Just in time for the Hallowe'en season -- and because I suddenly realized how long it had been since I'd put anything new here -- I give you "About Face". This story *almost* saw the light of day in a publication several years ago, but the conversation broke off suddenly and it never happened. I've always liked this one, partly because of the premise and partly because of the jaunty narrator, who was just fun to work through. I could see him making a comeback someday, in some new story, with some brand new hijinks...
Until then, enjoy.
About Face
I wouldn’t have started thieving at all, if I’d had a better agent.
I mean, what kind of an agent doesn’t even remember your name when you call? This guy, he pretends for a while, then says anything just to get me off the phone. Sure, he’s anxious enough to snatch his commission off my few paying gigs, but he always makes it sound as if he did all the work.
I guess I should have known. I could tell by the way he looked at me when I first signed with him that he didn’t think I was good-looking enough to model. The tiny crease between his eyes was a twitch away from being a laugh in my face. But he managed to smile and assure me there was a niche market for ordinary guys. Commercials, mostly, some print ads. Need a forgettable neighbour? Here’s my number. A clueless Dad for kids to run rings around? Call me.
What could I do? It’s not like I could be offended. I know I’m not pinup material. On the other hand, people don’t flee in terror either, so I figured, why not? Believe me, you get some really twisted phone calls if you take out an ad in the paper offering freelance modeling, so I got an agent. Only later I found out I could’ve chosen better – maybe by pulling someone at random from a police lineup. This guy threw me a few jobs and I got a few paycheques, but as time went on, it wasn’t enough to keep me in rent and groceries.
That’s when I joined the criminal underworld. It has its moments.
Actually, turns out I’m not too bad at it. Thieving. I like choosing a site, planning out the details. The old movies call it ‘casing the joint’ but that sounds so dated. Reconnaissance, that’s the word for today. Like the army does: scout ahead, check out the landscape, plan a strategy.
No one remembers an ordinary face. People look right through me. I can loiter around a building for hours and no one questions me. They figure I’m someone’s clueless dad, or the forgettable neighbour, and the rare time someone talks to me that’s exactly who I am. They nod, satisfied, walk away. I can come back the next day and do the same thing all over again.
So I can pick a place and get to know it. I choose a condo building and find out when the doorman shift changes, spot which one is most likely to sneak off for a coffee. I watch for people loading luggage into a taxi and know they’ll be gone for days. I read a paper on a park bench and notice when the armored car stops at the jewelry store, how long it takes for the guards to carry stuff in and out. That’s me waiting outside the bank when all the saleswomen scurry over from the mall, clutching their little deposit pouches and giggling about hairstyles. Don’t these women realize that traveling in packs multiplies the potential haul? Not one of them would be willing to risk her manicure to save that money pouch.
I resist that temptation, though. Working too close to a bank puts you in view of an awful lot of security. I mean, it helps to be chronically unnoticed, but with all the video surveillance now, you’ve got to be cautious.
... but then one day, everything changes. Read on here.
Until then, enjoy.
About Face
I wouldn’t have started thieving at all, if I’d had a better agent.
I mean, what kind of an agent doesn’t even remember your name when you call? This guy, he pretends for a while, then says anything just to get me off the phone. Sure, he’s anxious enough to snatch his commission off my few paying gigs, but he always makes it sound as if he did all the work.
I guess I should have known. I could tell by the way he looked at me when I first signed with him that he didn’t think I was good-looking enough to model. The tiny crease between his eyes was a twitch away from being a laugh in my face. But he managed to smile and assure me there was a niche market for ordinary guys. Commercials, mostly, some print ads. Need a forgettable neighbour? Here’s my number. A clueless Dad for kids to run rings around? Call me.
What could I do? It’s not like I could be offended. I know I’m not pinup material. On the other hand, people don’t flee in terror either, so I figured, why not? Believe me, you get some really twisted phone calls if you take out an ad in the paper offering freelance modeling, so I got an agent. Only later I found out I could’ve chosen better – maybe by pulling someone at random from a police lineup. This guy threw me a few jobs and I got a few paycheques, but as time went on, it wasn’t enough to keep me in rent and groceries.
That’s when I joined the criminal underworld. It has its moments.
Actually, turns out I’m not too bad at it. Thieving. I like choosing a site, planning out the details. The old movies call it ‘casing the joint’ but that sounds so dated. Reconnaissance, that’s the word for today. Like the army does: scout ahead, check out the landscape, plan a strategy.
No one remembers an ordinary face. People look right through me. I can loiter around a building for hours and no one questions me. They figure I’m someone’s clueless dad, or the forgettable neighbour, and the rare time someone talks to me that’s exactly who I am. They nod, satisfied, walk away. I can come back the next day and do the same thing all over again.
So I can pick a place and get to know it. I choose a condo building and find out when the doorman shift changes, spot which one is most likely to sneak off for a coffee. I watch for people loading luggage into a taxi and know they’ll be gone for days. I read a paper on a park bench and notice when the armored car stops at the jewelry store, how long it takes for the guards to carry stuff in and out. That’s me waiting outside the bank when all the saleswomen scurry over from the mall, clutching their little deposit pouches and giggling about hairstyles. Don’t these women realize that traveling in packs multiplies the potential haul? Not one of them would be willing to risk her manicure to save that money pouch.
I resist that temptation, though. Working too close to a bank puts you in view of an awful lot of security. I mean, it helps to be chronically unnoticed, but with all the video surveillance now, you’ve got to be cautious.
... but then one day, everything changes. Read on here.