Case study of the secretive: Artists and Agents
Gianna Volpe
Intro to fiction
(To enjoy this piece: Please suspend most notions of reality)
Case study of the secretive: Artists and Agents
Chapter One?
I knew it was a lie, but she had the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen. She kept adjusting her skirt hem and the blue silk slid about her kneecaps. This girl was trying to make it hurt. Her sincerity settled in a choking cloud of smooth jazz-infused oatmeal all over my best suit, one pale hand on her Cosmopolitan, the other lost in the brown mane.
“Well, my latest album is getting released as soon as I figure out what front cover to go with. I’m thinking of either a one-passenger airplane upside down or a woman in a blue silk skirt. What do you think?”
I was waiting for her to tell me to get a better line, to go find someone to talk to that was as full of shit as I was. I adjusted my favorite brown tie and took a big gulp of beer.
The woman breathed out and chewed on the right side of her lip in apparent contemplation for four seconds before a loud rambling man wearing a black duster stumbled over from behind us and knocked the drink in her hand, spilling some of it onto the bar and the left side of her green jacket. She put the drink down and turned quickly, placing an arm around the man who swayed an intoxicated dance. She asked if he was all right, holding both of his shoulders.
The man slurred, “Darlin’, acourse I’m alright. You’re too sweet.”
She patted his shoulder and wiped up the small lake of pink with a napkin from the stack in front of her, saying, “good good good, just making sure, you know,” before turning right back to me.
When her eyes met mine, I think I visibly twitched from the surprise of that same sincere gaze.
“Well, personally, considering what you’ve said about the album, I think that the airplane image would be very striking. I don’t even see how the other suggestion compares; it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the album’s message, really. I mean this is a very sexual image you’re talking about, this woman, in reference to a collection of songs that talk a lot about alienation from not only women, but the entirety of mankind. I don’t know. Maybe the juxtaposition of the second idea to the story might prove interesting?”
She took a final gulp of her cosmopolitan, destroying the remaining quarter plus of the glass at once. I’d been talking to her for 20 minutes of delicate sipping and yet I could tell by the mastery of the final gulp that she’d been holding back. She adjusted her skirt again, pulling a weathered brown leather wallet from an inside pocket of her jacket. She eyed the bills inside before pulling a few choice ones and placing them on the bar. “Well, Peter, it’s Peter, right?”
“Right,” I echoed, feeling pathetic. This was it. I’d lost.
“Well, Peter, I have really enjoyed talking to you, but I really have to get going now. I have to discuss some things with my partner… ROOMATE, sorry, I just… You know… it’s the liquor. I must be such a lightweight. But yeah, my roommate and I are supposed to be meeting up in a half hour to talk about some future plans and so I have really got to be going. However, I really look forward to picking up your record. You were going to call it, “What’s your number,” is that right? I love it, really speaks to the topic of identity question.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything. A slow ballad poured through the tiny dive bar’s sound system: Four strategically placed speakers and at least one of them blown to shit.
The wrinkled bartender was standing to the left of us, cleaning glasses with a rag and looking at us from the corner of his spectacles with what I could swear was a slight grin. He was mocking me. All the people in the bar could feel this; the chaotic conversation ebbed in a collective ‘hushhhh.’ They were waiting for me to speak.
But she was already walking out the door with a wave. I’d missed the warm smile, the chance to pay for her drinks, the chance to say, “I only said that was the title because…”
It was gone. She was gone. I knocked my beer back, slammed the glass down on the counter and watched the man take the woman’s money and carry it to the right end of the bar near the door, where the register waited. I adjusted my tie again and fumbled for my wallet. I had to get out of there. I had to catch her. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m ready to-“
He interrupted me. “She paid for your beer,” he said, still placing her bills in their appropriate places. “But I doubt you’ll catch her now, champ. I guess that’s just as well… That girl isn’t for you.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me… but… there would be time later for shock.
I bolted out of the squeaking doors and scanned the crowded city streets for that skirt. It took several full-scans of the four branches of side-walking, skirt-wearing women to find the sole one deprived of high heels. She had her arm held high in professional taxi-hailing position.
The steam from the grates made vision of her into crackling television static until one lapse of smoke failed to reveal her.
“Stupid, stupid, STUPID, Roman.” I went over our conversation in my head twenty times before one line caught me… Something… about… a partner.
