Products of Your Mind.
We had to go in.
Even M.K. agreed — mostly because he was intrigued by a dusty stuffed owl on the windowsill, its feathers half-falling off like it had seen too much of this world and the next.
We slipped through the plastic door and were greeted by that classic sound all weird little shops insist on — the ding! of a bell. Inside: dim lighting, murky corners, a perfect set for a cursed social network. I figured filming was probably not allowed, so I went full undercover mode, recording stealthily from my hip.
Thick stacks of papers covered the counter. Serious bookkeeping happening here. A bald old man was scribbling away with his tongue poking out in concentration. At least he was using a pen — though, judging by the inkwell nearby, he was one feather quill away from becoming a steampunk cliché.
The more I scanned the inventory, the more disappointed I got. Antique store. Just a regular, boring antique shop. I said as much to Louise, who was contemplating a narwhal tusk like she was planning to install it in her hallway.
And what were you expecting, missy?! — Squeaked the mushroomy old man behind the counter, nearly jabbing his beaklike nose into the inkwell. — Magic items? Please! The flashy name is just bait to reel in suckers like you. Basic marketing. My grandson taught me that.
You're my first customers all day — and already you've driven me to stress! Shame on you! Come on, follow me — I'll show you something truly special. Even your dog'll love it!
I don't know about Louise or M.K., but I was stunned by the verbal assault. Before I could process it, he had flung open the little gate at the counter and was beckoning us deeper into the store.
We exchanged, are we doing this? - Glances and followed. I almost knocked over a plaster bust of a Roman emperor — hair molded like a Lego man, thorny crown and all.
The back of the shop was nothing like the front. No wood shavings, no dusty books, no mysterious musk of mystery. Just modernity. Flat-screen TV, electric kettle, a massive fridge. Basically a break room. M.K. looked longingly toward the kitchen, but we kept moving into a storeroom stacked with unpacked bundles. Giant piles of stuff untouched by the lazy shopkeeper. And behind it all — a wardrobe.
A completely normal wardrobe. Looked like it belonged in my parents' living room, not a so-called
-emporium of the mind.- But the old man darted over, bouncing on his feet, and shrieked:
This is it! The very wardrobe that lets you travel between worlds! Any world you want! Just wish it, and boom — you're there! I haven't gone in all week, ever since I landed in the Land of Mathematical Numbers and Geometric Constructs. Almost got violated by a randy cotangent! -No means no- didn't help one bit! — I deadpanned. I mean, I've spent years with Erich's family — this barely moved the needle. But Louise was properly scandalized. Oh nooo! Gramps is clearly off his meds today! Someone bring the pills, stat! — For a second, she sounded like the halfway-sane person she probably used to be. But that moment quickly drowned in a fresh wave of paranoia: Another sign I'm right. — She turned to me, eyes blazing. — Still think this paper- mâché reality is worth defending, Nibi? If you say — I waved her off. I was way more interested in how the damn wardrobe supposedly worked. So I asked. Simple! Want to go to Middle-earth? Just think it, climb in, and bam — you're Just like the kids in Narnia. Never believed this stuff until I saw it myself. But it's real. Totally real. — He scanned us nervously. Then:
Okay, here's the I'll go in first, scout it out for ten minutes, come back and tell you if it still works. Sound good?
We all nodded. He opened the doors and, groaning, climbed inside. There was a forest of hanging coats and sweaters inside. He parted the -branches- and vanished, closing the doors behind him.
To kill time, I wandered the storeroom, hoping for something mildly interesting. Didn't take long.
From inside the wardrobe came thumping, rustling, and strained grunting. Like a storm of butt percussion. I started to worry. Maybe he was suffocating in there?
Louise, of course, had a different read on the situation:
He's back! Ready to share tales of his journey! Let's help him
She got there before I did, flinging the doors open like some Victorian nanny — and, uh, nope.
He was not in distress. Unless you count -vigorous self-pleasure in a public wardrobe- as a medical emergency.
What the hell are you doing, you creep?! — Louise bellowed, smacking him upside the head. The guy had gotten so into it he hadn't noticed us Now he was stuck, red-faced, panting, and very sweaty, hands very much not where they belonged. Oh! You don't understand! I was just deported from a world where this is normal! It's their culture! Their law! I didn't want to break the rules — now I'm trying to make amends! It's unjust!
Louise grabbed him by the ear and hauled him out — pants around his ankles, wailing like a banshee. I was doubled over with laughter. Even M.K. was grinning like a furry fool.
What's your name, sweetheart? — The elderly man asked, still And then — completely against her own will — Louise answered: Louise, you perv! You filthy pig!
Louise… you're my muse… — the old creep wiggled his eyebrows and gave her the cheesiest bedroom eyes known to mankind.
We finally stumbled out of the shop, and I was howling. Laughing so hard my ribs hurt. Thank God I got it all on camera — Erich was going to die (again?) laughing at what was possibly the weirdest, most unnecessary porno of all time.
Louise, who'd had her fill of kicking the antiques dealer square in the dignity, wouldn't stop fuming. Until, of course, she slipped back into one of her -episodes- and started talking to her invisible ex- lover again.
After another hour of wandering and a double-shot coffee to keep the madness at bay, we made our way to the United Center. I even arrived a little early — needed time to get a feel for the place.
Life had taken us through enough twists today, but somehow, the spiral led us right where we were supposed to be. I even thanked the taxi driver, despite him asking where he could buy a helicopter on the cheap. I sent him straight to -Products of the Mind- — where he'd find a very helpful salesman who offered… extended services.
Nothing could shake me anymore. Not today, not ever. I had found peace — the kind you get when you realize the whole world's gone nuts and wants to drag you down with it. So I floated. Let them go mad. I'd film it all and call it art.
Despite arriving early, they were ready for us.