CLUTTERBUCKS — EPISODE 6

There was frost last night and Jane, on her way to Warrior Waze to meet with Michool and his team, is wearing her winter coat. She’s too early – Jane is always too early – so she takes the long way and winds up and down the side streets between Kingston Road and the lake until she reaches Warrior Waze from the back.
There’s a light on. She watches Michool’s silhouette stretch, do five or six jumping jacks, and the light goes out. A few second later, another light pops on in the bathroom and Michool starts shaving. She didn’t know he lived there.
Jane cuts between the buildings, wanders along Kingston Road, and stops in front of Clutterbucks. She presses her forehead to the window so she can read the sign that must have gone up overnight: SAVING GRACE T-SHIRT DESIGN & PRINT.
Jane smiles, walks into Our Salad Days and orders two coffees from Norma who shoos her away without paying. By the time she gets to Warrior Waze, there’s a bustle starting along the sidewalk, and spring is in the air.
The Warrior Waze door is ajar and Michool is waiting for her in the lounge where he’s sitting on one of two very white chairs price tags still intact. Jane takes a look and rolls her eyes. Twelve hundred each.
“June. Look,” he says pointing to the TV. 
Jane hands him a coffee, sits in the other brand new chair, and tries to get comfortable which involves perching on the edge of the cushion, leaning to the right, and slightly twisting her mid-section, until she’s in exactly the same position as Michool.
They both take a sip of their coffee, they both say, “Good coffee,” and they both squirm into several comfort-seeking contortions, again identical.
The two interns Jane is supposed to shadow walk into the lounge.
“They must be watching sitting-yoga,” Intern A whispers to B.
“Weird,” B says.
“Ping-pong?” A asks B.
“Sure,” B says. “Ping, anyway. It’s a tough table.”
“What are you watching?” Jane asks. “Is that the fire? I just caught a bit of that on the TV at the coffee shop. Somewhere in Etobicoke?”
“North York,” Michool answers, eyes on the TV.
They both shift again.
“But it’s more than a fire. It’s an explosion. Nothing left of the house,”
They stand up in unison, both of them rubbing their lower backs.
“Awful chairs I know,” Michool says. “They’re supposed to be uncomfortable. That’s what the guy said. Sitting’s bad for you he said. It’s the new smoking he said. The idiot.”
“What guy?”
“Guy in the store. Across from your place.”
“Oh. Simpletons. That guy,” Jane says. “Yeah. He is an idiot but he’s a good salesman. And you’re probably a bit of a sucker, too.”
“You’re not wrong there, June. But I’m going to cancel the couch.”
“Oh I think you absolutely should.”
“I was there last night.”
“Simpletons?”
“The house,” Michool looks at her meaningfully.
“The house?”
He points to the TV. 
“THE HOUSE!”
“What? Why?”
“I was working. Until this business gets moving or until I can build up my sales-resistance – whichever comes first –  I drive Uber part-time nights. Last night I worked, and I drove somebody to That. Very. House.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“Yeah. He had a suitcase. He got out with the suitcase, told me to wait, and in about a minute he was back, no suitcase.
“Oh my goodness.”
They both sit down.
“And then I drove him to the airport.”
“Oh my goodness. You should call the police.”
“I picked him up at your store.”
“Oh,” Suddenly it all falls into place. “My,” Avo booking his ticket over the phone. “Goodness,” The suitcase he bought for five dollars. “You shouldn’t call the police then.”
They both stand up and stretch.
The interns look over and in the spirit of yoga, they stretch along. 
“Holy shit, Michool,” Jane says. 
Clutterbucks doesn’t need that kind of publicity. And Daphne’s an absolute freak about being seen by one of her past personal organizer clients. Easy enough to put two and two together. Jane did.
“Do you know the guy?” Michool asks. “Do you know who he is?”
Jane doesn’t answer. She’s texting Daphne.
“You do! You know the guy!”
Daphne doesn’t answer the text and Jane remembers she’s live on the podcast this morning – a perfect chance to change the subject.
“Hey,” she says searching for her phone. “Want to hear something funny?”

