Free Whiskey Tango Foxtrot by David Shafer
Authors: David Shafer
thank you very much. This should do just fine,” said Mark. “The natural light helps to clear my mind.”
“Of course.”
“Would you see that I’m left alone for, oh, ten minutes?”
Gray Skirt checked her BlackBerry. “You can have eight, I’m afraid. You’re needed in Makeup.”
“Right.” He was pretty sure by now that she was unimpressed by him. But that whole issue had receded in importance. What he needed to do now was smoke this joint in his pocket out that window there.
The door clicked behind Gray Skirt, and Mark assessed the window. Shit. It was, like, six feet up. Holding a water jug by its fat neck, he rolled it across the floor until it sat beneath the window. Balancing one-footed on the jug, he looked like a high-school trophy, though holding a joint instead of a volleyball. The window was an in-swing affair, and opening it with too much force, he lost his balance, fell backward, and landed hard on his wrist and ass.
Eyes on the prize, though. The joint was still in his hands. He righted his water jug and rolled a second one beside it, then stood on the two of them like a rodeo act on two horses’ backs. This was more like it. He thumbed his lighter, and the joint crackled in tiny fire. He craned his face out the window and smoked with intent. Inside of a minute, he felt the drug come on, covering his worries and drowning his doubt, just as the tide comes in to cover the jagged sticks and stones of the lapped shore. The bleat and rumble of midtown came up to him on a warm breeze. An air conditioner somewhere near ticked and whirred. He looked at people making money on telephones behind glass across the avenue. One man did jumping jacks before a huge TV. He saw a pigeon whorl and flap and hide its gray self against the grit of a roof.
But then flapping up beside the pigeon came the worry that maybe he was unprepared for this Margo! thing. He’d done a few TV spots already, but they were brief appearances, medium-market morning shows, for which he had to fill only a few minutes, the beaming hosts thick and flat with praise for Mark’s work. For the corporate retreats and seminars he led, he needed only platitudes. Substance is fine, but it’s presentation that hooks an audience, eye contact and lots of hands, a talent he’d inherited from his father.
Below him, a cop car was bellowing and whooping at the truck blocking it from the avenue; the truck crept into the stream, against the light, and the cop car sharked around, went hurtling uptown. Above, a jet escaping LaGuardia left a rumble in its dust—a tube of people, remember, being missiled around the globe. What fun, what a world. No, he wasn’t going to blow it. People hawked crappier stuff than his all the time. And he was no fraud, just a little tired of his own shtick. Wasn’t that evidence of his integrity? Here was his chance to step it up. His mother would be watching—she’d have the whole tire store watching, probably. She loved Margo. When he told her that he was going to be on the show, she’d actually dropped the phone—he’d heard the phone bounce on the floor and then heard the cat food scatter across the kitchen linoleum.
“You have something to say,” he said aloud to himself, standing on his pedestal jugs. “You have something to offer.” And he turned his shut lids to the distant sun and let its rays soak his sight; sparkly amoebas swam in a pink sea. He took ten deep breaths.
Then his phone rang, and he startled, nearly fell from his jugs. He looked at the call to reject it. But the name displayed—though it caused him to wince on the inside—was the one name he could not reject. He stubbed his joint into the corner of the window frame and flicked it toughly into empty space. He pressed ACCEPT .
“Hello?”
“Mark. James Straw here.”
“Mr. Straw!” Mark exulted. He started loading his mouth with the little dissolving mint strips he used after smoking.
“Marjorie Blinc tells me you’re going
“Of course.”
“Would you see that I’m left alone for, oh, ten minutes?”
Gray Skirt checked her BlackBerry. “You can have eight, I’m afraid. You’re needed in Makeup.”
“Right.” He was pretty sure by now that she was unimpressed by him. But that whole issue had receded in importance. What he needed to do now was smoke this joint in his pocket out that window there.
The door clicked behind Gray Skirt, and Mark assessed the window. Shit. It was, like, six feet up. Holding a water jug by its fat neck, he rolled it across the floor until it sat beneath the window. Balancing one-footed on the jug, he looked like a high-school trophy, though holding a joint instead of a volleyball. The window was an in-swing affair, and opening it with too much force, he lost his balance, fell backward, and landed hard on his wrist and ass.
Eyes on the prize, though. The joint was still in his hands. He righted his water jug and rolled a second one beside it, then stood on the two of them like a rodeo act on two horses’ backs. This was more like it. He thumbed his lighter, and the joint crackled in tiny fire. He craned his face out the window and smoked with intent. Inside of a minute, he felt the drug come on, covering his worries and drowning his doubt, just as the tide comes in to cover the jagged sticks and stones of the lapped shore. The bleat and rumble of midtown came up to him on a warm breeze. An air conditioner somewhere near ticked and whirred. He looked at people making money on telephones behind glass across the avenue. One man did jumping jacks before a huge TV. He saw a pigeon whorl and flap and hide its gray self against the grit of a roof.
But then flapping up beside the pigeon came the worry that maybe he was unprepared for this Margo! thing. He’d done a few TV spots already, but they were brief appearances, medium-market morning shows, for which he had to fill only a few minutes, the beaming hosts thick and flat with praise for Mark’s work. For the corporate retreats and seminars he led, he needed only platitudes. Substance is fine, but it’s presentation that hooks an audience, eye contact and lots of hands, a talent he’d inherited from his father.
Below him, a cop car was bellowing and whooping at the truck blocking it from the avenue; the truck crept into the stream, against the light, and the cop car sharked around, went hurtling uptown. Above, a jet escaping LaGuardia left a rumble in its dust—a tube of people, remember, being missiled around the globe. What fun, what a world. No, he wasn’t going to blow it. People hawked crappier stuff than his all the time. And he was no fraud, just a little tired of his own shtick. Wasn’t that evidence of his integrity? Here was his chance to step it up. His mother would be watching—she’d have the whole tire store watching, probably. She loved Margo. When he told her that he was going to be on the show, she’d actually dropped the phone—he’d heard the phone bounce on the floor and then heard the cat food scatter across the kitchen linoleum.
“You have something to say,” he said aloud to himself, standing on his pedestal jugs. “You have something to offer.” And he turned his shut lids to the distant sun and let its rays soak his sight; sparkly amoebas swam in a pink sea. He took ten deep breaths.
Then his phone rang, and he startled, nearly fell from his jugs. He looked at the call to reject it. But the name displayed—though it caused him to wince on the inside—was the one name he could not reject. He stubbed his joint into the corner of the window frame and flicked it toughly into empty space. He pressed ACCEPT .
“Hello?”
“Mark. James Straw here.”
“Mr. Straw!” Mark exulted. He started loading his mouth with the little dissolving mint strips he used after smoking.
“Marjorie Blinc tells me you’re going