Laura Roberts's Blog, page 14

April Foolishness: Latté

Something about the way the cinnamon atop her morning latté’s foam was making Gina tear up. Maybe she was just homesick, missing her cat and boyfriend back in The Bronx. Maybe it was the way the Parisian light never seemed to not be perfect, beckoning her to photograph and Instagram every morsel.

Maybe it was the fact that she still hadn’t found Lemieux’s secret recipe, and her boss was definitely going to kill her.

Not to mention the bloggers back home that were waiting to hear all about her triumphant return from her top secret mission.

She couldn’t come back empty-handed. And she couldn’t risk ending up in a French prison, either.

Her flight out was this Friday at noon. It was already Thursday.

“Now or never,” she muttered under her breath. “Do or die.”

“Seize the day,” said a voice to her left.

She turned to see a young man in a crisp blue Oxford shirt, khaki pants, and a keffiyeh sipping an espresso next to her. He winked, then smiled.

“You sounded like you needed a third phrase to pump you up,” he added.

“Oh… yes,” she replied.

“What is so ‘do or die,’ then, mademoiselle?” he inquired.

Gathering her wits about her, she laughed and said, “Oh, you know. This exam coming up… the usual.”

He nodded and pondered this statement for a moment, eyeing her decidedly non-university attire, before choosing his words carefully.

“I’m a cab driver… if you ever need a ride, please call me.” He produced a card from his shirt pocket, and held it out to her.

To Gina’s surprise, she found herself accepting the card. There was something about his liquid caramel eyes that gave her a fluttering feeling inside. “Stop it,” she tried to tell herself. “You don’t have time for this.”

Instead, she glanced down at the card to read his name.

“Thank you, Layth.”

He took a final swig of his espresso, set the cup down on the counter, and dashed out of the café.

Gina’s heart beat even faster once he was gone, picturing their bodies together in the back seat of his cab. Her cheeks flushed, thinking about his full lips pressed against her own. When she finally snapped back from her daydream, her watch read 10:04.

“Showtime,” she whispered, and slipped out the back door into the cobble-stoned alley.

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April Foolishness: Killin’ It

Simon and Germain sit in a dusty, rust-covered El Camino, pondering their fate. Simon perhaps more so than Germain, as he’s become the default driver in this scenario. Germain, in the passenger seat, continues to study his copy of the New York Times, scouring it for news of the Mafia hit.

“How can they not be reporting this?” he wonders aloud.

“How can you not have a driver’s license?” Simon replies.

“No New Yorker needs one. We’ve got the subway. And cabs.” He rustles the paper emphatically.

“And now I get to drive all 2,168 miles to El Paso in this beat-up jalopy because you don’t drive,” Simon harumphs.

“Take it easy, Slick,” Germain says. “I know how to drive. I’m just not licensed to drive. There’s a big difference.”

“Oh, great. So now, if you take the wheel, we’re committing an illegal act. That’s so much better.”

Germain folds up his paper carefully, and places it in the glove compartment. He turns to face Simon, who is seething as he maneuvers the vehicle across the George Washington Bridge.

“Simon, have you ever bothered to think that everything we do is illegal, in some way, shape or form?”

“How do you figure?”

“For starters, none of what we do is by the book, nor on the books. You tell people you’re a linguist. We play little games in a room with language, but what is our greater purpose? It’s sure as hell not translating dead white dudes from Latin so that modern-day white dudes can continue to bask in their whiteness. What is it we really do?”

“What do you mean? I am a linguist! Are you saying you’re not?”

Germain simply sits in silence as Simon continues to drive, zooming across the bridge towards New Jersey, as fast as the ancient pickup can go. He waits for Simon to grok exactly what he’s saying. He watches as Simon’s confused expression starts to turn to a frown, eyebrows turning downward into angry slashes.

“Now you’re getting it. Why do you think the agency set us up with this ancient El Camino and a whole buttload of gas money, instead of two first-class tickets to Texas?”

Simon jerks the wheel and the truck rises up on two wheels for a moment as he screeches across three lanes of traffic, cars and SUVs swerving wildly to avoid them, and pulls into a rest area. He throws the El Camino into park with such force that the shifter nearly breaks off in his hand, and turns to face his partner in crime.

“What the fuck are we doing, Germain?” he shouts.

