Page 39 of Man Cuffed
I’m not talking about Hot Cop inside of me, though that would be nice too.
It goes without saying that my flash mob might be a complete disaster. Rehearsal isn’t foolproof. There are a million things that can still go wrong. Missed cues. Faulty props. Emergency interruptions.
I’m so nervous. But it’s still the good kind of nervous. Butterflies and hope. I can’t wait to see what happens next.
* * *
Ninety minutes later,Aubrey approaches me, clipboard in hand, messy bun tilting on top of her head, huge glasses sliding down her nose. She’s wearing a cute, flouncy sundress covered in tiny champagne bottles. She’s all sorts of adorable. “Okay. Are we ready?”
“Everyone is in place,” I assure both of us.
“But are weready, ready? Or just sort of ready?” I open my mouth to answer, but the poor thing just keeps going. “I mean, I really want to expand my business, you know? But this is terrifying. I’m not saying I don’t trust you—I do. I saw all the work you put in. But there aresomany people here! I can’t tell who’s part of the production and who’s here for fresh zucchini flowers! Those are really tasty when fried and stuffed. I haven’t had them in years and…”
I put my hands on her shoulder. Sort of to calm her down, but also to keep her from floating off into outer space. “We’re ready,” I say. “Ready, ready.”
“Okay.” She takes a deep breath. “Good.”
We’re standing in the middle of the farmers’ market. It’s noon on a Saturday, and the place is packed. I’m sure the weekends are always busy, but this is Next Level busy.
This is Flash Mob busy.
The farmers’ market is a long, narrow space, with a huge metal roof covering the booths that line each side. In the center, people mill around with environmentally correct fabric shopping bags stuffed with fresh produce. There are mounds of fresh vegetables and herbs, and baskets of flowers.
But that’s not all. There’s handmade pottery, grass fed beef, and artisanal goat yogurt. (Fromgoats. Notforgoats.) There’s also a guy who sells pasties, and every time I see his sign, I wonder if he knows that word has two definitions. One kind of pasty is a savory meat pie, and the other is what strippers use to cover their nipples.
I try not to confuse those.
A breeze brushes past my nose, and it’s scented with flowers and dill. Sunshine filters in, dappling the merchandise with light. Really, if someone were proposing to me, this would be a pretty cool spot.
A quick peek at my watch tells me we’re two minutes from go-time. I glance around. If you know what to look for, you can spot the theater people. They may be dressed like normal people, but they move with a curious fluidity.
Recruiting all my acting buddies for this gig wasn’t easy. Hell, I recruited anyone who would agree to show up. But it was my awkward, nerdy theater friends who were the most delighted to be included in this little scheme. Every participant is getting paid for their time, but even after expenses and the rehearsal space, I’ll still walk away with a couple grand.
Not bad for a week’s worth of on-and-off work. I could get used to this.
Aubrey jumps. Literally jumps. She spins around, pressing her hand to her ear, where a discreet earbud is tucked. But she’s about as discreet as the Secret Service at a political parade. “The target is back from her lunch break!” she yelps.
“That’s good,” I say in my most soothing voice. “Be chill, Aubrey. You have no chill.”
“Chill. Right. Chill,” she mutters. “Is the sky ready?”
Wordlessly, I point up at the ceiling, where the silk and ribbons are suspended.
“Right. Great. Okay. I’ll tell everyone toassume the position.”
“The phrase you’re looking for is‘places, everyone,’” I point out. “This isn’t a porn shoot.”
“Yeah, okay.” Aubrey raises a finger to her right nostril, closing it off, and takes a deep inhale. Then she switches sides.
“Are you okay?”
“Alternate nostril breathing calms me down.” After a moment she taps her phone and gives the signal. “Places everyone.”
Finally!
I take a casual glance down the row of booths, toward Loon Lake Dairy. Our client is standing there selling cheese that retails for thirty bucks a pound. He’s about to ask his girlfriend to make a lifelong commitment. If anyone should be nervous, it’s him. But I guess he outsourced that to Aubrey.
Just across from him is the flower seller’s stand. That’s how these two met—gazing into each other’s eyes during slow market days. As I watch, my high-school friend Lydia steps up to the booth and hands over forty dollars. She points at a bouquet of roses.
