|
|
 |
|
|
Valentines Day
Valentine's Day. It's the red-headed stepchild of holidays,
actively sought out and hated. Arbor Day is completely forgotten, Christmas and
Thanksgiving lend themselves to hipster posturing and heavy drinking, but
Valentine's Day? Legitimately despised.
Last year was awful. Last year was cruel. Last year sucked. Last was
the malicious icing on the heart-shaped cake of bile.
I was seeing Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant. We'd taken up between
Christmas and New Years, very hot, very heavy, very much a party of
two. So, when Lewis started dropping hints about Valentine's Day in early
February, I allowed myself to bask in anticipation for a holiday I usually met
with indifference or dread.
"So, I made dinner reservations," he oozed on February 4. We were on
the couch in my old apartment, drinking red wine and watching bad TV.
"Dinner reservations," I echoed, trying to keep emotion out of my
voice. "Where and when?"
"At Chez Étoile," he said kissing my fingers. "At eight o'clock.
In, oh, ten days."
"Really," I said, not taking my eyes off the screen. "Ten
days?"
"I thought it'd be romantic. You know, Valentine's and all that," he
murmured as he started nuzzling my neck. Like I said, very hot, very heavy.
On February 8, he mentioned calling a florist. On February 10, he complained
about the reservations desk clerk at the Old Town Hotel and Spa who couldn't
make a simple, one-night reservation for a suite for two. And on February
12, he "accidentally" dropped a Tiffany's receipt on top of a stack
of bills meant for our Thai takeout. I didn't get a good look at the grand
total before he snatched it away
with a leering "naughty, naughty," but I was fairly certain I saw a 4
followed by three zeros.
It's pathetic to admit it now, but I spent February 14 waiting. I waited at the
office all day for my roses to arrive, neglecting to get any work done. Every
time the mail boy pushed another flower-ladened cart past my desk, my heart
jumped. Every time the phone rang, I lunged for it. But flowers never did show
up for me, and he never did call. I wrote it off as an ingenious plot to boost
my expectations for a romantic evening.
Eventually, I couldn't take it any more and ducked out of work early. I ran the
sort of errands you run when you think you're going out for a romantic evening:
manicure, pedicure, waxing, blowout. Home and restless, I packed an overnight
bag (perfume, toothbrush, no underpants) and changed into the drop-dead
gorgeous black cocktail dress I had purchased special for the occasion and let
my red curls
fall over my shoulders. I did my makeup three times. I looked friggin'
fabulous.
When Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant, didn't show up by 7:15, I started the
contact round-robin: cell, office, home, Blackberry. He didn't answer. I
started to get nervous. The reservations were for eight. If he didn't show up
soon, we'd lose our table and have to scramble.
But we'd been meeting up at restaurants lately, and maybe I was the one running
late. It was a horrifying thought, enough to shove me out the door and onto the
street. Fortunately, the restaurant was only six blocks away, and I swept
inside at eight on the nose.
"Just looking for a friend," I simpered to the hostess as I swished
by her, scanning the tables for him. Heads turned and conversation buzzed as I
moved deeper into the restaurant; the dress was that good.
But I didn't acknowledge the murmurs with a smile, because I was on a mission
to find Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant, and quell the building panic
in my heart. I looked past Champagne buckets and clutches of roses on every
table, hoping to spot him, but nada, just scores of happy couples, celebrating
their love in public. Sickening, but no Lewis.
I had just begun to give in to the anxiety bubbling in my stomach when I saw
him sitting at a table right in front of me. His eyes lit up when I waved. He
stood up, but then immediately sunk to one knee, pulling a black box out of his
jacket pocket. My breath stuck. My heart started pounding. And he said those
five little words I'd dreamed of hearing, "Maggie, would you marry
me?"
Except my name is Cassie. And he wasn't looking at me, he was looking at a
horse-faced blonde sitting opposite him, a woman I hadn't noticed until now.
And she was busy throwing her arms around his neck and shrieking "Yes!
Yes! Yes!" while the surrounding diners broke out into applause.
Humiliated, I turned on my heel and slunk home, hoping nobody recognized me.
The next day, Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant, showed up at my office for
our standing Tuesday lunch date like nothing had happened. I let him take me
around the corner for Chinese and, to my credit, did not stab him in the
eyeball with a chopstick when he told me he was engaged to his high school
sweetheart, that all those Valentine's hints had been "planning,"
that he thought of me as a step-sister "a friend you love dearly, but if
you have sex, it's more than a little taboo!"
Oh, and the that tired platitude, "I really didn't mean to hurt you."
And I really didn't mean to dump a whole platter of General Tso's chicken all
over his suit, either, but, well, I did.
Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant, probably thought the resulting dry cleaning
bill was the last of it. But, seriously, when you dump a girl so spectacularly,
the German judges are impressed, you have to realize you are going to go down.
The problem was, I had spent months wanting to plan the perfect retribution,
but I was always sidetracked with other projects like paying rent or kicking
the Dark Avenger's ass. With one thing or another, Lewis, the weasel-faced
accountant, dropped on my list of priorities until I opened up my copy of the
Duke City Morning Bulletin today and saw his smug weasel-face splashed across
page one.
The story was about, natch, Valentine's Day celebrations across Duke City, and
some intrepid photographer had camped outside the city clerk's office to catch
a happy couple applying for a Valentine's Day marriage license. And of course,
that happy couple was Lewis and his horse-faced blonde. The caption read,
"Lewis Webber and Maggie Callard kiss each other on the steps of City Hall
after receiving their marriage license. The couple plans to wed this
evening."
I was set to crumple the paper and throw it away when the sidebar caught my
eye: "Dumped and Depressed: City's Unofficial Sorority of 'Sad Sacks' Band
Together to Survive Holiday." The reporter, one Holly
Fitzsimmons-McMurray wrote about how single women were coping in the
"twenty-four hour minefield of hearts, flowers and contented, kissing
couples everywhere. In the dating wars, Valentine's Day is the battle of the
bulging heart, where loyalties are tested, tears are shed, and the girlfriends
are separated from the single women. For us smug marrieds, it's a reminder of
just how hard life is in the romantic trenches."
I couldn't take it anymore. I ripped the paper in half, narrowed my eyes and
said, "Valentine's Day is cancelled."
I think it would have been more impressive if I hadn't been by myself, but, you
know, we can't always have an adoring audience for the big Eureka moment.
Really, deciding on the morning of doesn't allow for a lot a lead time for
derailing a holiday. If I'd been at the top of my game, I would have dedicated
a solid six months to planning and execution. As it was, I probably didn't have
time to sabotage the city's rose supply before the delivery trucks rolled out,
and getting weapons-grade hallucinogens in the chocolate was probably out of my
hands. But I had the time (and the fire power) to empty out every single
romantic restaurant in the city AND ruin the wedding of Lewis, the weasel-faced
accountant.
Restaurants first. They were so easy. I assumed the identity of an overworked
personal assistant and dressed the part in jeans, a puffy black vest over a
white thermal shirt, oversized sunglasses, and an adorable black knit cap
pulled tight over a brown wig. Dressed, I spent the morning dropping in on
restaurants, trying to get a last minute table for my "boss."
I carried a half dozen bags from the big department stores and programmed my
cell phone to ring every six minutes so when I went into a restaurant to beg a
table, the phone would ring and I'd fumble with the bags and my glasses and the
phone while pretending to take the brunt of my employer's anger. I'd "yes
sir," and "no sir," and "I'm trying right now,
sir," like a champ. Sometimes, I'd manage to work up tears.
It worked like a charm. The hostess would see a frazzled twenty-something
trying to pay the bills. For most of the schmucks, it triggered a "for the
grace of God" reaction, and they'd check the reservation book "one
last time," even though they knew and I knew they were booked solid.
Checking the book was my opening. It gave me just enough time to pull a flash
bomb and a concussion grenade out of one of my many shopping bags and slip them
into a nearby planter or under the reservation stand. They were simple devices
on cheap timers, small and easy to overlook, until they went off. They were
designed to be bright and loud and not hurt anyone, but clear a room with fear.
I'd drop three or four devices while I waited, and then take the inevitable
negative answer with a sad smile, ask if they could make any recommendations
and leave. In and out. It was as easy as that.
A few times, I got a smirking butler type who fixed me with tight, unwavering
smiles and assured me they didn't have to look, there were no tables, Madame.
I'd fix them with my own unwavering smile and ask if I could use the ladies'
room. Nine times out of ten, I was told "Absolutely."
It was too easy. I hit fifty-seven of the most notable establishments in
Restaurant Row in under two hours, planting my weapons of mass confusion and
chortling to myself. Bye-bye, Valentine's Day. Hello, chaos.
Wrecking the wedding was going to take a little more effort.
First I tried calling Lewis from the only remaining pay phone in Duke City (one
block west of Civic Plaza, one block south of the Morning Bulletin tower), but
he answer. Then I tried all nine Callards listed in the book. Six were dead
ends, two didn't pick up and one was disconnected. I pursed my lips and studied
the world through the graffiti-scarred plexiglass. How had I met Lewis exactly?
Whose party
was that? I tapped my lip and remembered. Molly Parker, a fair-weather friend
and theater fanatic.
I dropped another two quarters into the phone and dialed, praying she'd be home
and be in the mood to chat. She picked up after the second ring.
"Hello?"
I went for jovial. "Molly! It's Cassie! How are you?" I didn't give
her a chance to answer. "Listen, it's been like forever since we've seen
each other. How 'bout we meet up for a drink this evening and catch up? I mean,
I know it's Valentine's Day, but what the hell? Moping isn't going to solve
anything."
"Oh," she gasped when I paused. "I'd love to, Cassie, because
it's been ages, but, well, I can't."
I pumped my fist. "You can't?"
"No," she said with regret. "Do you remember Lewis Webber?"
"I think so," I said, keeping the spite out of my voice.
"Accountant? Kind of weasel-looking face? What about him?"
"He's getting married tonight," Molly sighed. "And I have to
give a dramatic reading during the service. So I can't go. But maybe
tomorrow?"
Somehow, I managed to beg off of actually getting a drink with Molly Parker,
but still getting the details of the wedding: three hundred guests, Vera Wang
gown, ceremony at Chez Étoile, with reception to follow.
I hung up the pay phone and headed into a nearby internet cafe for research.
Chez Étoile was already home to a half-dozen mayhem bouquets, but they weren't
scheduled to go off until the ceremony was well underway and I wanted more. I
wanted to make Lewis, the weasel-faced accountant, pay. It took a little poking
around, a little cyber breaking and entering, but after another 90 minutes, I had
what I needed.
I didn't go home, but instead went to the rented warehouse space I used as my
secret lair to change and sort through my bag of tricks. I went through my
gear, hoping for inspiration and finally decided what this wedding needed was a
little shock and awe.
Lewis Webber was scheduled to marry his horse-faced bride at 7:30. The guests
were all seated by 7:20. The bride arrived in a rented Bentley limousine at
7:25. She wore a poofy winter white gown and carried pink roses. She looked far
too pleased with herself. It took her four minutes to climb from the car and
have her skirts poofed up by her attendants.
At 7:29, the hired string quartet struck up the wedding march. At 7:31, bride
and groom were united in front of their friends and family. And at 7:32, the
Ruby Minx crashed through the front windows of the restaurant, riding high on
her hover disk.
"A Valentine's Day wedding!" I shouted as I flew over the heads of
the assembled crowd, strewing concussion grenades and flash bombs through the
crowd. "How absolutely trite. I love it. It's so Lewis."
"It's the Ruby Minx!" a guest shouted as the crowd gasped and ducked
for cover. The bride cowered in Lewis's arms.
I flew over the wedding party and plucked the wedding rings from a satin pillow
abandoned by the ring bearer. "I'll just take those," I said briskly,
noticing the wedding photographer had pulled himself together and was filling
his roll with my destruction. I turned, jutted out a hip, tossed my hair and
gave a winning smile. POP! It'd make the front page of the Morning Bulletin
tomorrow, me in my red catsuit and straight red hair streaming, throwing a
seductive smile to the camera. It would be one of the best shots ever taken of
me in costume. Thanks, wedding photographer!
A couple of burly groomsmen decided to be heroes. I pulled out one of the two
machetes I keep lashed to my back. "You boys ought to be careful," I
said. "It's all fun and games until I cut off your hand."
The two men kept advancing. I kicked the disk into high gear, and aimed for
them. I kicked Burly Groomsmen #1 in the face with the top of my foot, and as
he dropped, I swung around and dropped Groomsmen #2 with solid blow to the top
of his head.
Just as Burly Groomsmen #2 dropped to his knees, the timers on my mayhem bombs
began going off, panicking the crowd and sending them running for the exit. I
caught up with the happy couple and grabbed them.
"Please," the horse-faced bride pleaded. "Please don't hurt
me."
"Oh," I said, keeping a grip on her left arm and Lewis's right arm.
"I won't hurt you."
The bride whimpered and closed her eyes, cringing from an imagined blow.
Instead, I shoved Lewis into the six tiered wedding cake and watched with glee
as three hundred Champagne flutes fell onto his buttercream-smeared ass.
"Lewis!" the bride shrieked, but I kept my grip on her arm.
"Save it, sister," I said. Her hand flexed in my grasp and I saw the
engagement ring wink in the light, a tacky oversized diamond set in yellow
gold. It was ugly, but I could fence it for rent. I slid it off her finger.
"Trust me," I said when she moaned. "I'm doing you a
favor."
I let her go and pushed her to the ground. As she scrambled to get up, I
dropped a manila envelope into her hands. She looked up at me, questioning.
"What's this?"
"Proof that he's screwing around on you," I said. Police sirens were
starting to go off, and I had to get the hell out of there. I threw her a
salute and made a break for it. In the envelope, the bride would find cell
phone bills and a printout of the blog maintained by one of Lewis's other
birds. The bride deserved to know she was marrying a weasel.
I skimmed across the rooftops, listening as screaming diners streamed from
restaurants. I salted the crowds with another couple of blasts and delighted in
their panicked screams. Chaos had come to Restaurant Row, with patrons clogging
the street in their bids to escape the bombs, making it impossible for the
public safety officers to get in and render aid. Or catch me, now that you
mention it.
I parked on the roof of Chez Étoile to watch the show, but I wasn't alone.
"Ruby," a voice rumbled in the darkness. I whipped around and saw
him, Duke City's hero, the grown man in a black bunny suit. My nemesis. The
Dark Avenger.
"That was quick," I said. "Did I interrupt a romantic evening?
Did your lady love demand you avenge her?"
"Why'd you do it?" he asked, moving towards me. He was on his own
hover disk. One of these days, I have to crack his secret identity and thank
him for building mine.
I turned to look at the anarchy in the street, crossing my arms over my chest.
"Valentine's day sucks. Someone had to cancel it."
"You hurt people, Ruby," the Dark Avenger said, advancing on me.
"You ruined a romantic evening for so many people. Why?"
He was getting close. He was always like this, doing the brooding hero line of
questioning shtick before launching into the fight. Me? I like to get straight
to the punching.
I cocked my leg and swung for the face, but he caught it in his bunny paws and
twisted, trying to topple my footing. I rolled with the motion, bringing my
other leg around and slamming into the side of my face, falling at the same
time. I caught the sides of my disk and pushed up into a handstand and flipped
to my feet. I moved a little out his range and pulled out both machetes.
"Seemed better than wallowing in self-pity," I said.
"Self-pity doesn't hurt anyone," he said, lunging for me. He wrapped
his arms around my hips. I tried to wiggle out of his grasp, but he wasn't
having any of it. I pulled his head back by his long, bunny ears. "Are you
going to make this worth my while?" I asked.
He grunted. I brought my knee up and connected with his chin. He slumped
forward and dropped his grip. I put one red boot heel on his head and bent down
to whisper in his ear, which probably wasn't the smartest move. He grabbed the
heel and pushed me backwards and put one foot across my throat. "If I had
known you'd taken it this badly," he said. "I would have sent you
flowers, Ruby. Maybe next year, when you're in prison."
I gasped for air. "You're...forgetting...one thing."
He cocked his head to the side and I pulled up my right hand, my fingers
wrapped around the detonation remote for the bomb I'd rigged on the main gas
line for Chez Étoile. He pulled his foot off my neck and made a grab for it. I
found my feet, smacked him across his stomach with a punch, collared him around
his neck and kissed him long and hard.
"I always like to go out with a bang," I said as we panted on
one another. He looked at me and I pushed the button. I sped upwards into the
night as the Dark Avenger flew for cover. The thirty second safety mechanism
I'd programmed into the timer counted down. The explosion was fantastic, an
orange and black mushroom cloud.
I looked over my shoulder and saw the Dark Avenger spinning out, away from the
blast, looking up at me. "Happy Valentine's Day," I murmured before
disappearing into the night. It was a blast.
|
|
|