Hello folks and welcome to Funny Business. I’m Cowboy Jim Dinner. We don’t very often do “live” podcasts. They’re usually recorded and edited and fancied up and all the farts are removed and I am transformed into someone funnier and smarter than I actually am, but this one’s raw and real and I’d like to introduce Miss Daphne Buck, winner of The Postcard Joke Competition. Thank you for coming Daphne.
Thank you for having me.
Rough commute Daphne? I hear the highway’s closed because of the explo–
I took the GO train. Save myself the hassle of driving down in rush hour but that train’s a hassle too. You’ll never believe what happened. I got my laptop out and started writing away and some guy across the isle told me I was typing too loud. Once the shock wore off I decided maybe he’s right. I’ve never thought about it before but I guess I do get clicky, what with all the commotion in my head, but it didn’t cross my mind that my typing would interfere with anyone’s sleep. Clearly, though, I woke this guy up. He just sat there for the rest of the trip, you know, staring out the window, all sore and steely-eyed. And it took all I had not to tell him he was brooding too loud.

“I read that in your blog,” Michool says, standing up again. “or something like it anyway.”
“Yes,” Jane says, also standing up, “I’m her writer. I didn’t say she could use that though. But I guess with Daphne, everything’s fair game.” 

You know Daphne when you walked in here I noticed we are similarly dressed. 
We are. I noticed that too. Looks like we both had electricity for breakfast.
Haha. Indeed. For our listeners’ pleasure I am going to explain what I mean. We both look like we got dressed in the dark from our grandparent’s closet.
Oh please, Cowboy, allow me.
Take it away, Daphne.
I have a unique – well until I met you that is – style. I call it Willful Unmatching. Now I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking of that woman, you know, the Slop or Swill woman – what’s her name? The actress. Dated Brad Pitt. That really narrows things down, doesn’t it? Gwyneth! 
Goop! You mean the Goop Girl. 
That’s the one! Goop. Imagine when she came up with that name. She’s sitting there thinking what’s one word I can use to identify myself. One word that says “me”. One that rolls of the tongue. Hmmmm. Oh. I know... GOOP. Jesus. Anyway. Unless it’s an acronym it’s unforgivable. What would it be an acronym for? 
Know what my favourite acronym is?
No, Cowboy. What’s your favourite acronym? Now that feels like a weird pick-up line, doesn’t it?
AFA
And?
Another Fucking Acronym.
HAHAHA
GOOP. Goats Out On Parole? Reminds me of your postcard joke. Want to tell it now?
Nice seguay. Sure! So it’s a lecture about the supernatural. The guy up front says, “Anybody here ever had sex with a ghost?” Some guy at the back holds up his hand. “Me! I have!” he says. “Really? Sir? You’ve had sex with a ghost?” “Oh,” the guy says, “Ghost! Oh, sorry. I thought you said Goat!”

“They’re so good together,” Michool says, laughing.
“Shit!” Jane says. “Guess I’m supposed to be opening this morning!”

So back to OUR sense of style – Willful Unmatching – not to be confused with Conscious Uncoupling. Although it sounds like it could be a homonym or a cinnamon.
Ohhh I love carbs.
Cinnamon is not a carb.
I was thinking deeper. You know. Under the cinnamon. The vehicle. Because I’m deep. And carbs speak to me.
Yes they are magnificent and anybody who doesn’t appreciate them is lying. Like who doesn’t like cookies? Nobody, that’s who. I mean maybe you don’t eat them for whatever bullshit reason but don’t tell me you don’t like them. Because if you have a pulse, you like cookies. If you have a pulse, you like Cheesies. Even if you don’t. On principle.
Why do I so fully understand that. They’re awful but good. Awfully good.
That’s very oxy of you, moron.
Thank you. And thank you for coming, Daphne. It was a pleasure.
Thank you. It was fun.
Come visit us again soon.
I’d be delighted. Are we still recording?
No.
THAT WAS FUN!
I’m hungry. Care to join me for some quick electricity?

