bigcloset
patreon
Waiting for Chicxulub
🕑 Added 2024-10-23 11:32:13 +0000 UTCWaiting for Chicxulub
by Joyce Melton
The first dinosaur arrived on the little hill about four a.m. on that late April morning. She knew she was a bit early, so she took the opportunity to force herself into the tangle of tree-like ferns that ringed the balder knob of the elevation. Then she waited, her heart thumping.
If the big male who ruled her and her sisters found her, she might be severely punished, though he was unlikely to kill her. He didn’t usually stir from his bower before sunrise which is why she had picked this time to go wandering.
Something large and heavy approached her hiding place. She trembled with excitement, opening and closing her mouth with anticipation. The colorful quills around her face rippled. Was it her own harem master? Or…the other large male dinosaur she had spotted climbing this same hill days ago?
It was! The big, muscular male paused, showing his profile against the darkened sky.
She burst from her hiding place and danced around him, opening and closing the frill of feathers that drew attention to her face. He’d come!
A brighter light showed in the sky, and they both turned to face it. But it wasn’t the sun….
***
I stopped typing. Of course, the phone had to ring just at the time I reached the story’s critical point. I sighed, then froze. That hadn’t been the tinkly sound of my cell phone but the full-throated ring of the landline that sat on the desk behind me.
I turned in my desk chair to face it. No one called me on my home phone. Except….
It rang again, echoing against the high ceiling of my loft apartment, and I stood to take the two steps needed to put me in reach of the seventy-year-old, black Bakelite instrument. I let it ring one more time before picking it up and holding the receiver to my ear.
I breathed into the mouthpiece, an interrupted puff of air that caught for a moment in my throat.
The voice I recognized spoke. “You know who this is.” It was a statement, not a question.
“Yes,” I whispered. My hand gripped the antique phone convulsively. I’d been expecting and dreading this call for weeks.
“Very good,” he said, a smile audible in his tone.
I shivered. “Please,” I begged him.
“Time for that later,” he shut me down. “You received a package in the mail a few days ago with no return address.”
“Yes,” I admitted.
“Open it. You’ll find some items of clothing I want to see you wear.”
I swallowed hard. “You want to see me?” I asked, my voice small.
“Of course,” he snapped. “I’m spending money and time on you!” He paused before going on. “Dress in the clothes provided, and the shoes. Wear your wig and some makeup. And that perfume I sent the time before.”
“A Thousand Flowers,” I said.
“That’s the one,” he agreed. “You’ve got an hour to get ready. A cab will be at the door of your building between 9 p.m. and 9:05. He knows where to take you, and he’s already been paid. Don’t bring any money or identification or your phone—not even your house keys. Just your purse with lipstick, compact and mascara. It will be enough.”
“I—” I began, but he cut me off.
He spoke in a low voice with a hint of hoarseness. “I won’t be waiting for you inside the bar he takes you to, but I’ll be watching. Go in and ask the bartender for an old-fashioned with extra bitters and an orange twist. He’ll have saved a seat for you at the bar. When you get your drink, hold it up to the light before taking a sip. Then wait for me to join you.”
“How—” I started again.
“You’ll know me,” he said. “I look like Walter White wearing a cloth cap.” His voice sounded amused again.
I shivered, but before I could think of a protest or a question, I realized he had already hung up. I did, too, the heavy old plastic rattling in the cradle.
I closed the files I’d been working on and signed off my social media accounts before turning off my computer. My hands shook a bit, and I debated with myself for a moment if I were truly going to follow his instructions.
An hour didn’t leave much time, not enough for a full bath, but I stripped my clothes off and used a washcloth to freshen up a bit before putting some of the perfume on. I smelled a thousand different flowery scents and smiled, remembering.
I found the package I’d received and opened it. I hadn’t done so before because I suspected who it had come from. The clothing inside was of very high quality and in my sizes: underwear, including a corset-like bustier; hosiery with garters; and a little black dress.
Another box within the larger one held shoes with three-inch heels, black with a red-accented vamp—a good thing I had been practicing.
I took my time getting dressed, enjoying the thrill of the material on my bare skin. The stockings, in particular. Some women prefer pantyhose, but I love the antique pleasure of tying my garters.
I giggled nervously, looking at my reflection in my full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. Would anyone else see me like this?
I pulled the LBD on. It had a short zipper in the back that was hard to reach but I managed, then fought with the hem that didn’t seem to want to reach what I thought was the proper level of modesty.
