stranger, enjoys an interlude with a fox and dreams of the salvation in the desert of tears, is my guiding star.
I close the door to my new apartment and wait for the elevator, thinking about the way destiny plays a role in the smaller picture. The doors open and I step inside, running my fingers along the brass rail. I hum an upbeat song and watch the descending numbers flicker. I step into the pristine lobby and wave to Wayne, my new doorman. This all belongs to me now, this is my life!
Outside in the crisp, autumn air, I contemplate my options. I’m a modern woman living her fantasy in the best city in the world. I’m free and independent and surprisingly, optimistic. The emotions start to build inside of me and I want desperately to throw a hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore . . . but I’m not That Girl , I’m Natalie LeGrange, and I will need an orange beret. And if I’m going to work a bold accessory like that, I will also need a new bag from Tory Burch. And some shoes . . . and I should really consider warmer highlights . . . oh, and a French dictionary.
Zacherie
“Non, je ne regrette rien!”
~Edith Piaf
2002-12-15
New York City
Operation Eggnog
1900 hours
T HE MISSION IS SIMPLE: retreat into the darkness, then attack.
My extensive training back at Camp Lejeune prepared me for every type of combat, but what my training officer failed to mention is how difficult it would be to keep quiet and focused on my very first mission. I’m anxious and a little nervous, but I’m also smiling like a dumbass.
I shiver in the corner, trying to perfect a realistic smoke stack with my hot breath, and think about my training officer – good ol’ Captain Blowhole. He was always yelling at me for being too tall and goofy and relied heavily on nonsensical name-calling like: sausage gobbler , pencil dick , fanny fucker and my personal favorite, homo-retard . How could I not laugh? But I bet that pompous prick would be impressed with the stealth-like tactics I pulled off tonight. Sneaking in here without being detected by any guards or civilians – maybe Lt. Pussy Parker would be more of an asset doing covert operations instead of reorganizing the unit’s pharmaceutical distribution like a Navy geek.
Operation Freedom is an entirely separate war from my fucking assignment – I like to call it: The War on Drug Dispensing. I’ll be stuck in Kabul at Camp Hammond for another six weeks taking inventory, labeling, administering placebos, implementing a complete computer overhaul and wearing a fucking lab coat – exactly like the one I vowed never to wear again. Eventually I will be moved to Tora Bora to defend the Afghani mountainfolk from those Taliban fuckers (which I hear entails a lot of goat-herding.) But being part of the Marines, no matter what my task, is an honor and a job I take very seriously.
Shit. Someone’s coming.
I bunker down among the shadowy confines of silence and control my rapid breathing. Adrenaline is such an intense rush, but I’ve waited too long for this precise moment to screw it up now. Keep quiet . Be still . And don’t knock over the stack of DVDs .
Booted footsteps tap against the wood floor.
A key jiggles in the door.
The door swings open as she stumbles into the apartment with a raspy cough. Her foul mouth ejects her go-to sentiments, rousing my attention and forcing me to swallow back my laughter.
“Fucking shit. Fucking cold,” she mumbles.
I rise from the corner, excited that my target will be easy to overtake. She punches the light switch and a string of white Christmas lights dangling from the mantle twinkle in my periphery. I smile, comforted by how warm she makes me feel.
I reach out my arms and calmly say, “Hey, Natalie.”
Before I can give her the embrace I’ve been dreaming of, her large purse swats me in the head. And in the arm. And damn, she’s a lot stronger than I thought. She squeezes her eyes closed as she digs inside her bag, her hands
I close the door to my new apartment and wait for the elevator, thinking about the way destiny plays a role in the smaller picture. The doors open and I step inside, running my fingers along the brass rail. I hum an upbeat song and watch the descending numbers flicker. I step into the pristine lobby and wave to Wayne, my new doorman. This all belongs to me now, this is my life!
Outside in the crisp, autumn air, I contemplate my options. I’m a modern woman living her fantasy in the best city in the world. I’m free and independent and surprisingly, optimistic. The emotions start to build inside of me and I want desperately to throw a hat in the air like Mary Tyler Moore . . . but I’m not That Girl , I’m Natalie LeGrange, and I will need an orange beret. And if I’m going to work a bold accessory like that, I will also need a new bag from Tory Burch. And some shoes . . . and I should really consider warmer highlights . . . oh, and a French dictionary.
Zacherie
“Non, je ne regrette rien!”
~Edith Piaf
2002-12-15
New York City
Operation Eggnog
1900 hours
T HE MISSION IS SIMPLE: retreat into the darkness, then attack.
My extensive training back at Camp Lejeune prepared me for every type of combat, but what my training officer failed to mention is how difficult it would be to keep quiet and focused on my very first mission. I’m anxious and a little nervous, but I’m also smiling like a dumbass.
I shiver in the corner, trying to perfect a realistic smoke stack with my hot breath, and think about my training officer – good ol’ Captain Blowhole. He was always yelling at me for being too tall and goofy and relied heavily on nonsensical name-calling like: sausage gobbler , pencil dick , fanny fucker and my personal favorite, homo-retard . How could I not laugh? But I bet that pompous prick would be impressed with the stealth-like tactics I pulled off tonight. Sneaking in here without being detected by any guards or civilians – maybe Lt. Pussy Parker would be more of an asset doing covert operations instead of reorganizing the unit’s pharmaceutical distribution like a Navy geek.
Operation Freedom is an entirely separate war from my fucking assignment – I like to call it: The War on Drug Dispensing. I’ll be stuck in Kabul at Camp Hammond for another six weeks taking inventory, labeling, administering placebos, implementing a complete computer overhaul and wearing a fucking lab coat – exactly like the one I vowed never to wear again. Eventually I will be moved to Tora Bora to defend the Afghani mountainfolk from those Taliban fuckers (which I hear entails a lot of goat-herding.) But being part of the Marines, no matter what my task, is an honor and a job I take very seriously.
Shit. Someone’s coming.
I bunker down among the shadowy confines of silence and control my rapid breathing. Adrenaline is such an intense rush, but I’ve waited too long for this precise moment to screw it up now. Keep quiet . Be still . And don’t knock over the stack of DVDs .
Booted footsteps tap against the wood floor.
A key jiggles in the door.
The door swings open as she stumbles into the apartment with a raspy cough. Her foul mouth ejects her go-to sentiments, rousing my attention and forcing me to swallow back my laughter.
“Fucking shit. Fucking cold,” she mumbles.
I rise from the corner, excited that my target will be easy to overtake. She punches the light switch and a string of white Christmas lights dangling from the mantle twinkle in my periphery. I smile, comforted by how warm she makes me feel.
I reach out my arms and calmly say, “Hey, Natalie.”
Before I can give her the embrace I’ve been dreaming of, her large purse swats me in the head. And in the arm. And damn, she’s a lot stronger than I thought. She squeezes her eyes closed as she digs inside her bag, her hands
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