When Mystery Calls, One Man Usually Gets to the Phone First:
Russell Prime
The darkness retreated from the parallelogram of light washing from the opening door. I sat silently by the cold fireplace waiting for my chance to be a man, a tough guy. Neither silence nor patience are trademarks of mine, but this job called for both in spades. This insight does beg the question, "Well then, what are my trademarks?" Of course to this I answer, "The Christly Kicking of Ass and the Export of Satanic Pain." And of course I'm lying. I might not be lying if I said that my trademarks are puppy-eating and Hammer-dancing. But of course I would be. I suppose more than ass-kicking, hammer-dancing, et al, I really just sit silently and wait patiently for things. I still wouldn't really consider these trademarks of mine, but perhaps my real trademark is lying. It's not though.
Anyway, the darkness was retreating, &c. I was sitting by the unlit fireside minding my own business, which was at the moment to mind the business of that which was causing the door to open, for which I was sitting silently and waiting, et cetera. My waiting was less comfortable than I might have hoped because the armchair in which I tensely reclined seemed to have a few broken springs poking through the cushion, which was less of a cushion and more of a piece of cardboard, which it wasn't. Not literally, anyway. Metaphorically, sure. I just don't want anyone to think it's actually made of cardboard. Because it's not. Or is it? It's not. Although I can't really rule it out, I suppose--it was dark, after all, and furthermore I was quite focused on the whole door-opening business, which I should really get back to.
So, right, darkness retreating, me silently sitting, yata yata. A foot carefully set down past the flush wood transition not quite to the rug which bridged the distance between the shaft of light and my grim person, bracing for action in my armchair of less than desirable cushiness. The foot was sheathed in well-sewn leather, fashioned to a pinnacle of elegance in loafer form. Not to say that I'm particularly enamoured with loafers as a general choice for a man's shoes, because I'm not. In a very technical sense, I don't even own a loafer myself, let alone a complete pair of loafers. In a looser, less technical sense, I own six pairs of loafers--one for each day of the week, save for Sunday, which is foot-bath day--which are shined, lined in my west-most shoe closet, which is the more beloved of my three shoe closets. But technically I don't own any loafers in order to unfalsify my earlier testament concerning my nonplussity towards the loafer. And I mean the shoe, and not instead a person who loafs. I add that because you may have forgotten to what I referred since this aside started quite awhile ago. But I don't typically like the people type of loafer either, to keep the record straight.
Where was I? Darkness, door, foot...sure. I watched with a measured stare as the loafered foot set silently down, wondering to myself how I'd gotten myself into this situation. How I always get myself into these situations. Maybe danger is my lot in life. Funny, I'd always hoped that being a ball player would be my lot in life. I don't know why that would be funny. Maybe it's not funny. I've never been a terribly good judge of comedy. I mean, I like comedy, but that hardly qualifies me as some sort of expert on comedy. Or maybe it does, I don't know. I mean, I've heard of experts, but that hardly qualifies me as some sort of expert on experts. Or maybe it does, I don't know. At any rate, I'm no kind of expert and I'm no kind of ball player, but I was in some kind of trouble. At that moment, however, the owner of that loafer which was about to be placed on the rug by a creeping foot was in a lot more trouble, because he had to deal with me. Of course I also had to deal with me, but in a less assuming, less troublesome way. More like a "deciding what to eat for dinner" sort of way. Hmm...maybe macaroni and hot dogs.
But I wasn't thinking about dinner then. My mind was fully focused on my objective, except for that part where I was focused on how I'd gotten myself into this mess. But I was only focused on that other stuff for a short while, so basically I was focused on my objective pretty much the whole time. Which is sort of noteworthy as I'm known for having a relatively short attention span. I mean, it's not like having a short attention span is a trademark of mine...but let's not get into that again.
Right, so the second loafered foot landed in front of the first loafered foot on the rug, which was a lovely oriental number, if you're into that sort of thing. I'm not, but you might be. I'm just saying, is all. My eyes scanned from the loafer up the shin and over the knee of the shadowy figure obscuring the doorway. Not the shin and the knee themselves, but the pants draped over those parts, to be more accurate. His slacks were impressive, too. Sleakly lined, well fitted and ironed, with a flat front cut a man could kill for. I found myself wishing I could find pants that nice. Where did he buy them? What designer made them? Did they come in my size? I'm kind of hard to shop for; I'm awkwardly dimensioned, perhaps. I suppose if that were the worst of my problems, I'd have been doing pretty well. But it wasn't the worst of my problems, which brings me back to the man in the pants. The nice pants.
to be added to some other day