A Jewel Dealer.

The bellboy silently closed the heavy hotel door behind him as he left the cushy room. S swallowed hard and calmly shut her eyes. She let her head roll back against the wall and began to quietly count to herself in the dark closet. She heard J’s voice float to her in the darkness, boisterously speaking to the man who’s name was signed on the hotel paperwork scattered across the glass coffee table about 10 feet in front of the closet.

J was carrying on about pointless things, trifling topics that filled the empty space between herself and the jewel collector she was captivating with nonsense.

“75…76…77…”
S stealthily sat up on her haunches, readying herself to spring to her feet.
“85…86…87…”

“I hear it’s lovely there in the spring.”

She heard the sarcasm oozing from J’s low murmuring voice through the darkness.

“95…96…97…”

The footsteps were growing louder, getting nearer, the floor beneath S shook lightly as they approached the closet she was hidden it, lying in wait.

As the closet door opened, S registered the surprise in the face of the jewel dealer; he knew he had been gotten. The jacket he had intended to hang up in the closet was already wrapped tightly around his torso from behind, and J’s maniacal grin peeked at S through the darkness from over his left shoulder.

“Don’t make a sound.”

S was deftly binding his legs already and, rather gracefully, switching her position in the closet with the jewel dealer’s next to J. THUD. The man fell full on his weight like a sack of potatoes into a heap on the closet floor. Two wide eyes staring up at the calmly poised women from the floor of the closet.

“Give us the keys.” J thrust out her hand towards the panicked face in the inky darkness.

“I…I…”

The jewel dealers words stuttered pathetically through gasps and quiet sobs.

“You will be a ghost full of regrets if you don’t stop talking and hand me those keys.”

S was wearing her serious face as she said this. Nervous pocket shuffling in the closet; keys jingling, coins rattling, until finally a small ring with two tiny nondescript keys on it was tossed through the space between them. A groan of miserable defeat followed from the closet.

The Unsecret Dialogue of Testicle Injuries.

PART 1

 

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Fast forward about twenty(ish) years from the day on the wharf when J was labeled a “sexual deviant” for the simple and innocent act of trying to keep the inattentive and tom-boyishly uncouth S’ dress from blow up during a wind gust. In hindsight, the deep shade and electrocuted expression on the poor bastard’s face has become one of J’s most treasured memories; and the mere thought of that specific moment in time is the source of multiple stomach muscle injuries as a result of hardy laughter. But as all things are between S and J, the circumstance was rather damning and getting more difficult by the second for J to navigate a way for it to end peacefully (not that any chance of a peaceful resolution hadn’t been thrown out the window the instant S made the dude’s junk into a necktie, but hey – she had to try).

J pushed the milkshake back over to S and maneuvered the straw into her mouth, seeing as how she was rather “tied up” just then; S took a big drink and let out the proverbial “post-Kool-Aid Ahhhhhhh” but remained like a statue otherwise. The girls both fell to staring at the man next to S at the bar – the man who’s nuts she’d mistakenly manacled as Darth Trump’s;

“You know what, S?”

J suddenly shrieked over the bar;

“I totally see it…”

“Yeah…you do?”

S’ eyes shot like darts up at her friend’s endeared face as J examined the man’s visage with the intensity of scientist;

“You aren’t just saying that to make me feel better?”

J leaned closer to them;

“Tut Tut; I could’ve easily made the same mistake from behind, I mean look at that rodent carcass on his fat head!”

The man let out a short yelping sound as S and J broke out into maniacal laughter at the expression on his miserable face; and J gave him a exaggerated wink.

“What’s your poison, El Jeffe?”

She asked the question with a blatantly overdone Hispanic accent, juggling a few bottles in front of her cockily.

drank

The Un-Secret (Childhood) Dialogue of S and J.

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The paper airplane landed gracefully into a patch of bare skin just above the collarbone of the whiny redhead named Tasha, who sat one desk to the left of J, who sat dead center – in the very back row of the classroom; she jumped and started to cry immediately, rubbing her skin and looking around like a hunted animal. J stifled a laugh best she could and shot a look at S, sitting in the far right hand desk about a meter away from the teacher’s desk. S was turned completely around in her seat, staring at J with those searing green eyes, intensely willing something.

Typically, the two young trouble-makers could communicate almost totally through expression and mannerisms, but J was at a loss as to what S was trying to tell her this time. The teacher, Ms. Melody (whose name only cruelly misled any student going into her kindergarten class), spun on her cane in front of the chalkboard, accidentally flinging the stick of chalk that she had been using across the room and hitting the aid in the rear who silently graded papers. The aid wore his earphones and paid little attention to the classroom happenings while he was there, so he was caught completely off guard by the sudden smack of a stick of chalk against his brow, and nearly started enough to flip his chair over backwards – papers flying up over his head and landing like snowflakes on his lap and around his surprised form as they settled. The class exploded in laughter then, a cacophony of high-pitched voices, snickering in glee at the impromptu spectacle; Ms. Melody washed over with that reddened look of shocked outrage that was so familiar o the children, S and J especially, and barked an order that was snuffed out by the collective noise.

 

Pick up the airplane!!!

The thought finally struck J as if a mallet had from behind, and she scrambled to grab the small folded note that S had (poorly) thrown only nano-seconds before the aid was shot by the teacher with a piece of rogue chalk.

“Nice pitch…”

J mumbled to herself as she swiped up the note with an extended lean over her desk, almost flipping headfirst onto the carpet, herself, in the process.

In a single motion that both S and J had come to interpret as Doom, Ms. Melody snapped her left handed fingers and pointed at S in the front of the classroom, all while locking eyes with J in the very back at the same time, and for a very long and drawn out moment.

“Give me the note right now, J.”

the teacher said calmly.

“May I read it first?”

asked J, sincerely.

The click of Ms. Melody’s tongue gave J her answer, and she stood, looked down at the piece of paper in her hand, looked over to S (who sat with a condemned look of guilt on her puckered face), and nonchalantly put the paper in her mouth, chewing it briefly before swallowing. The class exploded again with unruly hysterics that only 5 year old children can produce; and J noticed the aid nearby drop his jaw open and let it hang. S began to clap loudly from the front row, and soon enough the rest of the class joined in the applause. Spittle flew from Ms. Melody’s mouth as she seemed to combust verbally in an outburst of all things Teacher; she was pissed.

gurls