We’re going to try something a little different today.
The Trials and Tribulations of the elusive Miss Jean Louis
In west Philadelphia born and raised, on the playground was where I spent most of my days – wait, no, that’s not right. Let me try that again.
Miss Jean Louis, of 17 Seacrette Place was proud to say that she was perfectly normal, thank you very much. No, hmm, that’s not right either.
Miss Jean Louis was born in 1873 in a small dairy farm in Northern Ireland. She spent her childhood racing through paddocks, chasing horses, milking cows and forever oggling Patrick, the wee boy in the next farm over.
Her family put her to work as a milk maid in the family homestead. Long, dark mornings of early starts, walking through the crisp, Irish grass to see Betsy the cow grew weary over time. Her boots became slack, her eyes drooped, milkmaiding life was not for her. The only perk of her day was hauling the great, heavy milk buckets to the top of the hill and seeing young Patrick tending to the horses in the distance. Every morning she waved, sometimes he would even wave back.
Over time, she became well acquainted with playing the fiddle, and began to spend some evenings playing in a local band in a nearby alehouse. Her family disapproved of this profession, but Miss Jean Louis was persistent in her dreams. Sometimes she would even get a free ale! She had always hoped to see Patrick there, where they could finally meet and perhaps even share one of these dusty ales.
One evening as she was playing to a crowd of a lonely few, she saw a whisp of a tan coat. Not like any coat she had seen before, no sir. She looked around but saw no one. Suddenly, there was a bright light and piercing noise. She tried to shield herself but it was no use. Just as quickly as it arrived, it was gone. She cautiously opened her eyes. Before her stood a sincere looking man in a large overcoat and a blue tie. Before she could say anything, he began to speak.
“Miss Jean Louis, I need you here now.” He said gruffly.
“Where, what-?” Her accent had changed, she clapped a hand over her mouth.
“There’s no time to explain. I need your help.”
“I need you to look at all of these photographs of a string quartet in a dentist office and tell me which are the best ones.”
“What’s a dentist office? And why do these photographs have so much colour, and-” Miss Jean Louis did not get to finish her thought. The strange man sighed, like this was all a large inconvenience to his day, and placed a hand on her forehead. Again she felt a large burning light, her brain ached, her ears rang. Suddenly it stopped.
She knew everything.
She knew the year was 2016. She knew that she had to organise and rate photos for GISHWHES, she knew that the actor standing before her had difficulties separating his real life and his character, and she knew that she was never going back to Ireland.
In fact, she could barely remember it at all. It was a distant memory. When she tries, there is nothing but a fading glance of a boy over the hill.
Now, Miss Jean Louis continues to work with the strange, coated man, better known as Misha Collins and continues to try to wrangle him into sensibility throughout the season of GISHWHES, every year.