Free Air Time by Hank Phillippi Ryan

position so it shows through, say, a buttonhole. Maybe wear a work shirt with a patch pocket? And we can tuckthis card into the pocket. Then we’ll make a little hole in the shirt behind it, and snake the cord down underneath.”
    He holds up the cord, and I see it’s attached to a camera, miniature, no bigger than a paperback book. “You can wear the guts of the camera, the recorder, in a fanny pack or something,” he says. “No one will ever see it.”
    “A fanny pack?” I snort, my eyebrows headed toward the ceiling. “A fanny pack? Oh, Franko, not a chance.” I burst out laughing, and realize it’s the first time today anything has seemed funny. “Next you’ll want me to wear gaucho pants. Or tube socks with my strappy sandals.”
    Franklin winds the cord back around the lens card with a little more flourish than necessary, not amused.
    “Oh, I’m not making fun of you,” I hurry to apologize. “And the camera is great. Much better than the ones I’ve used before. Much smaller. It’s just that, you know, I’m going to a place where the focus is fashion. I can’t slog in looking like a refugee from Geekland.” I raise a one finger. “Wait a second.”
    Getting down on all fours, I peer under my desk, moving aside a recycled gift bag full of plastic silverware I keep just in case there’s a spoon emergency, three pairs of rubber rain boots and about six umbrellas. With a yank that topples the boots, I pull out a black canvas purse, covered with D-rings and flap pockets on both sides, vintage 1995 or so. I figured I would need it someday. Right again.
    I swipe the dust from my knees as I sit back in my chair, holding up my under-desk find. “This’ll work. We’ll put the guts of the camera in this bag, make a hole in one of the pockets.”
    I open the bag and confirm my hidden-camera hidingplan will work. I put the bag over one shoulder, and stand up, posing casually, one hand covering the place where the hole would be.
    “See?” I lift my hand, demonstrating. “When I do this, the camera lens is open. I put my hand down, it’s covered. Open, covered. Open, covered. See?”
    Franklin shrugs. “Sure, that’ll work. You just can’t ever put your purse down.”
    I hand him back the high-tech contraption. “Just make sure I have tapes and batteries. Charged batteries. Remember when the batts failed in the middle of that drug bust? Disaster.”
    “Not as bad as when you got caught with the camera at the cult church. When that phony minister hauled off and tried to hit you? And grab the camera? Now, that was unpleasant.”
    “Yeah, well, we got it all on tape,” I reply. “Great video. All that matters.”
    Franklin puts the camera back in the case and snaps it closed. He puts it on his desk, not mine. “You sure you don’t want me to go with you tomorrow?” he says. “I could be your cute gay purse consultant. Totally believable.”
    “You just want some new purses,” I say, teasing. “Seriously Franko, I’ll be fine.”
     
     
    The message machine is empty. No flashing message light, not even one. Maybe it’s broken, I think when I get home that evening. I punch in my code, hoping.
    “You have…” the mechanical voice pauses “…no new messages, and—”
    I hit the off button, disappointed. But maybe Josh called and didn’t leave a message. Maybe I should call him.
    I plop down on my bed, and pick up the receiver from the phone on my nightstand. Or maybe not.
    I put the receiver back and lean into my pillows, stretched out on the puffy down comforter, not caring if I wrinkle my silk shirt, not caring if I wrinkle my just-dry-cleaned skirt. I kick off my suede slingbacks. One shoe tumbles, toe over heels, into the wastebasket. And there’s the metaphor for the day.
    Sighing in defeat, I get up to retrieve my shoe. I’ll get through this, one step at a time. Wearily, my thoughts flailing and random, I peel off my work clothes and cuddle into my sweats.
    My apartment has never