Jasper

A Short Story

Well, this was a fine state of affairs. I’d seen a few in my time, but none to top this one. I looked at Jasper in despair, words failed me.

“What are you staring at? Staring’s not going to help me!” he shouted through the glass of Milner & Jenkins, the poshest fashion boutique in town.

I remained rooted to the pavement and totally speechless. There he was: stark naked except for his socks and shoes, handcuffed to a shop mannequin as if they’d eloped in the night. The dummy, of course looked serene in her spring dress and jaunty hat. Jasper looked as though the cold was slicing straight through his skin.

“Get me out of here!” he blurted.

“How, exactly? Am I supposed to smash the window? I leave you alone for one night and this happens. Was it some secret stag party you didn’t tell me about?!”

“I don’t know how I got here!” he protested, wriggling and jostling the mannequin so that her waxy bosom wobbled in plastic disapproval.

I sighed. This was Jasper all over. Life with him had never been a bowl of cherries — more like a fruit salad, full of strange, unpredictable ingredients. Things happened to him. They always had. In fact, our family had long ago given his mishaps a name: mis-Jasps.

There had been dozens. The time the university students painted him orange during Rag Week and strapped a photo of Des O’Connor to his forehead. The time he fell down an open manhole and had to be hauled out by the fire brigade, dripping and sheepish. And, of course, our very first date.

I’d waited outside the Odeon for him, nervously clutching my handbag. And then he appeared, striding towards me dressed as Darth Vader.

“You didn’t tell me it was fancy dress!” I hissed.

“It’s not,” he replied, muffled under the helmet.

Apparently, marauding seagulls had shredded his proper clothes, and rather than stand me up, he’d bought the outfit off a Star Wars fanatic on the street. Ridiculous, embarrassing, absurd — but he’d done it all because he didn’t want to let me down. That was Jasper. My Jasper.

A sharp blast of wind dragged me back to the present. I pulled up my coat collar and blew into my hands. He was shivering now, his left hand clamped awkwardly to the mannequin’s chest.

People always said I should have left him long ago. Children in the street would point him out: “Look, Mum, there’s the man things happen to!” Neighbours gave me pitying looks, as though living with him was some cruel burden. But they didn’t see what I saw. The absurdity, yes — but also the loyalty, the daft charm, and the man who, even after thirty-odd years of mis-Jasps, could still make me laugh.

At last, the police arrived. They broke into the shop, freed Jasper, and did their best not to grin too widely.

“Bet you feel a bit of a dummy,” one chuckled.

“Don’t I know you?” said the other. “Last time I saw you, you were being chased by that escaped tiger down Maryhill Street.”

Jasper groaned. I laughed quietly to myself. Who else but him?

He emerged from the shop wrapped in a blanket, cheeks crimson with shame. As they led him towards my car, he bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“There’s no need,” I told him. And I meant it. After all, I’d known what I was getting into right from the start.

We never did speak of how he came to be handcuffed naked to a mannequin in the window of Milner & Jenkins. Some mysteries are better left unsolved. With Jasper, it wasn’t the how or why that mattered — only the what next.

And as I watched him slump in the passenger seat, still wrapped in his blanket, I couldn’t help but smile. Whatever disaster was waiting for him around the corner, I knew I’d be there. Well — I had to be, didn’t I?