“Exactly what you think we’re doing, Simon,” Germain responds in a strangely calm voice.

“Is that even your real name?”

Germain smiles. “It’s the only name you need to know, but you can call me Jerry if it makes you feel any better.”

Simon rubs his fists against his eyes, as if he can wish this all away. He takes a few deep breaths, to prevent himself from strangling Germain.

“The miles go a lot faster when you’re wound up,” Germain observers. “Might as well put that righteous indignation to good use.”

Simon sucks in air to yell something, thinks better of it, and puts the truck back into drive.

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April Foolishness: Just When You Think You’ve Got it All Figured Out

Hands pound away on the keys of the Olivetti Valentine typerwriter, with the practiced cadence of a skilled typist. Even the modern computer keyboardist cannot compete with the old-time operators, well-versed in exactly the pressure required to tamp down each weighted key, clacking away just fast enough to get each word out — without tangling the keys up in his or her haste.

Most secretaries are, statistically speaking, female.

But perhaps this assumption, too, is a trap.

The hands are deliberately free from distinguishing characteristics. There is no polish on the neatly-clipped nails. There is no mid-digital hair, suggesting a wooly male. The fingers are thin, but not too thin; short, but not too short. The flesh is pale, suggesting a lack of sunshine and outdoors(wo)manship.

Nothing screams “male” or “female” about the hands that continue to operate the bright red typewriter.

Except, perhaps, for the mole near the first knuckle on the right hand. It might be dismissed by some as a freckle, but the typist knows it’s a mole.

The typist clatters onward, working quickly but without haste. The one-page letter is almost finished. It will fetch a handsome price.

The subject has been dictated by a wealthy benefactor. The letter itself is of no importance to the typist. He or she merely types what he or she is told to type. The typist is tasked with these kinds of services about once a month. He or she never asks questions, simply types the content, slips it into an envelope, and places it into the nearest mailbox with one stamp, addressed to a P.O. box in town.

Los Angeles is a pretty big town.

The typist has occasionally considered locating this P.O. box and staking it out, to see who picks up the mail. But the typist also assumes that anyone picking up the mail would be a hired gun as well.

The large payment received for this typing job also buys the typist’s secrecy. Or, anyway, that’s what s/he assumes.

The typist has been hired based on the make and model of his or her typewriter. An ad placed on Craigslist… A response… A correspondence to prove the typewriter’s authenticity… A sizable check, and the typist was hired.

Simple.

But nothing is ever simple, is it?

The typist’s curiosity is getting the better of him or her. Something’s got to give.

The typist is about to spring a trap.

The asterisk key will leave its mark.

And regardless of who might be picking up the mail, they’re gaining a tail.

The plot thickens, thanks to the typist’s attention to detail.

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April Foolishness: In Bed

The fortune reads: “Whistle while you work.”

“They say you should always add ‘in bed’ to the end of your fortunes,” the waitress comments, reading over his shoulder.

“Is that an invitation?”

“Only if you want it to be,” she says, pouring him another glass of sake.

“And if I said I did?”

“My shift ends at 11,” she says with a wink.

He smiles. She moves on to attend to another table. He checks his phone. 10:35.

He drinks the sake. He ponders the waitress’s shapely form. Despite the padded geisha getup, he knows every curve. They’ve played this game before, many times.

He still doesn’t know her name. Or wouldn’t, if he were an average dim sum restaurant customer.

She talks in her sleep. He slips out before morning, to avoid complications.

He likes it when she leaves her geta on. She likes that he doesn’t ask her to put chopsticks in her hair, that he never discusses the tightness or tininess of her body.

She wishes he wouldn’t slip out in the night. Just once, she’d like to make him breakfast. Or have him buy her one. Even a croissant and a café au lait would do.

They catch one another’s gaze across the emptying room. They smile. They each picture the other in a compromising position. And they blow each other kisses, childlike in their lust.

“Tonight’s the night,” she whispers to herself.

He drains his glass of sake. 10:50. He pays his bill, writes her a note. “Fantastic service. See you soon?”

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April Foolishness: Hella Cinderella

The fairy tale was about to come true. Cinderella was about to get her wish.

But wait a second, what was Cinderella’s wish, anyway?

