The weirdo in the toque came out of the shadows at the entrance to the alleyway. “Hey,” he said to mild-mannered Limbton Milquetoaste as he walked by. “You looking for fun?”
Although he usually avoided such invitations, especially from smelly men like this one, Limbton had just taken his third class in improvisation, and he imagined what possibilities he might be turning down if he didn’t investigate further.
“What kind of fun?” he asked, chiding himself immediately for having asked a question.
“Fun is fun,” said the man in a narrow-eyed way that was almost threatening. “You either want fun or not.” The man then disappeared back into the shadows.
Limbton simply couldn’t stand that this might pass him by. “Live a little, Limbton,” he thought to himself and then called out “Wait!”
The man reappeared, smiling cheshire-like. “Yes?”
“I’d like to have some of that fun now,” he said.
“Here,” said the man, taking off his hat. “Put this on. I’ll be back later.” And before he could protest, the man retreated into the shadows, leaving Limbton standing there, holding his ratty, old, multicoloured toque in his hand.
“Wait!” called Limbton.
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“Wait!” called Limbton again, several minutes later.
“Wait!” called Limbton again.
But the weirdo did not reappear. And Limbton panicked and started flailing for things to do. He hailed a cab to the airport. He booked a ticket to Chicago, where he and the toque took in a Cubs game, followed by the improv set at The Second City.
His phone buzzed incessantly, as friends, relatives and workmates noted that he was missing. But he turned off the ringer and threw the phone over a bridge, realizing too late that just turning it off would have sufficed.
Fifteen weeks later, after many adventures, he was shivering cold in a cave on the shores of the Adriatic. He realized the answer had been in his hands all along, and he finally put the toque on his cold head.
“At last!” said the toque, turning into Margaret Cho. “The spell is broken!”
And Limbton, exhausted, could only mutter, “Yes… and?”
