Angie & Ella's First Novel :: Sliptongue Magazine

Excerpt from Chapter II, TRAILER TROLLOP ROMP & MARTIN'S COMEUPPANCE, of the first Angie & Ella Epistolary Novel

by Robert Scott Leyse

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(Angie and Ella are second year associates at a midtown Manhattan law firm. They are fast friends and fond of reliving their escapades, as well as concocting new ones, via email. Angie is 5' 7" and has wavy chestnut hair. Her brown eyes easily flare with emotion, and she has a reputation for being somewhat excitable. Ella is 5' 5" and has raven black hair. Her blue eyes easily flood with silver light, and she has a reputation for being somewhat adventurous. Both, on account of their beauty of face and shapeliness of figure, routinely attract lingering glances.)

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Angie to Ella
Sent: Monday, June 30, 2003 2:03 PM

Ella, why on earth would you fail to show up at work today? I thought we had the maul-Martin's-peace-of-mind project all planned out! I was thirsting to hike up my skirt and get him salivating without you but, of course, that would preclude having the added dimension of yourself posing as sympathetic confidant and providing advice as to how he's to court my favor. But I want to punish him in the worst way! Want him languishing in the toils of violent desire he's unable to satisfy! Want him thirsting for me while showing him nothing but cruel disdain! And you know this! So why would you call in this morning saying you needed to take a "personal day" (Oh, yeah, I know about that: Sturmheld's secretary informed me!) and deprive me of my revenge?

I expect an answer before midnight! I need to know if you'll be here tomorrow! That creep has got to blaze in his very own personal hell of an inflamed body that he's unable to escape from! What he did to Linda's inexcusable, and he's going to suffer miserably for it!

So let me know, Miss Unreliable!

Your,

AngieAngel

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Ella to Angie
Sent: Monday, June 30, 2003 10:46 PM

Darling, I apologize profusely! And don't you worry, we'll have arrogant thoughtless Martin incurably melancholic by the end of the week! I'm definitely coming in tomorrow, as much to assist you in your project as to justify Sturmheld's confidence in me. (I've been busy pacifying him for the past three hours for today's absence by faxing in some new matter work on the [____] offering.)

So why was I absent today? Simple: I had another Stevie adventure! They seem to be coming thick and fast of late, taking up all of my spare time and intruding on time I don't necessarily have to spare; but why shouldn't they? Stevie's a bottomless well of imagination-stimulation and there's no sense in letting such abundance go to waste; because, if my imagination's stimulated, my svelte lil' body's stimulated and la petite mort truly becomes a fountain of life! Stevie's always willing and I'm always willing: not a chance am I going to say no to another installment of our ongoing rollercoaster ride in fantasy-becomes-flesh! Stevie makes me feel sultry and seductive, as if a dead man would spring to life at the sight of me: such feelings are irresistible to a vain lil' fashion plate plaything like me! I apologized for missing work today, but I'm actually not sorry in the least bit! And before you get annoyed at that lil' confession, let me tell of today's fantasy fun: maybe then you'll understand why the mess-up-Martin's-manhood thing had to be placed on hold! I'm sure you will, because you're a funloving fantasy-fest mongering floozy too!

My fun as follows:

I finally fulfilled one of my most treasured ambitions: indulgence in a trailer trollop fantasy fling! Dressing for the fling was a delight-unto-itself: I had a fine doll-myself-up time of it in the bathroom, with the CD player blaring dance music, an organic health bar and plate of mixed berries for nibbles, fizzy spring water with lime juice infusion for quaffing (Ha, ever notice how annoyed some people get at our finicky health food diet? - accusing us of being food snobs simply because we have the good sense not to cram our gullets with saturated fat soaked garbage? - simply because we refuse to undermine our energy with empty caloried trash? Well, we eat right to play right, don't we? There's nothing more essential to having fine sex adventures than a clean bill of health; and if one makes oneself ridiculously healthy... Oh, ho ho! I eat right to lust right! Good nutrition keeps the slut fires soaring! Good nutrition brings about that itching-to-rut bouncing-off-the-walls feeling of empowerment I love so much!); I didn't step from the bathroom for at least three hours, being as how I also did plenty of trail-and-error mirror star stuff for the pure joy of it! After all, why bother to get ready for a date, if I can't play like a little girl who dreams of growing up to have the boys falling and fawning at her feet?