It wasn’t actually to marry some damn prince, nor to wear some crazy-ass glass slippers (which seem hella uncomfortable, don’t you think?) to a damn ball.

She just wanted not to be picked on, bullied by her stepmother and stepsisters.

She wanted to be treated as an equal. Was that really so much to ask?

Even in modern times, is that really so much for a woman to ask?

Cinderella’s real wish was for equality. She wanted to leave behind all the damn drudgery of cooking and cleaning and waiting hand and foot on her family – her equals. She wanted everyone to partake in doing the dishes and folding the laundry, and sweeping out the effing chimney. Or at least hiring some hot chimney sweeps with Cockney accents.

Seriously. I would pay double for that kind of service.

Anyway, if Cinderella was really about to get her real wish, that meant women were about to become magically equal in the eyes of the law. Everybody would pull their weight, do their share, and get paid a living wage.

Cinderella was in the ballot box, and she was ready to cast her vote. She was Feeling the Bern. She cast her ballot, and sparked a flame.

And no matter what the outcome of the U.S. Presidential election, she knew she’d started a revolution. She knew there was no Fairy Godmother to wait for, to wish for or hope for. She knew the power lay in her own hands, her own choices. And she was about to shove that broom right up her evil stepmother’s hooha.

You want a modern fairytale? Look around. Every day is a new chapter in a Grimm book of stories.

Write your own happy ending.

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April Foolishness: Go

Exiting Tropical Tiki, the man in black strode towards a nondescript black sedan idling in the street and entered the back of the vehicle.

“Drive,” he instructed the man up front.

The driver did as he was told, calmly accelerating up the street without a backward glance. He’d been hired for the job, specifically based on his ability to stay calm under pressure, and the man in black was about to test his new chauffeur’s limits.

An explosion blew out the front of Tropical Tiki, dark smoke billowing into the street, and the cacophony of a dozen car alarms rang through the air. The driver glanced at his rear-view mirror, and could see orange flames licking out into the street, along with a confetti of fake grass and palm leaves fluttering to the pavement. He flicked his eyes back onto the road, and took a right at the end of the block.

“Nothing to worry about,” the man in black said in a calm voice. “We have plenty of time to make it to the station.”

The driver simply nodded his agreement, and continued to maneuver the vehicle. He pulled to the right to allow a firetruck and two police cars to scream past, sirens blazing, and again flicked his glance to the rear-view mirror to watch them turn onto the side street he’d recently vacated. People were now streaming out of nearby buildings, wondering what all the commotion was about, and the driver returned his attention to the street before him, maneuvering carefully around pedestrians who jumped out into the street without looking first for oncoming traffic.

“Good,” the man in black said to the driver, while tapping away on his phone.

The driver turned left, away from the crowded street, and continued to zigzag his way out of the neighborhood, each new street putting more distance between himself and the scene of the crime.

Soon the car emerged onto the autoroute, and he accelerated swiftly to join the fast-moving traffic. His passenger was still tapping away on his phone. The driver knew how to keep his mouth shut, and did so, delivering the man in black to the Alexandra Palace station exactly five minutes before the next train was scheduled to arrive.

“Excellent work, driver,” the man in black said, finally looking up from his phone. “You’ll find payment in the glove box, along with details about another job. If you choose to accept, message me at the number listed. If not, destroy the note and your work here is done. Thanks for the ride.”

The driver saw the man in black wink at him, before exiting the vehicle. He waited until his mysterious passenger had caught his train and, with it, disappeared into the distance, before opening the glove box. He pocketed the cash without counting it, and pondered the note’s instructions for a moment. Then, he placed it in the ashtray and set it ablaze.

The number had been easy to memorize: All eights. Crazy, just the way he liked it.

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April Foolishness: For Queen and Country

Cats are always the first to know when something bad is about to happen. Animals are generally known for having a sixth sense. Call it a disturbance in The Force, a wavering in the universal vibrations, or the tingling of a “Spidey-sense,” but cats can sense things like an earthquake about to rock the casbah or a tsunami rolling in.

On some level, they simply know that shit’s about to hit the fan.

Clarabelle Cuddlekins, however, knew a whole lot more than the average feline. Despite her penchant for purring incessantly and cozying up to her elderly human with the kind of attention that translates to dull-witted humans as affection, Clarabelle was actually working double-time to transmit her painstakingly gathered information to her mistress.

