Please go see the pics, it will explain why I am writing fiction about things I know nothing about. I love how this just goes against creative writing class 101 rules. Who likes to break rules (unimportant non-life and/or soul threatening rules) more than me? I have also posted this story over at my other blog reserved for my big fat writing projects but nothing else is there besides the first POW challenge. But soon there will be stuff for my non-fiction writing (okay Stephie, “book”) as the Friday gathering is pressing Dirt and I to get on with it. They have gotten demanding. And my second chapter of For Elise is coming together. Anyway enough staling, here you go:
Tea Time
“My stomach is growling,” I said to no one in particular.
“Oh Ted,” whined Marsha, “Can you ever stop thinking of food?”
“Look, you Americans have a ridiculous habit of putting all your food into a couple of meals. You eat enough to feed an army in one sitting.”
“That’s mean.”
“No, that’s incredibly unhealthy. Coffee does not make a meal. It’s gross how you live on it all day and then pack away a family sized platter of pasta,” I rambled as I packed my cameras into my fanny pack as I was thinking, “Thank goodness that whole fanny pack thing still lives on for old bald guys.”
“You just had lunch!” Thane squealed from his swivel chair by the recorder.
I shook my head thinking, “He really shouldn’t try to talk with the headphones on, why can he hear our conversation but he can’t hear how stupid his voice sounds.”
I continued to load my pack and pockets. We really needed to get this right this time. I’m sick of spending time in this rust bucket van with these two Philistines. This assignment is just one more reason I resent having come to the States. Oh, what a guy won’t do for his kids.
Marsha was getting her boots on, what a doll; spiky heels, hot body, fantastic face, and incredible hair she flips around. One more proof that culture has nothing to do with how you look. Civilized? This woman is a mess. She can speak well but can’t say a thing. Her taste for fashion is impeccable but her taste in men and friends, now that is sad. What a mess.
And Thane? What another giant mess. He thinks that getting ahead in the department has more to do with the cool clothes he can wear instead of the work he turns in. Like someone is impressed with his Helmut Lang when he can’t even get the dang equipment to work right so we don’t look like boobs. Who pays two-forty for jeans anyway? Who is stupid enough to do that? Must be nice having momma pay all your real bills.
“Okay, I’m out of here, are you ready Marsha? We need to get this done so I can have a decent tea time today. We have one hour.”
“If you two would listen to me then we will be fine,” Thane quipped.
“You know Thane, how about you just make sure you have the stupid knobs pointing in the right direction so I can hear you,” Marsha fought back, always making sure that proper blame be continually reinforced.
“Come on Marsha, he’ll be okay, he wants this as much as we do.”
“I’m not so sure,” she barked as she leapt from the box van.
She headed off in the direction of the jewelry store as I dawdled behind, disconnecting ourselves. Watching her through the window work the slick salesman I wonder again why her personal life is such a bloody mess. I shake my head in a sick sense of amusement as I push the door open. I get the I’ll help you in a moment nod from the salesman. Give me a break what self respecting salesman would ditch an obvious sale to help the likes of me.
“Oh, go help that nice man. I’ll just look at these for a while, don’t mind me.” Marsha was good, so nonchalant, so easy. But tea time awaits, lets hit it.
The salesman crossed the showroom floor over to me. And I gave him my best pitch for taking a look at my hot rocks. I got him comfortable and willing to look at the stuff before I pull them out making sure to be very guarded against the door and the shopper, Marsha.
He takes the bait. He verbally acknowledges that he understands they are hot, he goes behind to the till and pulls out my asking price. Thane is catching all of this and encouraging Marsha to be ready to move. The trade takes place, the camera records the transaction, Marsha’s gun is in his face. And back up is through the front door. It all goes so smooth like it is supposed to go all the time, our skill is back.
Cuffs and statements and the backroom begins to be emptied out of evidence. A good afternoon is done and just in time for tea before I black out.
“Marsha, you want to join me for a respectable meal?”
“Sure,” as she grabs her bag and I dump my fanny packs and old man gear into the back of the car parked behind the rust bucket that I hope we won’t see for a while.