I gave that up for the moment, draped a towel around my neck to cover my bodice and started on my makeup, taking particular care to shape my cheekbones, my best feature I had been told.
A light spritz of hairspray to my face to set my makeup, then I pulled my best blonde wig over my short dark hair, adjusting the hidden cap to the perfect position. A little comb and brush work put my style right and another spritz to hold it. I fingered a locket on a gold chain. The voice had said nothing about wearing jewelry, but the chain had come in the same package as the perfume, weeks before. I slipped it on, letting it dangle on my chest.
I turned in front of the mirror, using a hand mirror to see what I looked like from behind. I worried a bit about how much rather-flat cleavage I was showing, and the hem of the dress had inched up again. But it was 8:57; I had no more time.
I made a little cloud with perfume and walked through it on my way out the door. My shoes tapping on the cheap tiles of the stairway made enough noise to cover the beating of my heart as I realized that the apartment door had locked behind me, and, following orders, I didn’t have my keys in my purse.
“Oh!” I said involuntarily. Was I being stupid—again? What if—?
But the cab driver, in uniform, was opening the ground floor door to the street for me. Not an Uber but an actual cab.
“Miss,” he said as I passed him holding the door.
“Th-thanks,” I stammered.
The door of a black limo already stood open at the curb, and the driver offered his arm to steady me as I slipped into the rear seat —fanny, foot, foot— to avoid flashing him in my ever-shortening skirt. I thanked him again, and he closed the door.
I nibbled on my lipstick nervously, then forced myself to stop that, but my fingers tried to tie themselves in knots as I fretted about where we were going. I had no control at all, and that made me feel a bit afraid.
We headed uptown, then over to the west just above the theater district, and the limo stopped smoothly in front of an Italian restaurant. I waited for what seemed like five minutes, sure that I had begun sweating nervously. Finally, the driver reappeared and opened my door.
I got out carefully, aware that this was another opportunity to flash someone if I hadn’t managed to show my panties getting in.
“Miss,” the driver said, holding his arm at the right angle and height for me to use it to lever myself out.
“Thank you,” I murmured while he closed the door, then held his arm out again to help me climb the curb. I stood for a moment, taking in the scene. A few people strolled past but paid no attention to me. A door next to the entrance of the restaurant had a sign above it reading “Diva Bar” and showing a neon outline of a woman in a 50’s style one-piece swimsuit; arms outstretched, head down, feet up.
I giggled, so frightened now that I almost tried to climb back into the limo.
The driver strode over and held the door of the bar open for me, calling me “Miss” one last time as I passed him. I turned to say thanks, but the door had already closed behind me.
It was dimly but adequately lit. A long wooden bar and five or six tables filled the front, with a bigger room visible in the back where some people seemed to be watching a large-screen television.
My feet stumbled as I approached the bar. I almost turned and ran when I realized the bartender was a woman. The voice on the telephone had said “he” would know me by what I ordered.
The woman smiled at me, though and asked, “What’ll it be, miss?” She wore the traditional barman costume of a white cuffed-and-collared shirt and bowtie despite her gender.
I giggled inanely, closing my eyes briefly in embarrassment. “An old-fashioned, please, with an extra splash of bitters and an orange twist,” I said with an effort.
She nodded, then indicated a stool at the far end of the bar. “You can sit there, Miss,” she said.
I eyed the seat with some reproach. My skirt seemed even shorter than before, and the stool a bit high. I felt every eye in the bar on me as I maneuvered on my heels to put my ass on the seat while keeping one hand ready to tug my skirt down. Was this stool higher than the rest?
My purse almost ended up on the floor before I figured out I could hang it off the back of the barstool. Then I dithered nervously, trying not to be obviously looking around for someone.
The bartender set my drink in front of me, an old-fashioned in a tall glass with a sprig of mint and a twist of orange. “Just the way you like it,” she said. “Strong and tall.”
I nodded, unable to speak. I tried to say thank you, but nothing came out, so I took a sip of the drink and tasted the peppery bite of rye whiskey, not bourbon. Was this how I liked them? But I’d never been in this bar before.
The barwoman leaned a bit toward me, over the counter, and I leaned toward her. “He’ll be here,” she whispered. “He wants to make you wait.”
I nodded again and looked toward the ceiling decorated with dozens of liquor glasses. She grinned and moved away.