“I gotta go,” Jane says. “I gotta go. Excuse me. Sorry I can’t stay.”
“That’s okay, June, come any day.”
“How ’bout I come by Saturday,” Jane says. “You here Saturday?”
“I’m always here.” 
They are both vigorously rubbing their aching backs. The interns also.
“And if you do go to the cops – of course it’s your decision – just please don’t mention Clutterbucks. Daphne doesn’t want the publicity.”
Maybe Jane shouldn’t have said anything because soon as she’s gone, Michool gets to thinking. Warrior Waze certainly could use the publicity. 
Jane rushes to the store, tries to give it the lived-in look, and quickly makes a pot of coffee and is settled and drinking her second cup when Daphne comes in.
“Did you see me? Not see but did you hear me?
“Loud and clear. You were so funny.”
Daphne smiles. “Really?”
“Oh my God. Yes. We were dying!”
“We who?”
“Michool. I was at Warrior Waze earlier. Did you see the news?”
“No. What?”
Jane turns on the TV and right away, it’s Michool.
They say it together. “Oh noooooo.”
I would say not in the least. He was quiet and friendly.
And when he came back without the suitcase?
I didn’t think anything of it. Just drove him to the airport. Seemed like a nice guy. Said he was going back home.
Home where?
I can’t remember. Maybe Yono. Or Yueyang. I can’t remember. Y-something. Or W. No. Haha. That’s my business I’m thinking of. Warrior Waze.
Jane looks at Daphne. They both shake their heads.
“What an idiot.” Daphne says. “It’s always about him.”
Jane grimaces. “Let’s hope it stays about him.”
Another voice and the camera pans to the alleyway beside Clutterbucks. 
Uber driver Michool Swift picked the man up at this spot on Kingston Road in Scarborough at 2:30 this morning.
“Oh no!” Daphne and Jane both run to the front of the store and peer out. Sure enough, a news truck is there and more are on the way.
They run back to the TV.
The camera pans to the Clutterbucks sign, Our Salad Days, MeetMeat and beside MeetMeat, a new joint that Daphne, who always approaches the store from the east, doesn’t know about.
She looks at Jane. “What’s that place?”
“New restaurant. Sushi this time. Another of Sylvester’s. Called Go Fish. I think he’s pretty much covered all the food groups now.”
We are checking whether this person had any affiliation with any of these stores, or if he lived nearby.
Grace comes into the store. Her eyes are red and she has been crying.
She sees Daphne and Jane. “What’s going on?”
…house is completely gone… explosives… twelve foot deep hole where the house stood… triggering device… professional… very specific target… none of the adjacent homes show any damage at all… forensics now on the scene…
Grace covers her face with her hands and sits, cross-legged on the floor, peering through her fingers at the TV. 
A before picture of the house comes on the screen and then the screen splits into a before and after image.  
Suddenly and simultaneously Jane and Daphne are beginning to understand that Jane’s joke about Grace looking like she just escaped from Room isn’t a joke at all.
Daphne kneels on the floor beside Grace. “Oh My God Grace. I’m so sorry.”
“Sorry?”
“For whatever you went through.”
“He’s gone.”
“Avo?”
“No. I mean him.”
A picture of “Uncle” comes on the screen and Grace’s trembling finger points. “HIM!”
The newspeople stick their noses in the door and Daphne runs to the basement. “I can’t be on TV. What if a client sees me? I can’t give half my business away again. There won’t be any left for me. Get rid of them soon as you can. Tell them it’s your store, Jane, please. And don’t give them anything on Avo.”  