“Fuck,” I muttered into my hands. She was a lesbian. Of course, it was just like me to walk into a bar and out of ten straight chicks, fall for the lesbian.
I pulled a cigarette from my favorite maroon slacks and slipped the pack into my blazer pocket this time. This was one of those nights when every favorite clothing piece made its appearance in order to create one grand identifying outfit. I was my own cartoon character.
I lit the cigarette and imagined opening my closet to reveal seven pairs of the same maroon blazer, pressed white shirt, brown tie, maroon slacks and brown shoes.
Then, I imagined turning around from the closet to see that woman on my bed. She was watching me, patting the mattress to coerce me to walk over and kiss her.
Who was she?
More importantly, who was I now that I knew that she existed?
--
The next day…
The de-briefing meeting of our arm of the agency was held in the same secure basement space of the same nonchalant looking warehouse in the same city that it was every week. We were eleven agents of tired human weight, though our postures dared not give this fact away. Heads and shoulders kept straight out of habit and fear.
But inside, inside we were all as hung-over as any other good citizen. We were listless and chocked full of headache relievers. I lit a cigarette and mentally tuned the boss back in. His drooping cheeks shook as he reviewed our last mission. “It is important to note that…” I tuned him back out and let my eyes roam through my cigarette smoke, daydreaming of last night’s affairs.
I ashed my cigarette in the black tray in front of me, watching a few choice embers sparkle and die. The boss’s voice became a jerking rhythm that I couldn’t dance to. It made me hate his guts for everything that wasn’t his fault. I had chosen this place. I had chosen this life.
We were all just doing our jobs.
"We will not be taking any prisoners this time, gentlemen,” the boss instructed from the head of the rectangular wooden table. It was modern and looked like it had been glued together by a talented two-year old.
“Anyone standing in the way of an objective's completion should meet with a quick and clean end for their actions…
Agent fox- may I ask why you are not taking attentive note of this brief? Unless, of course, there is a more important mission you have your mind on?"
The boss was pissed; he rarely paused during the de-briefing process. How long had I been daydreaming?
"If I say that the mission of true love sure seems heavy enough to compete, will I be stripped of my badge?"
Agent Laugherty, the most senior member of our team (aside from the boss) at forty-three years old, raised his eyebrows from across the table. He is my most trusted friend aside from my partner and seemed offended that he was unaware of my recent secret missions. Directly to the left of him, Agent Riggs’s eyes rolled dismissively. That bitch.
"It's safe to say that I won't be taking any prisoners this time, Agent. So, yes, I would be careful with any attempt on your part to upstage the importance of this mission."
I waved him on and rubbed my eyes…
Distraction is dangerous; I know this. It's how I've gotten so far in this game. But all agents have their weaknesses. Mine has always been the unstoppable search for something real. I don't know how to explain without seeming like a misanthropist prick, but I suppose I can try by presenting some seemingly unconnected example:
I love antique furniture.
Give me Louis the fourteenth chairs with maroon fabric and dark wood, show me some expertly carved headboards, or stick me in a room of hand-painted cedar chests and watch my libido heat up and grow; I'm voracious for that shit. It's some sickness I have. It's a yearning for a time when the pay-off was actually worth the challenge; much like the women of those times with their class and come-hither glances. These days all you get are mini-skirts and alcoholic tongues in your ear; discount bookshelves that buckle under the pressure of even the most minimalist collection. I was born into the wrong age; I know this. I’m wallowing in frustration of the weak, the pompous, and the bliss sucking ignorant,
Yet, there I was- getting briefed in that sweaty basement room in order to protect these shmucks. I guess I've always been too smart for my own damned good, a hypocrite, and a total sucker.
The boss was still flapping his gums, straightening his hideous tie, God, how did I get myself into this mess again?
"They're onto us, men, and I don't want a fucking repeat of last week. If another agent makes it into the news, we could have to disband the entire operation. We were able to hide the whole story from the media and leak some false information that it was a stingray that attacked Agent Irwin, but we may not be so lucky next time. Even now the story is seen as a bit fishy… QUIT THE SNICKERING OVER THERE, AGENT LASSEAUX. REMIND ME TO HAVE YOUR MEDIA COVER STORY INVOLVE GETTING SHOT BY A MAN WALKING IN ON YOUR FUCKING HIS EIGHTY YEAR OLD WIFE IN THE ASS… Now, I want you all to contact your partners immediately and wait for your first instructions. And… Agent Lasseaux… you better fucking hope you develop a real distaste for puns because if you laugh over the death of an agent again, I will remove you from this agency. That's all fellows, enjoy the rest of your afternoons."