How long would he make me wait? I took another sip of the old-fashioned. Did he want to get me drunk? The mix of flavors was exceptional, sweet with sugar and mint, the bitters sharp and meshing with the orange and rye. This was a very good bar.
I sipped some more, trying to relax. I attracted a number of looks sitting there but no one stared. I nibbled on the sprig of mint and tried not to think about—anything!
This had been going on for weeks. The evening calls, the gifts showing up, and never a glimpse of my…stalker?…admirer? Once, he had phoned me at nearly 3 a.m. and talked dirty to me for half an hour. It was scary but somehow fun. And now we were going to meet?
I’d looked up the value of that bottle of perfume; it hadn’t been cheap, and my jeweler said the chain and locket were 18-karat European gold. And tonight’s box had not been the first pair of stockings or shoes. I didn’t have a name to call him, but based on something he’d said, I began to think of him as Walter.
I giggled as I took another sip. I wondered what he’d think of me calling him that.
The barwoman approached me again. “If you finish your drink, I’ll bring you another, and he should be here soon after. I’m Charity, by the way, Char for short.”
“What?” I squeaked, trying not to be too loud. “He is trying to get me drunk!”
“Looks that way,” she agreed. “But face it, honey, when you came in that door, you were wound up tighter than a mummy’s cuckoo clock. If he’d come in and said boo to you then, you’d have left a skid mark running away.”
“Huh,” I said. I took another sip of the drink and then finished the last of it with two more. Still good, though the ice had melted and watered it down a bit.
Another glass appeared before me, as tall and dark as the first.
“Drink up, sugar,” said Charlene.
It had been hours since I’d eaten, and the first drink had begun to hit me. If I finished the second, I would be drunk. I’m a lightweight and a sloppy drunk. Surely Walter didn’t want me falling off my high heels? Or did he? Had he ever been around me when I was drunk?
I’d played this game before, trying to think who in my life might be calling me, sending me gifts. I was still clueless. His voice didn’t sound familiar, and I really thought I would recognize him if I’d ever heard it before. A low, raspy, smiling tenor—it was very distinct.
I had another couple sips of the new drink. It tasted even better than the first one, and I giggled for no reason at all. I put a finger on the tip of my nose. It felt a little numb, and I giggled again.
Then Char approached me with a phone in her hand. “Call for you,” she said with a smirk.
I took the phone, and because of the liquor, my hands didn’t shake at all. “Hullo? Walter?” I said.
He laughed. “Bring your drink to the back room. The ball game is over, and it will be quiet now.” He sounded confident and commanding.
“What if—” I began but he cut me off again.
“Just come. Bring your purse and your drink and meet me back here. You can do that, can’t you?”
“I hope so,” I said truthfully and giggled again. But he’d already hung up.
I looked around, and Charlene held out a hand for her phone. With the other hand, she poured another finger of straight Jim Beam Black Label rye to freshen my drink. I handed her the phone and stared at the glass.
“Have fun,” Char said, pushing the glass closer to me.
“Right,” I said. I made sure that my heels were not tangled in the rungs of the stool, then carefully stood up. I didn’t fall over, so I tugged my purse strap over my shoulder and grabbed my drink without spilling it. Amazing. The woman can hold her liquor after all?
Several people were grinning at me as I toddled toward the back room. I couldn’t look at them because then I would giggle and go boom, most likely. I walked sedately toward the back room where, sure enough, the TV was now showing quiet reruns of some old talk show.
A man wearing a soft white cap came to me, looking a bit more like Alec Baldwin than Bryan Cranston, but I still called him, “Walter?”
He laughed and took my drink, then offered me his arm to steady me. “Terry,” he said with a fond smile in his voice. “You’re delightful. But my name is actually Evan.”
I knew that voice. And I knew the smile I found in it. I giggled with the thrill of hearing it in person.
Sometimes, you wait and wait for Chicxulub, and finally, he’s here. But you’ll have to find your own meteor; this one is mine.
Comments
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Instinct? :)
Melanie Brown
How did the dinosaurs know what time it was?
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
Yep. :) The narrator is drunk. :D
Erin Halfelven at BigCloset
It's all from a dream. The writer of the dinosaur story gets interrupted by a phone call. :)
lisa charlenne
i agree with goddess interesting start
The Goddess
Nice story Interesting opening Is the bartender Charity or Charlene?
