Eulalie
‘Out to buy lace ~Roddy’ read the note Roderick Spode left hastily scribbled and tacked just above the bellybutton of a headless mannequin. ‘Roddy’ dashed out the back door of Eulalie, quite ineffectively trying to be subtle when in fact it seemed as if a small circus tent was trying to flee the scene of a murder. A passing couple would later tell a constable that they swore a gorilla in garish plaid had escaped the zoo. Of course, Roderick was not on his way to buy frilly textiles for his shop, but had instead realized that in the intense concentration of finishing the swooping design of a left brazier strap he had forgotten about his meeting with his Fascist organization, the Black Shorts. He barely remembered to grab his briefcase, and only that because his secretary Annette had left it by the back door, along with a note on pink heart shaped stationary that read, ‘With love, Annette.’ For effect, she had also added a few dozen hearts, scattered about on the paper.
Annette was a breathless sort of woman who seemed always to be just on the cusp of fainting, her top-heavy body teetering on the smallest of waists. It may have been the corset—designed by Roderick himself—that caused that combined effect, but Roderick often worried that she would simply fall over in the midst of raving about how a particular undergarment would beautify a customer’s bosom. She had been enamored of Roderick from the first time she saw one of his garter designs, but Roderick was insistent that she remain his secretary and nothing more. She had other plans, and made no attempt at keeping them secret from her employer. Roderick arrived at the secret predetermined meeting spot after awkwardly removing his work attire and donning the black knickers and medal-blazoned jacket uniform of the Black Shorts in the back seat of his car. A quick prayer should likely be said for the suffering that that leather had to endure.
Roderick found the small meeting room filled with large men whispering quietly amongst themselves in similar black shorts and jackets. An uninformed observer might have believed the group to be the 30-year reunion of a preparatory school, with the alumni wearing the same uniforms from their youth. Taking the small gavel in a meaty fist, Roderick gruffly called the meeting to order with a few quick flaps of his moustache.
‘Gentlemen, today we will be discussing our publicity campaign.’ A general murmur of assent, sprinkled with a couple of ‘Good show’-s and ‘Here here’-s answered Roderick’s opener. ‘I have in my briefcase our newest batch of posters and pamphlets, ready for distribution by the Promotionary and Ambulatory Committee. I must say Head Imagery Director Overstroppett, excellent job on the design, quite heroic.’
‘Thank you Chairpresident Spode’ Overstroppett simpered.
‘Pardon me for a brief moment, compatriots, while I retrieve the adverts,’ Roderick blustered, clicking open the latches of his briefcase. Upon opening the lid, however, Roderick’s normally ruddy complexion took on a hue closer to spoiled cream. Inside was a profusion of lady’s lingerie spilling over the edges of the valise, topped with another insidious heart shaped note:
‘♥♥♥♥♥♥♥The new shipment ~Annette♥♥♥♥♥♥♥’
After an expectant pause, Vice Deliberative Officer MacDinglebraith spoke up. ‘Well Roderick, are you going to show us the posters?’ The man in front of him blinked and shoved a sausage-like finger in his ear as MacDinglebraith’s sonorous voice boxed his eardrums. MacDinglebraith was Spode’s sole rival for control of the Black Shorts, and was no doubt salivating like a Doberman at Spode’s sudden show of weakness.
Roderick finally broke his paralysis and snapped the lid shut on his briefcase. ‘Terribly sorry compatriots, but I’ve just realized that I’m late for an important work-related meeting.’
‘Don’t leave before you show us the posters Spode!’ MacDinglebraith boomed again. ‘I say, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I’m late!’ Roderick shot back, trying to sound forceful, but undermined by his voice cracking on ‘ate’.
‘Nonsense Spode! Now give me that briefcase.’ In a surprising show of agility, the old man snatched the leather bound portmanteau and clicked it open before Roderick had a chance to rouse the hairy caterpillar sleeping above his lip. The tight packing job caused a solitary brazier to leap out at MacDinglebraith, who stood motionless with the undergarment perched jauntily above his left eye. A moment of pregnant silence ensued, with Spode entirely frozen except for his eyes, which seemed as if they were franticly trying to escape his head. The rest of the room looked from the lacy bits to Spode’s face and back, most slack jawed and some muttering comments under their breath. MacDinglebraith was the first to break the silence, but with less authority in his voice than before, it being hard to act dictatorial and righteous with pink lace draped over your forehead.
