Craig had the softest wall of anyone I knew. On the wall to the left of his bed, hanging over his head while he slept, were a number of scarves. Some people have plaques, heads of animals, letters of commendation; he has scarves. Each scarf was made for him by a different ex-girlfriend. There were seventeen of them. Each scarf, Craig would say with a wry smile, related to how that relationship went. There was the unfinished scarf on the top left, a lime green thread dangling at its end. There was the scarf made out of the cheapest possible material; it was sandy brown and rough to the touch. There was a scarf where the ex had woven in a few Japanese characters. He didn't know what they meant. Nor did she. There was a solid red scarf he would never speak of.

      Craig had a power about him. I don't know if he had the power first or if he derived all this power from his scarves. Whatever it was, he strode about confidently in a way that I never could. His hair was perfectly combed, his clothes expertly tailored, his speech patterns refreshingly brisk. He never wore any of their scarves. He was quite adept at knitting. He made himself a beanie and a large yellow scarf that had “CRAIG” written in big, red, block letters. I always wondered how he was able to convince them.

      My love life on the other hand has been a desolate wasteland. All of my articles of clothing are made by children that don't love me in a country I'll never visit. When I speak to women, a dull vacant look enters their eyes. They're transported back to riding the school bus as a child; that disaffected sadness that enters everyone's life. Everyone I know has at one time or another said that I remind them of a school bus driver they once had. I don't know what I've done to deserve this, but there it is.

      I met a woman at the library who enchants me. She's very ugly. She has no personality at all. She has a very suspicious nose. It isn't too big, but it isn't too small. Yet, it somehow avoids being average. It’s as if it isn't really part of her face. It’s just something that happens to be following her body around at the exact same time as everything else. She also has a lazy eye. She is something that fills me with a fire which I'm sure is true love. Everything that she wears is clearly from homemade knitting.

      I took her to the nearby steak buffet. She was dressed from head to toe in homemade knittery. A hat that had a horse on it, a sweater with a flamingo, and knit pants that just plain weren’t flattering. I tried to concentrate on the food. The steak was both runny and dry. I tried to concentrate on the atmosphere. On the wall were a series of vintage signs from times when we used different fonts for signage. She was awed by the typological differences, I wasn’t.

      “So…” I ventured. I tried to start things off casual. we’d be cool that way.

      “What other sort of libraries have you been to?” She said in a nasal whine that sounded like a car that just couldn’t start. She was stabbing awkwardly at a chunk of extremely dry steak that wouldn’t be had.

      “There was one at my school, my elementary school.” I’m not the bookish sort. I haunted the library merely because I heard they had a knitting club. Was it appropriate to ask about a scarf yet? Probably not. I looked at the analog clock in the corner with a green neon light around it. Two minutes had passed.

      “My elementary school burnt down.” She said. Her fork continued its futile attempt to puncture the steak.

      “My uncle was a fire-eater.” I lied. I looked around -- there weren’t that many other people here. I wondered why. Scarves. I should ask her about scarves. How’d that jackass Craig ever do this?

      “Many people died in the fire.” She attempted to scoop up the rebellious piece of steak with her fork, but it instead caused it to fly onto her homemade sweater and dribble a good deal of the “au jus” onto its pristine yarn. From miles away, Craig winked at me. Now was my chance.

      “You, you seem to be quite interested in knitting scarves well maybe if you want to you should make me one because as you know my neck is quite cold right now and God I’m lonely and it’d make me happy and please why don’t you stop looking at me just eat your steak and make me a scarf please I’m sorry don’t you judge me, I just want one.” I realized I was crying at the end of that statement. I didn’t care. She started laughing at me.

      I didn't know what to do, so I stormed out, crying softly. That Craig. He's too powerful. He wields it irresponsibly, and the rest of us get stuck with crumbs. My cellphone started to ring. The voice on the other end was distraught. It was her. She wanted to know what she did wrong. I told her that I just wanted her to make me a scarf and that it was unfair that she hoarded all of her knitting skill to herself. Laughing again, she dropped a bomb on me. She hadn't made any of it. Her recently widowed ninety year old grandmother made it all for her to fill the hole in her life which was once filled by her beloved husband. I know now what I must do.

About the author:

Benjamin Vigeant is a comedian who, at the time of publication, is finishing up his English major at the University of Mary Washington in Virginia. Though, when you read this, he might be in Chicago. In fact, he might be right behind you! He has studied comedy performance stuff at the Upright Citizens Brigade Theatre in New York City and The Second City in Chicago. He was the founder and director of Mary Washington's long form improv group "The Undeniably Adjacent". He also runs and writes everything on his comedy website, Astounding Essays found at http://www.astoundingessays.com.