It was a tough break with Steve. We all loved the guy, I mean, who in America didn't? He was the most publicly prominent of our team and it was a damned shame when he went, stabbed through the chest with a healthy saber on a reconnaissance mission. We were all going to miss him.
The room was buzzing in dim conversation. Laugherty came over to me once the boss had finished making his slowpoke way out the meeting room door. I was still working on my cigarette and was determined to finish it. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder and his face tightened in comical discipline. “You better call me later and tell me what happened last night. I know you met someone.” I nodded and pat him on the shoulder.
“Stop being such a junior high gossip queen, Laugherty, you know I’ll give you the scoop.”
He nodded and saluted me. “Gotta call my partner. Fuck, why do we always have to do the Sunday morning meetings while our partners get to sleep in?”
He seemed truly disturbed with this question, his hand was on the doorknob and he wasn’t leaving without a response.
“Because THEY get the Friday night meetings, Laugherty. Come on now, Mr. Senior Member Of The Board. I think you need to retire, buddy, you’re getting senile.”
“Oh right. Hey, hey, hey...”
“Yes?”…
“…Fuck you!”
He slammed the door, leaving me alone with my smoke. I mumbled under my breath, “Ohhhhhh, anyone got any ointment for that burn?”
I dug my cell out of my jackets inside pocket and put out my cigarette with vicious intent. I then tried to shake my thoughts of the bar-side figure that had haunted my mind for the entirety of the meeting before the call to my partner was connected.
My partner's name is Agent Melanie and No, that’s not the name of a lovely agent chick. This is, I suppose, ironic, considering that yours truly, Agent Fox, is an agent chick. And, yes, yes, I know that the boss uses male-oriented names when referencing us, but he isn't using them to offend me. You see, you have to be a "man" or more specifically, "a gentleman" in order to complete any type of mission. That really has nothing to do with one's sex or gender roles attached to that sex. I've been told by many a male that they aspire to one day be “half the ‘man’ that I am,” and they sure aren't talking about the size of my dick.
After several rings, I was connected to Jack's cell.
"Twin-time Incorporated, May I help you today?"
"Yes, I'd like to order a number seven Charlie horse breakerbreaker, hold the mayo, extra pickles, onions, and a slice of Muenster."
"Oh, hey Fox, how was the brief?"
"Boss had a conniption fit, any way I could convince you to shorten that dumb ass password I have to say every time I fucking call you?"
"No way! I love the rhythm; I tap my toes every time I hear you say it. Plus, it's way better than mine:
'Can you tell me if you have any soap shaped like testicles? My grandma turns 80 next week and I really want to get her goat.’
You're such an asshole, fox."
"Ha, yeah, we might have to change that. I mean, I hear genital-shaped soap is in this year. Oh! And! Irony! The boss mentioned an 80 year old getting fucked in the ass at the meeting today! I would have lost it completely if I wasn’t mortified of losing my position in the agency.
Listen, this next project is really serious, let's meet up for lunch downtown to talk about it and… Melanie… Don't wear anything that will draw attention to yourself."
"OH MAN, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GET TO GO TO THE MEETINGS WHERE BOSS SAYS SOMETHING OUT OF CONTROL… Wait… What's wrong with the way I dress??"
"I MEAN… (I huffed a sigh at this point) Those 'I'm with stupid' tee shirts went out about a decade ago and we're fucking agents, you have to stop drawing attention to yourself."
"Goddddddddddd, you're SOOOOOOO obsessed with trends. What's the deal, fox?"
"Right… Aversion to soap shaped like genitalia and horribly out-dated tee shirts; I'm such a snob. I'll call you when I'm downtown. Let’s do Mrs. Wright’s Café, I’m fucking hung-over."
I repeated his name for the entire walk to Mrs. Wright’s. “Roman Kally… Roman Kally… Roman Kally…”
The mantra lightened the pressure in my head and calmed the sea of booze in my stomach. I’d drunk too much Jack Daniels when I’d gotten back to my apartment; something I didn’t know was possible until after meeting Roman at Ziggy’s corner bar. He had been a liar with good intentions, a liar with a cause. I was the cause and he’d lied because he wanted me. He had wanted me. We were so much alike and there was no way to tell him that, and that I’d known who he was before he’d even spoke. I knew exactly what my mother (brim-filled with that innate motherly grandchild blood lust) would think of this. It was the exact opposite of what the agency would think of this, what the boss would think of this, what Jack would think of this.
