- Books, Literature, and Writing»
- Commercial & Creative Writing
Staying Under The Radar
On The Subway
Holding on to the pole, although seats
were available, the figure was one of
those androgynous types.
Whether male or female who knew?
This is New York.
And as long as no one bothered you, as long as you could get on at your stop and off at your destination alive, it was fine.
The figure, dressed in a faded jeans suit, carrying a big bag was thin and tall and wore a cap and a pair of glasses. Nothing unusual.
At 14th Street, just a few stops after boarding, the figure was gone. Striding out onto the platform and up the stairs.
On the pavement, no one paid any attention, and the jeans clad figure went to a particular building, entered, and so ended the interaction between the world and that non-descript.
The brown stone building had flour floors,no elevator. There were three apartments per floor, save the second floor.
The second floor had been the home of the owner. He had knocked out the internal walls, turning three flats into one.
It wasn't obvious. There were three old unattractive doors one on the north, one opposite on the south, and one directly ahead on the east.
The door of 2A opened into a small vestibule, giving the view of a shabby
sitting room with a bookcase behind it.
It was the kind of crummy flat a burglar wouldn't enter.
However, the bookcase was actually a portal.
It wasn't obvious, but if one entered 2A, shut and locked the door behind them,
a latch would click.
Once the latch clicked one could push a certain point on the bookcase, it would become a door. Go through the door and step into a loft of beautiful furniture,
art work, and space.
The jeans clad figure entered 2A, locked the door behind, heard the click, then walked to the bookcase, pushed it, entered the loft and said 'music' as she closed the bookcase behind her.
The computer began playing a Classical piece. She left her bag on a chair and went, into the bathroom.
She undressed, into a cold shower, then a warm one, washing her short golden hair. Another flash of cold water ended her shower.
She stepped out slathering her skin with expensive oils.
She stood on the scale, and was exactly one pound heavier than she was this morning. Pulling on her exercise suit she went to the bicycle, switched on the television and began spinning.
After thirty hard minutes she went back to the scale, and was 6 ounces lighter than she had been this morning.
She did her weight training for fifteen minutes, then yoga for thirty.
She weighed herself again, and happy with the results, had a light dinner.
After washing up, hanging up the clothing she had in the bag, she went to bed.
Back on the Subway
The next day, the same non-descript jeans suited person rode the subway to the Modeling agency.
She changed into a name brand dress and heels then was taken by limousine to the shoot.
She would spend a few hours being the most beautiful woman in the room, and when it was over, back to the agency. Perhaps a light lunch if the gig ended
early, if not, on to another shoot.
On light days where she wound up with a large chunk of free time, she would
visit a museum or some other place of interest, then take the subway home.
Sometimes the agency wanted her to do promos, attend this premier with that actor or important person, or arrive with other models.. She was always paid for this, as if it were a shoot.
She was not an unfriendly person, she just was not the Marisa the public knew. She had too much past and a particular future that she wished to share with no one.
Marisa had a plan.
She would model for ten years, save her money. Yes, live well in her private space, so that she would want for nothing and not feel deprived, but the bulk of her money was saved.
After ten years she would retire to a small guest house in a paradise, then, look about marriage and children.
Look about a man who would not be 'buying' arm candy or need her to remain the exact size she was today; for part of the plan was to cease all this self-absorption as soon as the ten years was up.
She had only two more years to go.
Then, she would sell the building for a profit, and leave this life behind.