Mistral-PG13, Alias-Vaughn
Peregrine (E. Klisiewicz)
Rated PG13 for language and sexual innuendo.
mistral: a cold, dry, northerly wind common in southern France and neighboring regions.
Summary: Vaughn's thoughts on Alice, office Christmas parties, and the meaning of life and death.
I get to the hotel and she's not even there. With a slight air of disbelief, I read her chatty note about meeting up with some gal pals for lunch and could she meet me at Tavern on the Green for dinner?
Alice is a good person. Really. But she had this bad habit of spending money I don't have. I have wealthy relatives, so she's convinced that I'm rich by osmosis. When I talk about family money being far away, I mean across the Atlantic and tucked inside some Swiss bank vault. Belonging to Grandmere Delorme and managed by her attorney. Trust fund baby, me? Ha. No one contributed a dime to my education. I did it all myself. And so what if Trish lives in one of the wealthiest sections of DC in a restored townhouse? She's never floated me a dime, and I've never asked for her help.
I'm a government servant with a salary to match my lowly status. So if you wonder why nights at The Plaza and dinners at four star restaurants dismay me, wonder no more. OK, it's only money, and it makes her happy. But why can't she be happy on her own salary? In all the years I've known her, she's never coughed up a red cent. Mention the word 'Dutch' and she gets cross-eyed. I've paid her way on every last date. And the longer I know her, the more I'm convinced that I've met a younger version of my mother.
God, how depressing is that? I flop on the bed and let my thoughts drift the way they often do when I'm torqued about something. Alice has changed in the last year. She cut her beautiful, blonde hair and now she looks like a younger version of Mia Farrow with her huge eyes, and wispy hair. I hate it, but how can you fault someone when they cut their hair for charity? And every last penny of her meager salary goes to her church. She not only looks like a nun, she is a nun. Lest you think I'm getting any, let me assure you that her legs stay crossed. She's learned the art of undressing inside her clothes and she probably knows how to straddle the loo without breaking a sweat. Bidets be damned.
Think we have a room with a single bed? Guess again. It's twin beds and pillow fights and footie pajamas. Ever seen a grown woman with footies? Hell, they probably match Martha's. I thought I was getting Victoria's Secret and I finished with Land's End.
I have miles to go before I sleep, and I ain't talking Robert Frost. There are countless hours to burn before tomorrow's meet, and my agile mind is cooking up all sorts of fun. Like the carry-on bag on the bureau. The one item I planned on taking with me, saving me from checking a bag. All was right with the world until that one, last minute phone call interrupted my nap.
"We have some goodies for the New York office. Think you can drop them off?" Ah, Martha sounds so sweet when she wants a favor.
"Don't you usually mail them?" It's a fair question, and I'm not a goddamned messenger boy.
She grows silent, and I imagine that she's picking at her cuticles. Troubled at my bad attitude, especially at this time of year. "Langley cut our budget."
Of course. It's not even worth an argument. "What do I have to do?"
"Deliver each item in person. Let them know how much we appreciate their support."
Fuck me. What support would that be? Why isn't NY handling this operation? Why was I called across country at the last minute? And why is Syd here? I stifle the Edith in me and repeat her last words. "In person. Right. No problem."
No problem turned into two boxes of the finest Cuban cigars (Cohiba), two flasks of cognac (Martell), and several Rolex watches (genuine). Whoever wasn't handing out the bonuses this year funneled the funds into lux items. I stare down at the contents of my suitcase and think of some very old friends. People who appreciate the finer things in life. With a grin, I shuck my monkey suit and replace it with the leather and denim I hid under the tux. Along with my baseball cap and Nikes. Without checking for messages or bothering to answer her note, I sling the carry-on over my shoulder and head toward the New York I once knew.
*****15 years have passed, but they remember me. Tito and Earl slap my palm and make jokes about my haircut. And when I tell them what I do for work, they bust a gut laughing.
"Do you kick any spy ass?" Earl hisses in my ear, ruining my perfect shot.
I shake my head with a sigh. "Don't I wish."
"What about those Bond girls?" Tito elbows Earl and they start making googly eyes at me.
"I've met a few." Only one really matters to me.
"Gone 'under cover' with any of them?" More snickering from Earl as he takes his best shot. The ball drops in the pocket and I ignore the ache in my heart.
"Maybe," I say noncommittally, watching as he clears all solids from the table.
"Sounds like no to me," jokes Tito as he cues up for the next game.
All I do is smile and take a long swig off my beer, feeling the buzz start to chase my headache away. Pushing back all thoughts that these guys are morons and the only way I could ever stand them was under the haze of alcohol. The night wears on and after my fourth beer, I hand out the first round of cigars. "Do you like?" I say through a cloud of expensive blue smoke.
"Ooh, yeah." Earl stares at the brand name and his eyes bug out. "Are these contraband?"
"Could be." These were intended for Deputy Director Randall. I'll make sure to thank him for sharing his booty with us.
When the Martell is uncapped, they huddle around me. "You don't want to be drinking that in here. Reg'll boot your ass if he catches ya."
"He won't." They follow me to the alley and once we get our first taste of fine French cognac, it's all over. Two bottles disappear in the wink of an eye.
"What else you got in there?" Tito barks, stopping to piss on the wall while we weave toward the door.
"Nothin' much," I slur, suddenly remembering that the two watches are shoved in my back pocket. Insurance in case I get mugged.
"Any more smokes?" Earl shoves someone aside and reclaims the pool table in the back. He reigns here, and no one messes with him.
"Sure." I line each of their pockets and keep the last one for myself. As I puff and shoot a perfect game of pool, I wave bye to my last hold on reality, sinking back to a life I used to know so well. Not caring that it claimed me, at least for a night.