Approaching Mrs. Wright’s café, I saw that my partner was already residing in our table on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and talking to a girl who was too young for him.
Jack Melanie and I have known each other since we were two pre-school outcasts, alienated because we were what everyone hated: tattle-tales.
That’s what we were, tattle-tales, but, what the fuck man? Why do we have to sit by and let the kid that still shits his pants at age 5 steal extra Nilla wafers?!
We believed in justice for every snot-nosed pre-school fuck and all that truly translated into, according to the youngster social food chain, was a lot of sand in our eyes and an official ban from ever using the cool playground toys (because damned if the other kids were letting the tattle tales have fun)
Since then we've been one fucking tight and slightly goofy team and to this day I believe that that is the only reason that we were allowed to become partners in the agency.
There is a pretty strict policy disallowing two agents to even join the same agency with previous knowledge of one another, let alone become partners.
(This was created to further avoid infiltrations.)
But, somehow, we'd been recruited together out of community college and forced to begin training while continuing our college education: Unbeknownst to friends, teachers, extraneous employers, (We were also forced to get cover jobs, which Jack HATED), and even family.
And suddenly, here we were: Agents, partners, and this time, we weren't taking any prisoners. Which; by the way, Jack is also going to HATE upon my telling him.
Prisoners are his favorite part of the job, especially ones with tits…
What a god damned professional.
I approached the table and threw my arms around Jack, laying kisses all over his shocked face.
“BABY! I missed you so much. Can we pretty pretty please go over possible honeymoon locations again??”
I sat down next to him and watched the saucy young blonde assume a horrific scowl before turning back to her table. Jack reflected the scowl, but played along anyway.
“Sure thing, honey.”
I squeezed Jack’s leg. “Sorry, kid, it’s time to get down to business. You can chase ass after the mission is over with.” And this was true, but I’d only really done that in a moment of absolute jealousy. I guess the way I figured it was that if I couldn’t have love; then neither could Jack. He was my partner, after all.
Intro to fiction
(To enjoy this piece: Please suspend most notions of reality)
Case study of the secretive: Artists and Agents
Chapter One?
I knew it was a lie, but she had the most beautiful legs I’ve ever seen. She kept adjusting her skirt hem and the blue silk slid about her kneecaps. This girl was trying to make it hurt. Her sincerity settled in a choking cloud of smooth jazz-infused oatmeal all over my best suit, one pale hand on her Cosmopolitan, the other lost in the brown mane.
“Well, my latest album is getting released as soon as I figure out what front cover to go with. I’m thinking of either a one-passenger airplane upside down or a woman in a blue silk skirt. What do you think?”
I was waiting for her to tell me to get a better line, to go find someone to talk to that was as full of shit as I was. I adjusted my favorite brown tie and took a big gulp of beer.
The woman breathed out and chewed on the right side of her lip in apparent contemplation for four seconds before a loud rambling man wearing a black duster stumbled over from behind us and knocked the drink in her hand, spilling some of it onto the bar and the left side of her green jacket. She put the drink down and turned quickly, placing an arm around the man who swayed an intoxicated dance. She asked if he was all right, holding both of his shoulders.
The man slurred, “Darlin’, acourse I’m alright. You’re too sweet.”
She patted his shoulder and wiped up the small lake of pink with a napkin from the stack in front of her, saying, “good good good, just making sure, you know,” before turning right back to me.
When her eyes met mine, I think I visibly twitched from the surprise of that same sincere gaze.
“Well, personally, considering what you’ve said about the album, I think that the airplane image would be very striking. I don’t even see how the other suggestion compares; it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with the album’s message, really. I mean this is a very sexual image you’re talking about, this woman, in reference to a collection of songs that talk a lot about alienation from not only women, but the entirety of mankind. I don’t know. Maybe the juxtaposition of the second idea to the story might prove interesting?”
She took a final gulp of her cosmopolitan, destroying the remaining quarter plus of the glass at once. I’d been talking to her for 20 minutes of delicate sipping and yet I could tell by the mastery of the final gulp that she’d been holding back. She adjusted her skirt again, pulling a weathered brown leather wallet from an inside pocket of her jacket. She eyed the bills inside before pulling a few choice ones and placing them on the bar. “Well, Peter, it’s Peter, right?”
