but it’s like they’re sped up you know? They’re on some different time to me, like movie time, and before I can even make so much as a ‘wuh’ with my mouth the first guy says, “Twenty Kay is upstairs. We’re going to bounce now. Thank you so much.”

And, true to their very hasty word, they bounce.

So I’m standing there in this hallway and I keep thinking to myself about how I have no idea what ‘Twenty Kay’ is. Is it dangerous? Is it some sort of animal? Is it some sort of chemical agent?

Anyway, you know I’m the curious type, and perhaps I’m imbibed with some essence of the other guy through his coat, some sense of purpose, because next thing I know I’m walking up those stairs.

It’s funny too because I know exactly which door I’m meant to go through and I’m not even nervous anymore.

I open the door.

At first I can’t see anything of note. There’s a dresser with a briefcase on it, a cupboard, one of those old fashioned lamps near a window.

Then I step into the room, I turn my head to the right.

I swear, honest, not lying at all, there’s an old guy in there beaten up and unconscious and strapped to the bed.

The nervousness that had been due to me as I went up the stairs returns tenfold and I panic. Of course, I panic. Where the hell am I? Does this sort of thing actually happen in real life? Did anyone I know see me going into this building?

My body is on autopilot and before I know it I’ve ditched the jacket, left it flung over the chair in the bedroom, raced down the stairs and ran all the way home and that’s that. I’m so grateful my own address was so close by, you know? Love it. Thankful.

So yeah, that’s a true story. I can’t believe it either but it’s all true I swear.

I sometimes wonder what happened to the old guy, or who he even was.

I also sometimes wonder if Vince and the other guy got into trouble, and if the guy I was meant to be got into trouble too.

In addition to that I sometimes wonder why the guy I was meant to be never showed up. Maybe he really needed his notebook to get around, maybe he was late, who knows.

Twenty Kay though? Nah, I figured that one out.

Anyway, did I show you my new jacket? The replacement? Have a look, it’s really something. It’s designer, from Italy. It matches my new briefcase very well, don’t you think?