Matthew is sleeping in the luxurious bed of Miss Vanity Long, who is in the kitchen. He smells coffee, rolls over, and congratulates himself on the situation.
“Not bad old dog.”
He hears Vanity stomping around. 
“Where’s the goddamn switcher?”
She comes into the bedroom, lifts a book from her night table, throws it on the ground.
“I can’t find the goddamn switcher!”
For safety reasons, Matthew pretends to be asleep but before long he hears voices and wanders into the living room in one of Vanity’s robes and pompom slippers.
We are inside Clutterbucks Antiques on Kingston Road in Scarborough with owner Jane Twist. Jane? blahblahblah
“Jesus Christ,” Matthew says, “that’s my wife.”
Vanity turns to him. “What!?!? Your wife?”
“Oh shit,” Matthew says.
“Oh no. It’s not that. I don’t care if you’re married. It’s just that I know her. That’s Clutterbucks. She’s the owner I guess. I always thought it was the other one.
“When did she buy that place I wonder?”
Matthew looks around for a clock, “What time is it, Vanity? I gotta call my lawyer.”
“Time for you to go. I got a call to make, too. First time in my career I got a book optioned before it’s even printed. What do you think of that? I’m going to make a fortune on this Kreskin kid!”
Matthew smiles at her and says, under his breath, “Me too.”

Kreskin comes through the basement door with his guitar and wishes Jane, Daphne and Grace a good morning, goes outside and sits on his stool as usual and starts playing without noticing the crowds and commotion. The camera pans over to him, naturally. 
“Do you know the alleged perpetrator?”
“Perpetrator of what? I just woke up.”
He is adorable and 16-year-old girls and boys across the city begin their day first with a shock, and then with a swoon. The flowers that Avo and Grace planted are beginning to bloom all around him and he starts playing.  
The song he “gets” is The Statler Brothers’ Counting Flowers on the Wall. The camera stays with him the entire song and when it’s over, a little grey bird makes a landing on the waist of his guitar.
“Hey Bounce,” Kreskin says.
Bounce tweets something and Kreskin answers “okay.”
He looks up and sees Greybird’s garbage truck approaching and says to the little grey bird, “He’s already here.”
Kreskin’s phone rings, the camera goes elsewhere, and we see Simple Simon across the street listening to Kreskin’s voice over the speaker.
“Oh good morning, Vanity… What exactly does optioned mean?… oh… oh… I see… wow… when?… that much?… wow… I never dreamed… yes… but it’s not a sequel… no… maybe the next one will be but this one’s brand new… it’s writing itself in a way… I don’t know if you will understand… well I’m just telling it all to Suri, you know, voice recording it whenever I have a chance through the days and then at night I polish it… I think late fall… Oh… that’s a good idea… Hallowe’en’s kind of appropriate. It’s a thriller!… doesn’t have a name yet. I’m thinking of just giving it a symbol – you know – like Prince.”
Kreskin’s not the only one staying awake all night writing.
Cut to Simple Simon, ear against speaker, madly typing everything Kreskin is recording, and then we see him at night transcribing the notes in bed, his headboard covered with his publishers’ rejection letters, all crumpled, we get a glimpse of one that says STOP SENDING US YOUR WORK. IT IS AWFUL. Many return-to-sender unopened envelopes. Also a restraining order from Random House.

