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A tale of blue cheese and bathroom cleaners.
In a single word, Jacques could best be described as superfluous. He would wear velvet scarves with extra length simply for the visual effect of swinging the end over his shoulder in an arcing manner. He owned innumerable pairs of glasses and would always seek to match his frames to his colourful socks and he would often substitute French words for English ones, feeling very on brand and consistent with his @exquisiteforeigner profiles. Speaking of which, he was in need of material for a new post and he knew the best way to get likes was to be both exquisite and foreign.
Jacques flounced into the supermarket on the corner of his street just before closing time. On entry, he smiled warmly to the cashier and inquired, ‘Ou est le fromage?’ Of course, Jacques knew very well that to get to the cheese, he had to go up aisle 4, pass by the cleaning product display and that it was in the fridges by the milk on the left – but, it was a much more subtle way of letting the cashier know that he was extraordinary, than simply giving over his calling card. The cashier looked up and grunted, perhaps feeling the unease of a customer coming into the store as he was attempting to lock up.
Jacques then, with deliberate strides, made his way don aisle 4 and was suddenly very interested in the bathroom cleaning products. The build up on his shower screen was becoming increasingly hard to clean off and the lure of ‘magic power’ seemed like an altogether satisfactory solution. He put a bottle into his basket and continued to the cheeses. It would typically take a typical person fourteen steps from the aisle end to the cheese fridge, but Jacques exaggerated strides allowed him to cover the distance in just twelve – and on arrival, he instantly let out the exclamation, ‘Sacre Bleu!’ as the Roquefort was out of stock. He looked at his choices, knowing he had a deadline. He had made at least one post every day of the year, and as midnight approached, he was not going to let the absence of a stinky cheese ruin his ambition. He picked up an alternative, hoping no one would know the difference behind the filters he would no doubt apply.
With his Windex and his cheese, he started to head back to the front of the store, going via the liquor section. Jacques picked up the cheapest bottle of red he could find, as afterall, he had yet to monetize his Instagram celebrity, and proceeded to the registers. The disgruntled shop assistant, whose five o’clock shadow made him look particularly tired, scanned his items and told once again told him it was closing time. His words, while cordial, undermined by his tone which demanded Jacques flounce out of there as quickly as he could. Jacques readjusted his scarf and bid the assistant, whose disdain was rising in his eyes, ‘A fond adieu, good sir’.
The trip home was uneventful, and soon Jacques was setting up a cheese board with his blue cheese and pouring himself a red. He set up his photo in his loungeroom, throwing some rich throw blankets around to give the impression of luxurious ease and then the vignette was immortalised on his socials, captioned with a soppy phrase about good French wine and cheese marking the end of an exhausting week. And in truth, Jacques was exhausted – for months now he had been hiding a terrible secret, but he did not dwell on this, instead choosing to head to his bathroom to ‘magic power’ away the soap scum which lingered in his bathroom. He was feeling better as the scum began to come away, and he’d made his deadline, having posted before the day became the next.
He could hear pings start to come in, and he felt satisfied with his work. Any moment he realised he could be the day’s most viral sensation and his life would be changed forever. He opened up the phone on his app, and began to read the comments.
‘That’s not a French cheese. That’s a Gorgonzola. Who does this fool think he’s fooling?’
‘This guy is claiming to be drinking a Burgundy, but the glass is for a Pinot Noir! When did the French lose their culture?’
Jacques gasped and muttered a repeated, ‘Merde!’ and as the clock began to chime he sunk to the floor. By the fourth chime, he was feeling deflated. By the seventh, a tear formed in his eye. By the eleventh, his face had fallen apart and he was beginning to tremble and by the twelfth – he was beginning to rock back and forth. The young man, who went by Jack most of his life, only ever wanted to be someone else; someone exquisite, but that dream had been ruined – he only had one person to blame – the incompetent cashier who hadn’t restocked the Roquefort!