A normal life

Sometimes I like to pretend I live a normal life.  When my neighbor's yappy chihuahua wakes me up in the morning (I've decided against the shotgun approach so far), I close my eyes and pretend that the thing's bark is my alarm.  I imagine getting out of bed, taking a shower, putting on makeup and heels, and running out the door to beat the traffic.

Boots laced.  Hair in a ponytail.

I create this whole office world in my mind–a frustrating boss who yells a lot, co-workers who act like high schoolers.  An air conditioner that doesn't work blasting lukewarm air into my office.   Of course I'd be in an office.  My temperament would not agree with a cubicle. 

Jacket from the kitchen, pear from the fridge.  Shoulder holster?  Check. 

But then, I wouldn't get to shoot people as they run away with someone else's stuff.  I'd never get away with wearing jeans and leather boots in the world of power suits and lattes.  Seriously, those people can't even function without drugging themselves every morning and afternoon. 

"Got the map?"
"Yeah, it's in my pocket."
A revving engine.  The click of seatbelts. 

I would listen to books on tape performed by full casts of actors with voices like James Earl Jones and Julie Andrews.  When people cut me off in traffic, I'd just smile because it might mean four more seconds of someone else living a life of adventure, while I was in the (relative) safety of my car.

Scrrreeeeeee!
"#*$&!  Learn to drive!"
"Geez, Méli.  Calm down."
"Sorry."
The target is in the university library.  Right turn, left turn, left turn.  Wait.  

At work, I would gossip by the water cooler with the other girls.  If there wasn't a water cooler, I would buy one and put it outside my office door so I could listen.  There would be a lot of drama that would make each day feel like the end of the world.

"Don't do anything stupid."  A linked pair of zip ties tucked into the waistband of my jeans.
"You know me, Tiberon.  I'll be fine."  As wicked a grin as possible. 

When I got home after work, I would wind down with a glass of wine.  Maybe scotch.  I'd watch old TV shows and knit hats for my friends.  My cat would curl up next to me and try to bat the knitting needles while I worked, and I'd scratch her ears and smile when she purred.

The whoosh of automatic doors.  Hushed whispers and footsteps.   
Up, up, up to the stacks.   Books.  Books.  Books.
The target.

I would go to bed early, wearing a silky pajama dress.  My dreams would be about waterfalls and rainbows and people at work and things I had read in the books I had stacked by my bed.

A gun clicks.  Zip tie around his wrist before he turns around. "You?!"
Another wicked grin.  "Me.  Let's do this quietly, yes?"
Down, down, down the stairs.  

Saturdays and Sundays would be for sleeping in. I'd have a living garden and green grass.  Clean carpet.  A fridge full of fresh food I bought at the market.

"I'm not getting in that car."
An elbow crunches into a nose.
"I'b gettinb in da ca!"
Squealing tires.  The drop-off. 

My friends wouldn't know what you had to pack to pick up a target hiding out in Sao Paolo or Niamey.  At our get-togethers, we'd talk about their children and PTA meetings and remodeling our houses. 

"Six grand." 
"Sweet, thanks." 
The dog's tail physically can't wave any faster. 
The holster and guns go back in the den.
I toss my jacket on a chair; it slides to the floor. 
Avel is waiting for me in the kitchen.  He grins.  

I think I would hate having a normal life.

Death of Journalism

I was wearing the fancy dress and the leather boots with the top folded over. The dangling earrings, a single bracelet. Mascara was layered a couple of times over my eyelashes, creating a somewhat fancy effect. Looking around, I didn't feel over or under dressed. Other girls were wearing five-inch heels and dresses that almost hit them in appropriate places on their legs, but that was pretty much the only difference.

The line of people wasn't moving anywhere, and I didn't know anyone. I mean, of course I recognized people. I'd taken classes with them for the past three years. They'd been in and out of my life on Tuesdays and Thursdays as long as I had been around. So I sort of knew who they were. They're all the same, anyway. "What're you doing after?" "Getting drunk, hells yeah."

No one has any original responses. Even my "I'm baking Christmas cookies with one of my friends" was met with a few raised eyebrows and one "I'll bet you could totally down a couple shots in between batches." After that was a "Ooh, yeah, I guess you couldn't put vodka in cookies."

I smirked a little and shook my head, and chose to look at my phone. I was talking to a couple of my friends, none of whom were at the ceremony, but I didn't mind that at all. When I finished a reply, the line suddenly started moving. My black gown billowed in the breeze that followed immediately afterwards, and I lifted up a hand to steady my cap. The tassels were pulling it forward and their fringe was whipping itself into my eyes. We were all taking tiny, tiny steps up to the doors to go inside, and when I glanced back at the rest of the line I had to laugh: every other girl behind me was also delicately gripping the four-cornered horror on her head with wide eyes.

Once inside, we entered the auditorium to the sound of clapping and catcalls and probably some recorded music that we couldn't really hear. The walk down to our rows of seats was slightly dangerous -- the incline of the floor tilted so much that they almost could have used stairs. I held my head up and grinned at my family as I walked past. We plopped down into our chairs and pretended to listen to the Dean and to the speaker, a supposed hot-shot advertiser who spent more time reading his notes than speaking. I felt almost ridiculous for texting during my own graduation ceremony, but really, once I heard "You can't be afraid to fail", I felt I had learned enough for the day.

They hooded the masters students before the undergrads, which makes complete sense. As the four of them came up individually and were given their honors and applause, I couldn't help but wonder what kind of person would actually want to acquire a master's degree in journalism. I still don't have an answer. A very curious person or a person who really loves people?

With the master's degrees out of the way, they had the rest of us stand up and line up against the wall as they read our names off of the index cards we handed them. I had slipped my phone into my boot, and with every step I took it fell a little further into the boot, rubbing against the thin cloth and making a slightly strange vibration on top of my foot. When it was my turn I handed over the index card and lifted my head so my jawline was level with the floor, and when my name was called I concentrated on making a beeline for Dean Voakes, who was smiling at me emptily -- he had no idea who I was. Later my family told me that I walked across the stage like a snobby ballerina. Graceful and proud. I was only walking.

The chocolate cake they had at the reception upstairs was utterly boring and fifteen minutes after walking across the stage, we were returning to the cars and driving back home. I ran my fingertips over the glossy black diploma cover and closed my eyes. It was a pretty nice feeling.