As for what I wore: 1) a polyester leopard print skirt, with slits very sloppily cut up each side with a pair of scissors; 2) a pink pullover, sleeveless and of faded cotton with some bleach splotches dribbed on; 3) a God-awful wig, dirty mousy brown and piled up in some sort of circa 1950s do; 4) the cheapest brassiere I could find at the drugstore, with the tan staps dangling down my arms (A discomfort I was willing to endure for the sake of trailer trollop autheticity.); 5) plastic gold bedroom slippers with the toes cut off (Not the easiest things to saunter down the sidewalk in; but, again: for the sake of having the best trailer trollop getup ever.); 6) bright blue horn-rimmed sunglasses; and 7) pink stockings with lots of runs. And then there was the makeup, layered on like I've never done in my life! Just take my word for it: I was something of a hybrid of clown and witch, fit for a carnival or Halloween! There was enough of it on me to make me feel like my cheeks were being pulled down my face! In short, I didn't just look like a trailer trollop, I was a satire of what a city girl like me thinks a trailer trollop looks like! By the time I was done, make up was spilled all over the vanity and floor - nail polish splattered, sparkles scattered, a compact shattered! 'Twas a labor of Hercules, and I was like as not to orgasm just from the delight of making that kind of mess...

OK, so I'm ready and it's nearly eleven o'clock. Stevie's not at his apartment: he's taken a room at the Essex house, a brilliant ad lib of setting (He called at about nine-thirty to tell me.) that lends more of a myself-as-a-trampy-out-of-towner feel to this grand event. It was worth it for what happened in the Essex House lobby alone...

The reaction from the man at the front desk is priceless: first, there's a drop-jawed gaping-eyed look of utter astonishment – "His eyes opened up to swallow the sky," as they say; then there's a huffy gathering up of his dignity, a look like he's about to shoo me away. So I speak up and, in my very sophisticated (If I say so myself!) attorney voice, say: "Mr. Bergendahl is expecting me in room 1544. Please tell him the girl from Arkansas is here to discuss the legal matter." Well, the deskman's face is contorting every which way; the shoo-away impulse makes an embarrassed retreat, and confusion reasserts itself. "Yes, Ma'am," he finally manages while continuing to look me up and down, "I'll let Mr. Bergendahl know." He makes the call while exchanging a sort of, "She seems to actually know someone who's staying here, so I guess I have to do this." look with his coworker, a fiftyish woman. She's looking at me as if I'm some sort of riddle to solve – undecided as to whether I'm a hooker, lunatic, bonafide hick, or bright girl playing games: no real way for her to know, right? Ha ha ha!

It's during the deskman's ring upstairs that Stevie distinguishes himself in the gratuitous pranking department, asking (as I quickly discern) the man to describe me.

"Uuuhh... What?" the deskman manages to articulate, becoming extremely uncomfortable. His eyes scitter every which way, as if seeking to locate someone to pass the phone to; obviously, he doesn't dare bother the woman, who's probably a superior. There's no one nearby, though - what a shame: he's stuck with the unpleasant situation. (And how I do adore being an unpleasant situation that some pompous dolt must deal with!)

Stevie obviously reiterates his request more emphatically, because the deskman answers: "Sir, I realize it's a simple question... I wasn't sure I heard you right... No, Sir, I'm not trying to be difficult... I don't doubt you, I..." Again he trails off, treating me to a glance of alarm; you'd think he's being asked to provide intimate details of his sex life, or lack thereof...

Then a look of relief comes into the deskman's face; he tells Stevie: "I'll just pass her the phone." and extends it towards me in a manner that I find insulting, because there's an implied command to take it from his hand.

"Oh, no!" I quickly say, taking a step back in horror. "Public phones are contaminated - unsanitary, covered with germs! I just got over a bad cold, and I know a public phone was the cause! I'm never touching a public phone again!" Ha ha, as if I'd ever allow a conceited clown like this deskman to wriggle out of a ticklish situation! As if I'm the sort of girl who's going to do violence to her dignity by blindly obeying the laughably fake firmness of manner with which he holds the phone to me while giving me one of those pathetic meaningful looks! I'm thinking: "The moon will tumble into the Atlantic Ocean before I'll take that phone from you, buster! Not a chance am I letting you off the hook, cringing unmannerly coward!"

Then I add in one of those evil-polite, laced-with-poison, tones: "Sir, I am very surpised that a man in a professional situation would thrust a phone at me as you have. In the first place it's rude; in the second place it's not your place to ask me to do your job for you; in the third place I have no idea where that phone's been or whose lips it's touched or what sicknesses those lips might be transmitting (Here I give him a particularly derisive look.) and... Sir, it's a health hazard and I am truly astonished."

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, as they say. Now our deskman stammers: "Ma'am, I meant no disrespect...the gentleman asked me to describe you... All due respect to him, he's put me in an embarrassing circumstance... I thought it might be indiscreet...wanted to cause no offense, Ma'am!"