“Right,” I echoed, feeling pathetic. This was it. I’d lost.
“Well, Peter, I have really enjoyed talking to you, but I really have to get going now. I have to discuss some things with my partner… ROOMATE, sorry, I just… You know… it’s the liquor. I must be such a lightweight. But yeah, my roommate and I are supposed to be meeting up in a half hour to talk about some future plans and so I have really got to be going. However, I really look forward to picking up your record. You were going to call it, “What’s your number,” is that right? I love it, really speaks to the topic of identity question.”
I opened my mouth to speak, to say anything. A slow ballad poured through the tiny dive bar’s sound system: Four strategically placed speakers and at least one of them blown to shit.
The wrinkled bartender was standing to the left of us, cleaning glasses with a rag and looking at us from the corner of his spectacles with what I could swear was a slight grin. He was mocking me. All the people in the bar could feel this; the chaotic conversation ebbed in a collective ‘hushhhh.’ They were waiting for me to speak.
But she was already walking out the door with a wave. I’d missed the warm smile, the chance to pay for her drinks, the chance to say, “I only said that was the title because…”
It was gone. She was gone. I knocked my beer back, slammed the glass down on the counter and watched the man take the woman’s money and carry it to the right end of the bar near the door, where the register waited. I adjusted my tie again and fumbled for my wallet. I had to get out of there. I had to catch her. “Excuse me, sir, but I’m ready to-“
He interrupted me. “She paid for your beer,” he said, still placing her bills in their appropriate places. “But I doubt you’ll catch her now, champ. I guess that’s just as well… That girl isn’t for you.”
I couldn’t believe what he was saying to me… but… there would be time later for shock.
I bolted out of the squeaking doors and scanned the crowded city streets for that skirt. It took several full-scans of the four branches of side-walking, skirt-wearing women to find the sole one deprived of high heels. She had her arm held high in professional taxi-hailing position.
The steam from the grates made vision of her into crackling television static until one lapse of smoke failed to reveal her.
“Stupid, stupid, STUPID, Roman.” I went over our conversation in my head twenty times before one line caught me… Something… about… a partner.
“Fuck,” I muttered into my hands. She was a lesbian. Of course, it was just like me to walk into a bar and out of ten straight chicks, fall for the lesbian.
I pulled a cigarette from my favorite maroon slacks and slipped the pack into my blazer pocket this time. This was one of those nights when every favorite clothing piece made its appearance in order to create one grand identifying outfit. I was my own cartoon character.
I lit the cigarette and imagined opening my closet to reveal seven pairs of the same maroon blazer, pressed white shirt, brown tie, maroon slacks and brown shoes.
Then, I imagined turning around from the closet to see that woman on my bed. She was watching me, patting the mattress to coerce me to walk over and kiss her.
Who was she?
More importantly, who was I now that I knew that she existed?
--
The next day…
The de-briefing meeting of our arm of the agency was held in the same secure basement space of the same nonchalant looking warehouse in the same city that it was every week. We were eleven agents of tired human weight, though our postures dared not give this fact away. Heads and shoulders kept straight out of habit and fear.
But inside, inside we were all as hung-over as any other good citizen. We were listless and chocked full of headache relievers. I lit a cigarette and mentally tuned the boss back in. His drooping cheeks shook as he reviewed our last mission. “It is important to note that…” I tuned him back out and let my eyes roam through my cigarette smoke, daydreaming of last night’s affairs.
I ashed my cigarette in the black tray in front of me, watching a few choice embers sparkle and die. The boss’s voice became a jerking rhythm that I couldn’t dance to. It made me hate his guts for everything that wasn’t his fault. I had chosen this place. I had chosen this life.
We were all just doing our jobs.
"We will not be taking any prisoners this time, gentlemen,” the boss instructed from the head of the rectangular wooden table. It was modern and looked like it had been glued together by a talented two-year old.
“Anyone standing in the way of an objective's completion should meet with a quick and clean end for their actions…
Agent fox- may I ask why you are not taking attentive note of this brief? Unless, of course, there is a more important mission you have your mind on?"
The boss was pissed; he rarely paused during the de-briefing process. How long had I been daydreaming?
"If I say that the mission of true love sure seems heavy enough to compete, will I be stripped of my badge?"