“Oh, Clarabelle, you are a cuddly-wuddlekins today!” Edna murmured, as she stroked Clarabelle’s pristine white fur.

Clarabelle nudged Edna’s hand with her wet nose, attempting to indicate that she had important documents to share. Edna misinterpreted this as the need for additional scritching underneath Clarabelle’s chin.

Clarabelle, accepting the scritches (for she had a slight itch there, anyway), then nipped at Edna’s hand, and leapt from her lap, in a move meaning “Follow me!”

Unfortunately, as Clarabelle had stashed the documents in a kitchen cabinet, Edna misinterpreted this action as well, responding, “You’re a bit early for dinner, Clarabelle. It’s only 4:30!”

Desperate to convey the proper message, Clarabelle finally let loose a confident “MEOW!” and began clawing at the proper cabinet.

“Clarabelle, whatever has gotten into you?” Edna asked, pulling herself slowly from her La-Z-Boy and tottering toward the perturbed Persian.

Using her claws to pull the cabinet slightly ajar, Clarabelle looked hopefully up at her human, throwing in another “MEOW!” for good measure.

“What could you possibly want in here, dear?” Edna asked the cat, opening the cabinet door fully and peering down into its depths. “After all, there’s nothing but… oh my word. What’s all this?”

“MEOW!” Clarabelle insisted, as Edna bent down to draw out the crumpled papers. She swished up against Edna’s back, encouraging her to smooth the papers out flat and read the mysterious symbols scrawled upon each of them.

“Built up quite a stash there, haven’t you?” Edna asked. “Want to chase the ball?”

Clarabelle couldn’t believe it. Here she was, offering her mistress the keys to the kingdom on a golden platter, and she was talking about playing a game?!

“Woman, read what’s on the paper and stop treating me like a cat!” Clarabelle shouted, in her best human accent.

“Clarabelle?” Edna squeaked. Her eyes were wide with horror, and her mouth gaped like a fish for a few seconds before she finally fainted.

“Not again,” Clarabelle sighed, and headed towards her bowl to fetch a bit of water with which to revive the elderly agent.

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April Foolishness: Execute Operation

Tropical Tiki was deserted. It usually was, at 10 AM on a Tuesday. Even the regulars wouldn’t start trickling in until 11, though technically they only opened at noon.

Sydney, the bartender, was adjusting the plastic flowers on her lei, steeling herself for the grim job of hosing out the men’s room, when a stranger pushed through bamboo curtains.

“Sorry, we’re closed,” she called to the man in black.

He ignored her and stepped up to the bar, placing a black briefcase on its seashell-covered top.

“Don’t open ’til noon,” she said, pointing to the colorful clock, which now read 10:01.

The man opened the briefcase, and pulled out a revolver, which he aimed at Sydney. She stepped backward in surprise.

“Whoa, hold on a minute, mister. I think you’ve got the wrong–”

A bullet sliced through Sydney’s chest, and she slumped to the floor.

“Gal,” she sighed. It was her last word.

The man in black put the revolver back into the briefcase, latched it shut, and strode out of the bar without a backward glance.

The curious koi fish in the tank behind the bar silently mouthed “oh oh oh,” as they floated down to observe the scene.

Sydney’s blood slowly drained from her body, adding a garish crimson smear to the pastel mosaic tiles below her.

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April Foolishness: Damned If You Don’t

Nothing bad can happen to you in Bora Bora. After all, the water is so translucently blue, who could ever sneak up on you?

Private Felstein is relaxing in his overwater bungalow, enjoying the sunshine, the sea breeze, the colorful tropical fish darting around in the water – as well as his third Mai Tai this afternoon – when a dark shadow blots out the sun. He looks up to see a beautiful woman standing in front of him, her hair swept up into an elaborate braid, and her body browned by the sun. Her colorful sarong covers her lower body, but her exposed midriff reveals a belly button ring that sparkles (a diamond?), and further up her torso, he notes her ample bosom.

He licks his lips, pondering the nipples beneath the colorful fabric, and what he might do to them.

His daydream is swiftly cut short by an uppercut to his nose.

“Ow!” he shrieks. “What’d you do that for?”

“That’s for ogling my tits. Do it again, and I’ll cut off your dick,” the woman informs him.