"Well, just do your job and describe me, then - I won't be offended. Mr. Bergendahl's an important man who must guard against unsolicited visitors - he's just being careful. Go ahead and tell him what I look like."

Oh, Angie Honey! I had to turn my head away and pretend to cough to conceal the grin that flared onto my face! And I know what you're thinking: a shameful instance of failing to maintain my playacting front! But you had to be there! An icy-miened hanging judge would've laughed at the deskman's twitching face! Plus Stevie starts speaking on the phone so loud I can almost make out the words and, in his haste to bring the receiver back to his mouth, the deskman butterfingers it, drops it on the desk.

And then the deskman's saying: "Sir, there's no problem here... I dropped the phone, I apologize... No, Sir! There's not a robbery going on - no commotion here! Yes, of course... She's wearing a leopard dress...a pink shirt... Yes, Sir, I think her hair's a wig... What?"

OK, now Stevie might be going too far; it wouldn't do to give the game away...

"Her stockings, Sir?" And here the deskman turns to the fiftyish woman, saying: "I think something's funny... He wants to know what kind of stockings she's wearing!"

"Uh, begging your pardon, Ma'am," he quickly adds turning towards me. "I can't be held responsible for what Mr. Begendahl's asking me to tell him..."

And then, turning back to the woman: "Will you please take the phone, Claudia? I'm not going to do this!"

Before Claudia can take the phone I say: "Sir, here's my company ID - just tell Mr. Bergandahl, then this will be over." I'd already fished my ID from my wallet for the purpose of eventually treating the deskman to some brain-straining contradiction - always good for a laugh. Now I'm forced to use it prematurely...

With a gesture of impatience - because he's beginning to wonder if he's being toyed with, thanks to Stevie's pushing the envelope too much (Doesn't he always?) - the deskman brings the phone back to his mouth and says: "Mr. Bergendahl, she's handed me her ID. That's right... It says that she's an attorney at [____]. Sir, it's her picture. Her name's Ella Jody Wishingrand, Esq... I wasn't stalling, Sir! I would've done this to begin with had you requested it. We're not in the habit at the Essex House of asking for the IDs of vistors of our esteemed guests, Sir. Yes, Sir, she's on her way up."

The deskman stares at my ID for a moment longer, then back at me; he's not bothering to conceal the question in his eyes - a rather bare-faced look of baffled curiosity. Obviously, he's perplexed by the contrast between my present appearance and that of myself in the ID photo, where I'm dressed immaculate New York corporate in my navy suit - a perfect balance between conservative and sexy, courtesy of Janine (style consultant extraordinarie!) at Bergdorf's. Choosing to be a lil' bit miffed at the man's presumptuous look, I say with calm coldness: "Sir, I do not feel it behooves you, as an employee of a world class hotel, to concern yourself with matters that are none of your business. I will not tolerate being stared at in that way."

"Uuhh..." is all he can manage, looking for all the world like he'd dearly love to sink into the floor.

"That's hardly a response that does you credit, Sir," I say in my best native Manhattanite manner, with contempt echoing between the enunciated words. Ha ha! He's completely forgotten to wonder if he's being played with; he's suddenly in a waking nightmare and is only wishing it to be over; and that's what he gets for being rude from the get-go - that's what he gets for displaying traces of shoo-away impulses, thrusting phones at me, seeking to not speak to me! Now he's fully aware of the fact that he has no idea what he's dealing with - now he's unable to compute the contrasting evidence concerning yours truly - now he isn't going to venture to even so much as blink, lest I get further offended!

Oh, Honey! What a nice aphrodisical way to kick off the festivities! Pranking always wets my pinkling, makes me juicy and loose! Being the center of attention in the immaculately interior-designed lobby of the Essex simply because of my clothes? Ha, and acting the opposite of my look? Being Miss Corporate in intonation, mannerisms, and carriage while decked out in polyester trash? Ooooooo! It's pure scrumptuous prepping-of-flowerpuss-for-pollination fun!

So I'm on my way to the elevator bank when it occurs to lil' Miss Mood Shift me that my dealings with the deskman have been too one-dimensional: it won't do to only be a girl who's annoyed at the treatment I've received. So I do an about-face, stroll back to him with a smile, place a five dollar bill on the desk, and say: "Notwithstanding your shortcomings, this is for your trouble, Sir. I trust you'll work on your manners a bit? Have a nice day."

Oh, Angie! The look of fear on the deskman's face when I turned back towards him - the flinching backwards impulse that half-seized his body when I extended my hand (As if he thought I might treat him to a slap!) - the wind-gone-out-of him look of utter surprise when the five dollars materializes... 'Twas money very well spent!

OK, so let's get me upstairs:

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