Produce, Me? | Episode Two (Bayhem Edition)

…watch my things?…

You’ve chosen the Michael Bay edition of Episode Two.

Read the Baz Luhrmann edition of Episode Two.

Did you miss how this all started? Read Episode One.

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My apartment is a wreck of toppled civilizations. Last night’s skirmish: the Chinese were beat back by crafty Italians. But it was a sloppy massacre – bamboo spears against a phalanx of miniature plastic lawn tables. Burp! Armageddon is only a stiff arm and a garbage can away.

The train is full of babies holding briefcases wearing nice shoes. The doors open, babies waddle out. I follow, sighing as tourists block my path, all looking up at the skyscrapers. Idiots. Locals never look up.

The restaurant is hoity; I don’t belong. Frenchy-French-French: “Chant du cygne.” A jazzy samba plays. I’m escorted to a long bench, people on either side. Al’s seat is empty across the table. Pretty people chatting, gesticulating, slurping mimosas on a weekday? Dilettantes. I dry gulp my meds. A Yorkie-in-a-purse yaps next to me, the owner peels the layers of a croissant like she’s in an ad. She’s supermodel-pretty though, gives me a smile, looks at the dog and shrugs. She shushes, it ignores her.

A man in sunglasses studies her, then me. He knows I don’t belong here, she does. Can he see my hands shaking under the table? Where is Al? Waiters flow by in ironed aprons, pressed shirts, coiffed eyebrows. Everyone here is pretty. The dog keeps barking at me, yelling: Intruder!

I have to pee.

The croissant model leans to me, puts her manicured hand on my shoulder, “Watch my things?” She motions to a gift box on the seat, her food. The dog, now on a leash, keeps yapping from under her arm. Only in this restaurant would someone say that. Privileged. I nod and try to smile. She gives me a slow, thankful blink.

Sunglasses man watches her exit; we all do. She’s beautiful, even as the dog wriggles under her arm and down to the floor and out the door. I bet that dog’s shit comes out wrapped with a bow. Sunglasses man turns, I follow his gaze, to look at…the gift box. A sticker on it says: Fragile. Do people steal in fancy restaurants?

The waiter steps up, sweaty, like he’s just hiked Kilimanjaro to get to my table. He sets down a piece of paper and says, “Would you like to hear about today’s specials?” I look at the paper; it’s the menu (what’s a foie gras?). At the bottom is scribbled: Go outside.

I look at the waiter, his eyes are wide – bullfrog-wide – staring down at me. He shifts his head toward sunglasses man. I follow. The waiter taps the menu, calling my attention back. I look at the door, at sunglasses man, at the croissant model’s seat – the gift box. I hear: “Watch my things?” The waiter shifts, standing between sunglasses man and me.

Now I’m wondering…what kind of dick would steal from a supermodel? Paparazzi, that’s who. Would I get a reward for returning it?

Fifteen feet to the door. I slide, trying to look around the waiter – he shifts with me. I bump the package. That croissant model shouldn’t have her package stolen. The waiter mouths: NOW!

I grab the box and rush for the door, knocking the waiter backward. I’m gripping the box with one hand as I pull the door open. Behind me, the waiter falls into sunglasses man.

That dog has gotta be done crapping, right? I’m outside turning in circles, trying to hand the box to…an empty street. Like, nobody. And it’s quiet, almost silent. Something beeps. My head turns but my eyes know: the box. I try to turn it in my hand — the box is STUCK. And heavy.

I shake my hand. Shake-sha-sha-shake. Nothing. My hand is glued to the box, and I can’t let it go!

What the fuckaroo? Where is…

I stop and think: Hollywood Al. Of course! Master of the adventure movie. Auteur of the disaster flick. I spin in the street looking for cameras.

I’m in a movie!

Hi Mom!

Sunglasses man exits the restaurant.

“Wow!” I say to him, “what kind of glue is this?” I laugh, shaking the box. His eyes follow the box up-and-down.

“–take it easy. I’m here to help,” he says, one hand up, one on his…holster?

BAM! Pieces of the wall next to me explode – fragments of concrete fly everywhere. I hear tires screeching. Sunglasses man drops to the ground, looking; he sees what I see: sharpshooters on a roof.