‘What, may I ask, is this, Spode?’ MacDinglebraith face was quickly approaching the same hue as some of the red panties in the briefcase.
‘I.. well.. it’s.. you see.. my wife put that there!’ Spode’s face seemed to light up at this last bit, like a dog that had finally figured out how to jump up on the counter to get at the bag of kibble and treats.
‘Your wife? I hadn’t the slightest idea you had a wife, Spode.’ ‘Spode’ was spat with such fury that it seemed MacDinglebraith was trying to pummel Roderick with his consonants.
‘Of course I have a wife! That’s her note there!’ Roderick pointed to the heart shaped scrap that had managed to fall under the seat of the poor chap who had earlier lost hearing in one ear because of MacDinglebraith’s commentary.
‘Don’t just ogle it, pick it up! What does it say?’ Unfortunately, the fellow was looking at the paper rather than MacDinglebraith, and didn’t hear the Vice Deliberative Officer’s command. After a moment of frustration, MacDinglebraith pushed the package of intimate apparel into the lap of another onlooker, who then sat contemplating the niceties of a particular nightie, while MacDinglebraith himself bent over, lacy pink brazier still hanging round his head, to pick up the note, reaching through the legs of the still deaf fellow. It was at this point that a rather meek looking fellow in spectacles and a comb over opened the door. Absorbing the scene before him, he looked around at the knickered men, then at the bouquet of braziers in the briefcase, his eyes finally stopping at the grey haired gentleman sporting a lacy pink number, on hands and knees in front of a surprised looking man.
‘I-I-I-I’m s-s-s-sorry, I must have the wrong room… Can anyone tell me where the bathroom is?’
‘Down the hall to your left’ barked MacDinglebraith, looking up momentarily from his task. Spectacles chivvied off as if MacDinglebraith had fired the opening shot of a race as MacDinglebraith got to his feet, clutching the note and dusting off his knees. ‘Who’s this Annette character, and why is this the first we’re hearing of her? What is all this about a shipment?’ MacDinglebraith rounded on Roderick again with the Doberman drool.
After another pause, Roderick answered. ‘I must confess, compatriots, that I lied to you all just now.’
‘AHA!’ roared MacDinglebraith, with a vicious victory glint in his eye. ‘I knew it Spode! At least you’re wise enough to confess!’
‘Yes, yes, I confess: I’m not ‘late for an important work-related meeting.’’ MacDinglebraith looked confused, as if the steak he had been eying had grown legs and run away, but he was swiftly back on the attack.
‘Then where were you going?’
‘I had forgotten my plans for today, and when I saw the contents of my briefcase, I remembered…’
‘Well?!’
‘I remembered that today is my anniversary, and that I was supposed to meet my wife at a particularly expensive hotel a half hour ago. She quite likes when I buy her lacy things, so that was her present.’ Roderick blushed, cleared his through, and tugged at his collar, an act accomplished by harnessing the discomfort he felt at contemplating meeting Annette at any sort of hotel.
MacDinglebraith stood awkwardly, uncertain whether to cry victory or acknowledge defeat. After a moment’s consideration, he chose the latter. He plucked the pink C cup from the top of his head and escorted it at arm’s length across the room, like something dead. He dropped it finally among its compatriots in the briefcase, which had been placed on the ground by the man who had fantasized about the nightie, who had decided to place temptation out of sight and out of mind. In vain MacDinglebraith struggled to close the case, but the contents, having been shifted, now were uncooperative with his attempts to contain them. Giving up, he loaded the entire case into his arms, and made it about halfway across the room when disaster struck.
The frills of a pair of stockings, which had successfully escaped their leathery prison, tickled the nose of MacDinglebraith, who had the open end of the case just under his chin. With a violent sneeze, he dropped the case, sending undies, drawers, skivvies, and various other unmentionables flying about the room. Seeing the colorful fabric now adorning the members of the Black Shorts, Roderick muttered to himself, ‘at least it’s a little less somber in here now,’ before saying his adieus.
‘Well, I should really be going, I’m quite late already, and I wouldn’t want my wife upset with me on this happy day. You all can keep the clothes, consider them a contribution to the organization.’ With a quick bow to the awestruck assemblage, Roderick bolted out the door and into his car.
Roderick never went to another meeting of the Black Shorts, but after his ‘contribution’ the group elected MacDinglebraith as their new leader. Their only condition for accepting him as their majordomo: that he would wear the pink bra over his left eye at every meeting.
‘The color just suits him’ one member was noted as saying.