Agent Laugherty, the most senior member of our team (aside from the boss) at forty-three years old, raised his eyebrows from across the table. He is my most trusted friend aside from my partner and seemed offended that he was unaware of my recent secret missions. Directly to the left of him, Agent Riggs’s eyes rolled dismissively. That bitch.
"It's safe to say that I won't be taking any prisoners this time, Agent. So, yes, I would be careful with any attempt on your part to upstage the importance of this mission."
I waved him on and rubbed my eyes…
Distraction is dangerous; I know this. It's how I've gotten so far in this game. But all agents have their weaknesses. Mine has always been the unstoppable search for something real. I don't know how to explain without seeming like a misanthropist prick, but I suppose I can try by presenting some seemingly unconnected example:
I love antique furniture.
Give me Louis the fourteenth chairs with maroon fabric and dark wood, show me some expertly carved headboards, or stick me in a room of hand-painted cedar chests and watch my libido heat up and grow; I'm voracious for that shit. It's some sickness I have. It's a yearning for a time when the pay-off was actually worth the challenge; much like the women of those times with their class and come-hither glances. These days all you get are mini-skirts and alcoholic tongues in your ear; discount bookshelves that buckle under the pressure of even the most minimalist collection. I was born into the wrong age; I know this. I’m wallowing in frustration of the weak, the pompous, and the bliss sucking ignorant,
Yet, there I was- getting briefed in that sweaty basement room in order to protect these shmucks. I guess I've always been too smart for my own damned good, a hypocrite, and a total sucker.
The boss was still flapping his gums, straightening his hideous tie, God, how did I get myself into this mess again?
"They're onto us, men, and I don't want a fucking repeat of last week. If another agent makes it into the news, we could have to disband the entire operation. We were able to hide the whole story from the media and leak some false information that it was a stingray that attacked Agent Irwin, but we may not be so lucky next time. Even now the story is seen as a bit fishy… QUIT THE SNICKERING OVER THERE, AGENT LASSEAUX. REMIND ME TO HAVE YOUR MEDIA COVER STORY INVOLVE GETTING SHOT BY A MAN WALKING IN ON YOUR FUCKING HIS EIGHTY YEAR OLD WIFE IN THE ASS… Now, I want you all to contact your partners immediately and wait for your first instructions. And… Agent Lasseaux… you better fucking hope you develop a real distaste for puns because if you laugh over the death of an agent again, I will remove you from this agency. That's all fellows, enjoy the rest of your afternoons."
It was a tough break with Steve. We all loved the guy, I mean, who in America didn't? He was the most publicly prominent of our team and it was a damned shame when he went, stabbed through the chest with a healthy saber on a reconnaissance mission. We were all going to miss him.
The room was buzzing in dim conversation. Laugherty came over to me once the boss had finished making his slowpoke way out the meeting room door. I was still working on my cigarette and was determined to finish it. He placed a firm hand on my shoulder and his face tightened in comical discipline. “You better call me later and tell me what happened last night. I know you met someone.” I nodded and pat him on the shoulder.
“Stop being such a junior high gossip queen, Laugherty, you know I’ll give you the scoop.”
He nodded and saluted me. “Gotta call my partner. Fuck, why do we always have to do the Sunday morning meetings while our partners get to sleep in?”
He seemed truly disturbed with this question, his hand was on the doorknob and he wasn’t leaving without a response.
“Because THEY get the Friday night meetings, Laugherty. Come on now, Mr. Senior Member Of The Board. I think you need to retire, buddy, you’re getting senile.”
“Oh right. Hey, hey, hey...”
“Yes?”…
“…Fuck you!”
He slammed the door, leaving me alone with my smoke. I mumbled under my breath, “Ohhhhhh, anyone got any ointment for that burn?”
I dug my cell out of my jackets inside pocket and put out my cigarette with vicious intent. I then tried to shake my thoughts of the bar-side figure that had haunted my mind for the entirety of the meeting before the call to my partner was connected.
My partner's name is Agent Melanie and No, that’s not the name of a lovely agent chick. This is, I suppose, ironic, considering that yours truly, Agent Fox, is an agent chick. And, yes, yes, I know that the boss uses male-oriented names when referencing us, but he isn't using them to offend me. You see, you have to be a "man" or more specifically, "a gentleman" in order to complete any type of mission. That really has nothing to do with one's sex or gender roles attached to that sex. I've been told by many a male that they aspire to one day be “half the ‘man’ that I am,” and they sure aren't talking about the size of my dick.
After several rings, I was connected to Jack's cell.
