Here is my @IndieInk challenge from xander
Describe your day job in the style of a 1950s film noir. Bonus points for using the word “gams” in the appropriate context.
CLICK
Janey was sure the right guy was going to walk through her office door any moment now. Yep, any moment.
At least, that’s what she told her ma every time she called to ask why Janey was no longer working for that nice man down at the newspaper, typing up his little stories. She didn’t have the heart to tell her mother the so-called nice man had the roving hands of hungry bear and the mouth of a sailor on leave and she wasn’t gonna put up with it any more. Besides, the man was her neighbor Ethel’s husband and they often gave her mom rides to and from her job at the library. She didn’t want to mess things up for her ma. Life is hard enough as it is.
So she very quietly gathered her things when the prick was out drinking his lunch one day with the office lushes, conveniently forgetting to type up the day’s top story about the bank robbery around the corner. The very next day, she opened her own typing shop, advertising a hundred words a minute to any and all customers. The diner across the way was a goldmine—lots of cute fellas in there with no clue how to type up job applications, or songs for the gals they were sweet on.
Janey wasn’t rolling in it, but she was doing all right. At least, that’s what she was thinking as she lit a cigarette for a long-needed break. She hadn’t realized how late it was or how dark it had become in her small, cramped office. She switched on her desk lamp, mentally avoiding the files and scraps of paper piled up next to it.
She enjoyed the click click click her new black heels made as she moved to open the small window that looked out onto main street. Cold and foggy again, dammit. It was fairly quiet outside today, but apparently loud enough that she missed hearing the door open and shut quickly behind her. When she felt a hand on her shoulder, she screamed.
Turning around quickly, she looked up into the most gorgeous baby blues she’d ever seen.
“Sorry, ma’am,” said the stranger, a handsome man about her age in a dark suit and charcoal fedora. Janey could see his lips moving but found herself having trouble concentrating. She was sure he could hear the extraordinarily loud beating of her heart.
“I’m sorry, Mr…?” Janey asked, as she attempted to regain her composure. She crossed the room and sat on the corner of her desk, giving him a nice view of her gams. She noticed his momentary eye flick and quickly realized she had the upper hand. Her heartbeat slowed measurably, her voice dropped, and she asked, “Now, what can I do for you?” with a shy hint of a smile.
The man stood closer, still staring at her legs. He took his time, his eyes slowly working their way up the length of her body. When he reached her eyes, he said, “I think we need to work together, you and I.” He took a card out of his pocket, laid it gingerly on the desk next to her, turned and left.
Janey, realizing she was holding her breath, exhaled and grabbed the card:
CRIMINALLY LAME (An Indie Ink Challenge)
I participated this week in the awesomely cool challenge posed by the innovative folks over at Indie Ink. Check em out if you haven’t done so. I j’adore them.
Challenge: Is our society still worthy of the debt metaphorically being paid to it by criminals?
Uh-oh.
Listen, I’m that snarky writer chick from Orange County, CA. A redhead in a sea of blondes. Those are a lot of serious words for a girl like me:
Society.
Debt.
Metaphorically.
Paid.
Criminals.
Wow, when I received this prompt relayed by Indie Ink editor Stacy (who rocks), I immediately reached for my coffee. Realizing it was too late in the day for caffeine, I thanked the heavens for timing and made myself a dirty martini, double, extra olives. Phew. I clearly required an extra bit of, um, creativity for this project de-deconstruction.
Because, see…this is what I do. I deconstruct things. Well, usually men (a man is a thing, right? Noun = person, place, or thing. Oops.). I’m known as the Mancode chick. In fact, I’m writing a book about it. Er, them.
I observe male behavior and dare to ask WHY? How can men change the world but not a toilet paper roll? How can they check out a woman’s rack and think we don’t notice (um, as if)?
Now, granted, not all men do this. The seemingly perfect ones (who leave comments on my blog or Twitter stream, by the way), will be the first to disagree with me and tell me that I’m wrong. They’re right. That women actually owe a debt to men for all the wonderful things they do for their women, all the time. Obviously, I need to pull my head out of my ass. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Other times I talk Chickspeak, where I parse out long-held maxims of the Mystery Female Society to dudes, along with a secret decoder ring. Most guys are willing to take the walk with me, given that they’ve more than paid in advance in sweat, blood, and tears while failing in their attempts to discover what “I’m fine,” or “I’m tired,” really mean. These essays tend to be some of my most popular for some reason. Hmmm.
So what does all this have to do with criminals? Jack, really.
Though, as I watched the vodka swirl in my martini glass from my cozy perch here in my warm (albeit small by OC standards) comfortable home, I did have this thought: