The Name’s Bond (Finale)
Entrance to my apartment.
(Pt. 1 and Pt. 2)
3 PM: The Man in Black
The streets were oddly quite at this hour.
I took my laps and counted eleven security cameras, mostly on the west side covering the unimaginative tax bureau building which consumes half the block.
Post modern architecture is oppressing. When did we start sacrificing quality and imagination for practicality?
Two grandmas stopped their conversation to watch me pass. I tried to offer a warm greeting in exchange for peaceful passage on their block but instead I received a mean glance from the one with sharp cheekbones and an even meaner string of words from the one with glasses slipping off her nose.
I pleaded innocent by raising my hands and smiling awkwardly.
It didn’t work. Blood rushed to my cheeks. I know this feeling. It’s happened more times than I care to count whilst traveling: I offended someone without knowing how.
Like that time in Istanbul when I couldn’t read any of the signs at the hammam and accidentally wandered into the women’s side. Before I even knew what I was looking at, a shoe came flying directly at the center of my noggin.
Okay, that time I know how I offended someone. But this time it was more subtle.
It was because I had used the informal greeting instead of the one reserved for elderly people. By addressing them casually, I showed indifference to their status and age.
To travel is to be humbled. Without knowledge of the local customs, you are bound to embarrass yourself.
With the peaceful passage being denied, I cast myself into exile before they could: I head for the park.
Besides a babushka with a red scarf wrapped around her head, it was completely empty. She walked like she had nowhere to go until eventually finding a bench in the far corner.
There are two primary ways babushkas sit:
Leaned back with hands laced over their stomach, scrutinizing all who pass.
With their head slightly bowed, hands still laced over their stomach, appearing like they are on the verge of a nap.
She sat in the latter way.
I chose a bench closest to the fence because it was partially hidden behind a thick tree.
A man in black strode in a couple minutes later and settled on a bench 10 meters in front of me.
The babushka was facing away from him and he was facing away from me. I could watch everything without being seen.
Now, I didn’t expect there would be too much to watch in a park with three people.
I was wrong.
This scene turned out to be the most exciting of the day.
The man in black, not much older than I, had no headphones in. Also, unlike most people our age, he didn’t habitually pull out his phone after sitting down. It appeared that this was the rare breed of man who liked to take time to think.
From that point on, I became keenly interested in him.
He sat the way people who are comfortable with themselves sit. After scanning slowly from right to left, he looked up towards the trees.
In a single abrupt movement, he pulled his arm off the back of the bench, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward. Something had caught his attention.
I followed his gaze to a lamp. His head didn’t move for the next thirty seconds. Then he promptly spat on the ground and flipped the streetlamp off.
M, I could make this up, but I wouldn't.
Was he upset about something or just plain old nuts? My eyes strained harder. There was a black ball in the lamp. Wait. Could it be?
Regular lamp.
Dystopian, hidden camera lamp.
He was even more appalled by the sight than me.
As if continuing his silent protest, he reached into his black denim jacket (which he rocked with the collar popped) and pulled out a pack of tobacco and papers. Within half a minute, a stream of steel blue smoke curled away from his hand.
He was too young to hold a cigarette the way he did. He was more familiar with it than Picasso was with a paintbrush.
Now, settled back in his comfortable position, he seemed to be enjoying the park. Not once did his head turn back towards the hidden camera.
Mine did. And I noticed that it hadn’t rotated away from his direction. This was the type of security camera that usually rotates on a timer.
No more than five minutes later, two policemen strutted into the park. They both wore neon vests. The one on the older cop couldn’t velcro shut.
Our man in black casually glanced at them but paid no mind. At this point, his cigarette was long gone.
They walked directly at him until they were standing above him. The older one grunted something in Hungarian.
“Sorry pal, Angol.”
Ah, so our man speaks English?
The old one looked tiredly at the younger one.
“No smoking!” Chirped the younger one with the extra zest you can always count on a younger cop to have.
“Why? This is a park.”
The older one fumbled around for his walkie-talkie and mumbled something into it. They weren’t making their own decisions.
The man in black leaned even further back into the bench. This was getting interesting.
A cracked voice came through and a smirk spread across the young one’s face.
“ID.”
“Really?”
“Really. Ticket.”
The older one didn’t look so sleepy now. He was standing up straighter and breathing through his mouth like a dog waiting for a bone.
“Alright, alright. Be cool. It’s in my wallet.”
As he stood up, his arm on the back of the bench stiffened and he propelled himself over it and into a sprint!
The policemen looked at each other with gobsmacked faces before beginning to yell at the top of their clearly cigarette-affected lungs. By the time they started their chase, our man was well out of the park.
He grinned as he ran past me. The smell of smoke and rebellion trailed after him.
A few minutes later, the pigeons had returned and the park was silent save for their little squabbles and flaps of wings. The babushka in the red scarf remained facing away with her head tilted down. She never turned to see what had happened.
M, ask Q-Branch to hack into the city’s security systems.
I want to know how they knew he was smoking. There was no one in the park that could’ve called it in. I’ve named all of the parties present. He also finished smoking three to four minutes before the cops entered the park, yet they clearly came for him.
Do they have someone monitoring footage in real time?
Or is this something more insidious: an AI program trained to recognize movements associated with smoking (or any other habit frowned upon by the ruling power) which automatically dispatches the nearest neon-vested pawns?
Is this level of surveillance required to keep women safe at night? Is this the price of safety?
It’d be worth it if we were guaranteed that they would respond to crimes that mattered as quickly. Unfortunately, we know that’s not how it works.
I walked back to my building and swung open the heavy door. The hallway felt warm and smelled of the type of perfume marketed for pretty women that pretty women never wear. Her scent lingered in the stairway until the second floor.
By the third floor, I smelled smoke.
Sure enough, like Siddhartha under the fig tree, my neighbor sat on his doorstep in deep meditation.
5 PM: 500,000 Stamps
I swing through the park before heading to the museum. The kids are out of school now. Some are playing basketball while others play tag. There's a little girl chasing a pigeon and a boy standing on a bench swinging a stick around.
All the kids mingle together except for the gypsies. They stick to their own.
I wonder if at that age they even think about it? They will later on. For now they play hard. More freely than the other kids.
At this point, I was going to make a transition into the stamp museum.
Something about how I felt like a kid again running through the museum, imaging that it was my collection (I was the only person in there) and how I had traveled the world to collect each one.
“And this here, the Hawaiian Missionary Stamp, usually costs anywhere from $50,000 to $70,000 in good condition. But I was at the Casino de Monte-Carlo, you see, we were there for… oh the reason doesn’t matter. What matters is the Swedish gentleman I was playing against had one of these stamps in his collection. He had just purchased it at auction a month prior. I suppose you know how the story ends?”
Now I’d release a villainous laugh.
“The poor chap didn’t even own the stamp long enough to admire it!”
More cruel laughter.
I’m not even sure who I’d have that conversation with. Maybe my nephew. Probably my dog.
Anyway, M, I decided the stamp museum which boasts a rare collection of 500,000 stamps is worthy of an essay of its own. It was too interesting to sandwich into this memo. I don’t want to dilute the story.
You were thinking the same thing?
Very good. Let’s carry on then into the evening.
10 PM: The Woman in Black
The evenings would be a terrible time to walk if you were single or desperately alone. Doing so when you are both of those things can lead to nothing short of pure madness.
Everyone I see seems to be on a date. With the work week behind them, they walk arm-in-arm giggling as if the world was theirs.
It makes me want to swallow a handful of rusted nails, or go mad, maybe both. Unfortunately, neither is an option. I’m on assignment here. My eyes must remain level and cool, never betraying the blazing fire within.
I’m posted up against a wall watching the pairs pass. To appear casual, I’m cleaning my nails with a toothpick. My nails are already clean. I performed the exact same service earlier today when I was procrastinating my writing, but right now the last thing I want to look like is a creep with nothing to do.
I’m a gentleman with nothing to do. It’s quite different.
Couples of all types walk by. Some are on their first date, others have been dating for years. Not all of them love each other equally.
One can know this simply by studying their eyes and body language. How they hold hands, how they look at each other, how the guy looks at other girls, how the girl looks at me.
There’s a woman standing on the steps of an apartment building and a man standing on the sidewalk next to her.
She’s wearing a lace-trimmed halter dress. It’s black and looks to be made of silk because as she moves the folds in the fabric shimmer under the streetlamp like moonlight dancing over the water. On her left arm, a large purple and black bruise contrasts the fairness of her skin. It’s the width of two fists and is predominately on the inside of her bicep. A fight, a fall, a horseback accident, one can only suspect where the bruise came from. What I’m interested in now is the way she carries herself despite the injury. She’s sleeveless! It could’ve been covered easily, but instead she chose to show it off.
I wonder if her date realizes all of this? The poor guy will be shredded to bits if he doesn’t. A woman that is equally comfortable in a silk dress and heels as she is showcasing her battle scars is a dangerous woman indeed.
Her posture is proper but she’s comfortable in it, as if to quietly state she expects to get what she wants, and for good reason too.
I doubt her date is noting all of this.
He looks like me, if my jawline was sharper and my hair was thicker. Judging by their outfits, I’d guess they are coming back from the opera. Maybe a symphony.
Her hand is resting on the door in a relaxed manner. She’s not trying to escape him. In fact, she likes him. Or at the very least, likes the idea of him.
I’m out of hearing ranges so I have to read their lips:
“I enjoyed our evening, but never caught your name, Mr…?”
“Bond. James Bond.”
No that wasn’t it. It was closer to:
"Thank you for tonight.”
“The pleasure is mine. When will I see you again?”
“Hmm.” Her head tilts as her lips twist ever so slightly into a coy smile. “It’s a busy week for me.”
She’s testing him.
There’s a pause, his lips aren’t moving.
Maybe he doesn’t realize he’s being tested? If he doesn’t, this will likely be the last date. A clever woman like that reserves little tolerance for boredom. She’s wants a man who can challenge her.
“I’ll call you Friday then.”
Without waiting for a response, he reaches his hand behind the small of her back and pulls her in for a kiss.
Her body completely relaxes as she melts into his arms. She was hoping he would do that. Her hand leaves the door and finds his face.
Right about now, I’m battling intrusive thoughts of tossing this well-dressed pumpkin headfirst into the nearest (and hopefully rat-infested) dumpster. I refrain only because I respect a man that kisses a woman like the future of the world depends on it.
If she whispered goodnight, I didn’t see it.
Casanova stays at the door, smiling, even after it closed. He’s thinking to himself, “I’m the luckiest guy in the world.”
A fluffy man returning home from the 24/7 bodega also witnessed the scene. His jaw was clenched and his brows furrowed. Our eyes met. I saw pain, agony, disdain. Years of it. The last kiss the landed on his chapped suckers came from some stranger’s poodle.
I watched him continue his solitary march home.
He’s thinking he’s the unluckiest guy in the world: “Why couldn’t I be taller? Why did my hair fall out so early? Why do I have this belly?”
He knows the last one is within his control, so he quickly shoves it back into the numb corners of his mind.
Casanova scored a kiss. Fluffy scored a couple packs of double chocolate chip cookies. Zane scored a few details that would make his story better.
10:45 PM: The Villain
Next to the entrance of my building, there are half a dozen emptied tomato sauce cans sitting by the trash. They belong to the pizzeria next door, Pizza 420, and this is how they let their customers know they are open for business.
No hours on the window, no set days, no nothing. Just emptied tomato sauce cans and a strong scent competing with the smell of fresh baked pies.
I’m back in my building. The stairs are colder than they were earlier today.
As I ascend the stairs, I rack my mind for a way to weave this day’s story together. My notes are rich but I don’t see the thread.
I reach the third floor and smell smoke.
He’s just where I left him. The only difference is how much ash is in the pickle-jar.
Could he be the thread? His actions today were the antithesis of mine.
I looked up; he didn’t. He won’t remember today; I will. I have trouble fitting all the interesting details into this story; he thought the day was boring.
The point isn’t to put down a stranger.
The point is to recognize that on some days I am him. Maybe on most days. And on those days, I commit humanity’s unforgivable sin: I waste life.
11:59 PM: Mission Complete
Barman, how about a martini? You know how I take it. By Ken Jarecke.