Aren’t there supposed to be cameras? Stunt…people?

A voice rings through the street: “Stay where you are.”

The end of the street fills with police cars, then SWAT trucks. And, above them is…a helicopter!? I pull the edge of the box open just enough….wires. A clock. Grey putty packed all around. A BOMB!

Not. A. FUCKING. Movie.

The crowd from the restaurant bursts out — people all over the street. I run with them. We are cattle, scattering. I can hear tires squeal, the helicopter roars. Sunglasses man is up, following.

The next block. Run, shake-the-box, keep running. BEEP!

Can’t think. My brain is short-circuiting…the waterfront! Two blocks over, down the hill. I sprint on my scrawny legs. Must go! I’m out of the alley when I see more SWAT trucks turn the corner. Armed men jog in a line to either side. Did they send the goddamn army?! Last night’s food might be coming back up now.

I’m flying by office doors. The BEEP! is getting louder.

Into a side courtyard. The grass and shrubs (topiary children?) are well-manicured and the perfect place to find my dead body. No, I mean it. Very picturesque. Because it’s a dead end. Except for the door into a building. Unlocked, I enter.

A slight stairwell rises only a few feet. I hear singing getting louder. Through a doorway, more stairs. Then a doorway into darkness…as I burst through a curtain…onto a stage full of children. Parents in an auditorium watching. A hundred cell phones turn to capture my entrance.

A kid swivels to see me. I see snot and the streaks of stage fright tears.

BEEP-BEEP!

I don’t know what to do. I raise my hands, mimicking their stage dance. More kids are now turning. Arms raised I run to the other side of the stage past a teacher who tries to grab me.

My legs are burning. I’m hustling as fast as I can down a hall, past a classroom. Damn — private schools are really nice.

I burst through the front doors to see Sunglasses man. He’s on a motorcycle. No. A moped? I know nothing about mopeds, but he’s revving the engine…motor.

“Get on!” Sunglasses man shouts at me. I can hear the helicopter coming.

I jump on the back as we peel out. The front sidewalk of the school is torn up with bullets. Long trails of holes appear around us throwing dust into the air. The army of SWAT is running at us. They’re close enough to grab my soul, which is leaving my body as we speed away.

He, Sunglasses man, swerves. We’re across the road. On a sidewalk. He yells something at me. It sounds like “Watermelon!”

I yell back, “Waterfront,” then realize that’s what he said.

Over his shoulder he screams, “My pocket,”

I reach down, grabbing his thigh with my one hand. He swerves past cars and grabs my hand, putting it on his hip, his suit jacket pocket. “Oops” is all I can muster.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

It’s a tube of something. “Use it on your hand!” He shouts over his shoulder.

We’re on the downhill. I can see the water in front of us. I open the tube with my teeth, nearly falling backward off the banana seat. This…cycle…moped-thingy is incredibly fast for a street-legal lawnmower. I squirt the gunk on my hand like a kid with a bottle of squeezable ketchup. It slops everywhere in the wind.

BEEP-BEEP-BEEP-BEEP!

Sirens wail, lights sear my eyes – every mundane moment of my life suddenly flashing before me as the cops close in. What the H-E-Double-Hockey-Sticks am I doing here? They’re so close I can smell coffee and see flecks of bear claw in the mustache of the cop next to me.

The box is loose. It bobbles between my hands. Sheee-it!

Sunglasses man feels me move around, “Get ready to throw it!”

I’ve never been more ready to get rid of something. Sunglasses man expertly skids us in a wide arc. Is that something you want to be good at, at moped-ing? We slide right up to the edge of the dock, nothing but water out there.

The momentum and some luck let me hurl the box as far as I can into the air just as: BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

We fall to the ground. Wheels screech all around us. I can’t see it (my eyes are closed, and I’m in fetal position) but I can imagine every cop, SWAT, and off-duty meter maid are behind us, in wave-after-wave of blue and flashing lights.

Everyone comes screeching to a halt.

And then…nothing. I can hear my squeaky breath escaping clenched teeth.

Until…a hacking cough breaks the silence followed by a string of profanity.

Then, “CUT!”

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Music to read by:

1. Summer Samba by Ramsey Lewis

2. SUV Chase (Hancock OMPS) - John Powell

3. Downtown - Macklemore