"Twin-time Incorporated, May I help you today?"
"Yes, I'd like to order a number seven Charlie horse breakerbreaker, hold the mayo, extra pickles, onions, and a slice of Muenster."
"Oh, hey Fox, how was the brief?"
"Boss had a conniption fit, any way I could convince you to shorten that dumb ass password I have to say every time I fucking call you?"
"No way! I love the rhythm; I tap my toes every time I hear you say it. Plus, it's way better than mine:
'Can you tell me if you have any soap shaped like testicles? My grandma turns 80 next week and I really want to get her goat.’
You're such an asshole, fox."
"Ha, yeah, we might have to change that. I mean, I hear genital-shaped soap is in this year. Oh! And! Irony! The boss mentioned an 80 year old getting fucked in the ass at the meeting today! I would have lost it completely if I wasn’t mortified of losing my position in the agency.
Listen, this next project is really serious, let's meet up for lunch downtown to talk about it and… Melanie… Don't wear anything that will draw attention to yourself."
"OH MAN, WHY DO YOU ALWAYS GET TO GO TO THE MEETINGS WHERE BOSS SAYS SOMETHING OUT OF CONTROL… Wait… What's wrong with the way I dress??"
"I MEAN… (I huffed a sigh at this point) Those 'I'm with stupid' tee shirts went out about a decade ago and we're fucking agents, you have to stop drawing attention to yourself."
"Goddddddddddd, you're SOOOOOOO obsessed with trends. What's the deal, fox?"
"Right… Aversion to soap shaped like genitalia and horribly out-dated tee shirts; I'm such a snob. I'll call you when I'm downtown. Let’s do Mrs. Wright’s Café, I’m fucking hung-over."
I repeated his name for the entire walk to Mrs. Wright’s. “Roman Kally… Roman Kally… Roman Kally…”
The mantra lightened the pressure in my head and calmed the sea of booze in my stomach. I’d drunk too much Jack Daniels when I’d gotten back to my apartment; something I didn’t know was possible until after meeting Roman at Ziggy’s corner bar. He had been a liar with good intentions, a liar with a cause. I was the cause and he’d lied because he wanted me. He had wanted me. We were so much alike and there was no way to tell him that, and that I’d known who he was before he’d even spoke. I knew exactly what my mother (brim-filled with that innate motherly grandchild blood lust) would think of this. It was the exact opposite of what the agency would think of this, what the boss would think of this, what Jack would think of this.
Approaching Mrs. Wright’s café, I saw that my partner was already residing in our table on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette and talking to a girl who was too young for him.
Jack Melanie and I have known each other since we were two pre-school outcasts, alienated because we were what everyone hated: tattle-tales.
That’s what we were, tattle-tales, but, what the fuck man? Why do we have to sit by and let the kid that still shits his pants at age 5 steal extra Nilla wafers?!
We believed in justice for every snot-nosed pre-school fuck and all that truly translated into, according to the youngster social food chain, was a lot of sand in our eyes and an official ban from ever using the cool playground toys (because damned if the other kids were letting the tattle tales have fun)
Since then we've been one fucking tight and slightly goofy team and to this day I believe that that is the only reason that we were allowed to become partners in the agency.
There is a pretty strict policy disallowing two agents to even join the same agency with previous knowledge of one another, let alone become partners.
(This was created to further avoid infiltrations.)
But, somehow, we'd been recruited together out of community college and forced to begin training while continuing our college education: Unbeknownst to friends, teachers, extraneous employers, (We were also forced to get cover jobs, which Jack HATED), and even family.
And suddenly, here we were: Agents, partners, and this time, we weren't taking any prisoners. Which; by the way, Jack is also going to HATE upon my telling him.
Prisoners are his favorite part of the job, especially ones with tits…
What a god damned professional.
I approached the table and threw my arms around Jack, laying kisses all over his shocked face.
“BABY! I missed you so much. Can we pretty pretty please go over possible honeymoon locations again??”
I sat down next to him and watched the saucy young blonde assume a horrific scowl before turning back to her table. Jack reflected the scowl, but played along anyway.
“Sure thing, honey.”
I squeezed Jack’s leg. “Sorry, kid, it’s time to get down to business. You can chase ass after the mission is over with.” And this was true, but I’d only really done that in a moment of absolute jealousy. I guess the way I figured it was that if I couldn’t have love; then neither could Jack. He was my partner, after all.