Private Felstein is bent over, trying to figure out whether or not his nose is broken. There’s certainly a lot of blood.

“Here,” the woman says, tossing him a white towel. “Clean yourself up already. We’ll be late.”

“You’ve broken my nose, and you’re worried about us being late?” he grumbles. “Wait, late for what?”

“For a very important date, my White Rabbit,” the woman says, with a conspiratorial wink.

Private Felstein isn’t sure what conspiracies this wink is alluding to; he’s never been big on those types of theories. “Just the facts, ma’am,” he requests, stuffily (due to the towel over his nose), parroting his favorite TV show. “First of all: who the hell are you, and why are you in my bungalow?”

“I’m not here to make love to you, that’s for certain,” she begins.

“I gathered that, thanks.” He pulls the towel away from his face, nearly fainting at the sight of all that crimson.

“You’ve been selected for a top secret mission,” she continues. “My name is Agent Bragg, and you’re wanted for briefing at headquarters.”

“And where’s that?”

“Classified.”

“Is anything on this mission not classified, Agent Bragg?”

“Where you’re going, you’re going to need a lot of friends. Try not to cross the people that will get you there and back safely,” she says, tossing him an earpiece.

As he clips it behind his left ear, a helicopter descends from above, hovering a few feet above the lagoon.

“C’mon,” Agent Bragg says, leading the way down into the water, and shimmying up the rope ladder into the belly of the beast.

“Dammit,” Private Felstein mutters to himself. “What the holy hell have I gotten myself into?”

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April Foolishness: Carnegie Hall

“Апэряря алььтэрюм ку векж, ючю ыт брутэ адолэжкэнс рэформйданч. Ад емпэтюсъ омнэжквюы дежпютатионй хаж, ку вим юрбанйтаж дяшзынтиыт. REPEAT. Прё эа аутым альяквюам. Еллум молыжтйаы жкряпшэрит мэя ыт. REPEAT.”

“The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog,” Simon says, ignoring the Russian phrases altogether. “Is this really necessary?” He tosses a glance at his office mate, who is sitting across from him with his legs propped up on his desk. Their desks face one another, and are close enough to touch, due to the cramped office space. At least we have an office, Simon continuously reminds himself.

“Your training is always necessary. Just shut up and listen to the tapes,” Germain replies, reading the New York Times’ obituaries.

“Looking for an apartment?” Simon inquires.

“A body. Upper West Side. Mob hit.”

“Juicy. Anyone I’d know?”

“Doubtful. Just concentrate on your accent, will you?” He gives Simon the evil eye, one eyebrow arching up over the top of the paper. Sinister, yet comical.

“As if anyone’s going to be correcting it,” Simon sighs and slouches down in his chair. “It’s not as if I’ve been invited to speak at la Ministère de la Culture et de la Communication, after all.”

“Don’t you mean L’Alliance Française?” Germain corrects him.

“Oh, do shut up,” Simon huffs.

Germain thinks he knows everything, given the fact that he speaks 16 languages, including French, Italian, Spanish, German, Arabic, Mandarin, Cantonese, American Sign Language, Esperanto and Klingon. Simon doesn’t think the latter ought to count at all, but apparently 40 million Trekkies disagree with him. Esperanto is another matter altogether, but Simon has learned to pick and choose his battles.

“Gents, the boss wants to see you upstairs,” a secretary says, poking his head into the office. Simon and Germain nod their agreement. The boy nods back, then disappears. His cologne lingers.

“Ted’s bow-tie is spot-on today,” Germain observes, as they walk down the hall towards the elevator.

“What do you mean by that?” Simon asks.

“Understated blue, paying tribute to Bastille Day, along with his red loafers and white shirt,” Germain notes.

“He wears a white shirt every day. How do you know it’s for Bastille Day?” Simon retorts.

“The tiny pin between the second and third button was a French flag.” Germain grins. His teeth are brilliantly white, like a polar bear in a snowstorm.

“Fuck, you’re good,” Simon grudgingly admits. “How do you do it?”

“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?”

Simon grumbles under his breath, and refuses to reply.

The elevator dings, and slides open, depositing them both onto the 49th floor.

“Showtime,” Germain says, adjusting his tie.

Simon just gulps, and wonders what happens next.

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