When she thinks the buzz is over, Daphne comes out of hiding, back up stairs where Jane is talking to a customer.
Jane turns around when she hears the door open behind her. “Oh sorry. Forgot all about you.”
The TV is still on, they’re still covering the explosion, but the volume is muted. Grace is standing motionless in her doorway.
“Want me to turn it up?” Daphne asks.
Grace shakes her head.
A peal of sudden laughter makes Daphne jump. She looks over at the customer and it’s Harriet.
“Mom? How did you get here?”
“Well I took a taxi of course. I think he overcharged me. Twenty dollars to get from home to here? It was only six yesterday. Daphne. I forget. Am I working today?”
“Not today, mom,” Daphne says sweetly. “C’mon. I’ll drive you home.”
“No. It’s alright. I”ll call Donna and we’ll go out for lunch. She’s been wanting to–”
“Ah. I was going to go next door and get some Shepherd’s Pie for lunch. That sound good?”
“Oh! Yes! Much better! I’ll come with!”
Daphne takes Harriet’s arm, whispers to Jane, “See you later. Sorry. You’re going to have to close. I won’t be able to make it back today.”
At the door, Daphne see the homeless man has spent another night on the bench. She turns and adds, “and please try to get rid of our bench ornament. Calls himself Mr. Jet. It’s his third day now and we can’t have it. Buy him breakfast next door and get him moving. There’s a twenty under the laptop.” 
“You know, Daphne, I think you made a mistake,” Harriet says, climbing into the car with the bag of take-out.
“You wanted fish and chips?”
“Well now that you mention it, yes. But that’s not what I mean. You made another mistake. A different one.”
“Mom, I’m always making mistakes,” Daphne very softly hits the parked car beside her with her door. “See? I am a consistent mistake-maker. You need to be specific. Which mistake are you referring to? Is it my hair? Did I forget to pay the phone bill? Does this top look funny with this skirt?”
“Yes, but I’m talking about something else.”
“Wha–
“The homeless person on the bench,” she starts.
“Yes. I know. I’ve asked Jane to take care of it, you know I’m no good at that sort of thing. His name is Mr. Jet.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. Don’t you recognize her?”
“Her? No I don’t. Enlighten me.”
“It’s Miss Georgette. From high school. Your gym teacher. When we walked by she grunted and made a face and I’ve seen those grunty faces before. Remember. She was my tennis partner for years.”
The minute Harriet says it, Daphne knows it’s true. She remembers the rumours. Miss Georgette was on the waiting list for a sex change operation. But it blew over as rumors do, and was forgotten about.   
“Oh my God, mom. You are so right. She actually did it! ”
But Harriet is elsewhere. 
“Miss Georgette,” Daphne says. “Miss Georgette Miss Georgette Misstergette Mistergette Mister Jet Mr. Jet. Holy shit mom, you’re right!”
Daphne quickly phones Jane, “let Mr. Jet stay. I have an idea!”
“I can’t wait for the fish and chips!” Harriet says.
“You’re going to be surprised, too, then, mom, because things are hardly ever what you expect them to be.”
And then, more to herself she adds, “I wonder if Mr. Jet can drive?”

Later that night, when her mother’s in bed, Daphne turns on the news again and Michool’s face is taking up the entire screen.
“The reason I’ve been driving Uber in the first place is I’ve got a little start-up I’m trying to get going. Warrior Waze it’s called and it’s a great game if you’re 19+ and it’s also a great place to meet with your friends for a drink. Opening soon, but in the meantime, I’m a driver a couple of hours every night. And it’s opening right by where I picked that guy up. Perfect spot. Of course we’ll need to renovate. The current tenant’s been there for like a hundred years. But we should be ready to open in the fall. In the meantime, follow our blog, warrior waze dot ca.” 
“Mr. Swift? Michool? Let’s get back to the man you picked up.”
“Ohhh. I don’t like the sound of that!”

Harriet often gets up in the night and tonight, she sees there’s a light on in the basement and goes to investigate.
“What on earth are you doing Daphne?”
“Looking for the lease, mom, to the store.”
“Oh. I know where it is. I’ll get it.”
Daphne sighs. She’s already made a mess of the entire basement, but she follows Harriet up the stairs and into the kitchen. It’s surprising the things that her mother remembers.
“What was I looking for? Wrapping paper?” Harriet asks.
It’s also surprising the things she forgets.
“No. The lease. To the store.”
“Grab a chair. It’s on top of the cupboard there. A big blue envelope.”
Daphne leafs through deeds and certificates and finally comes up with the 100 year lease. It’s up in September.
“Now,” Harriet says. “Where’s that wrapping paper?”

That night Kreskin comes into the store after dark.
There’s a soft light against the ceiling above Grace’s bed and he veers over.
“Grace?” he whispers.
“Yes?”
“The man you call “Uncle?” He wasn’t in the house, Grace. He wasn’t home.”