An attempt at noir comedy from assistant stage manager Phil Baranski
The cool Chicago breeze whipped up the edges of my duster as I stood on a lonely street corner under the full moon. I held down my fedora, nervously awaiting my contact. She was late. She was never late. Something was wrong.
Vanessa, my .38 snub nose revolver, burned a hole in my jacket pocket. A truck drove noisily by and I cocked her, ready for action. Then, like an angel in a red dress, she was there.
Julia was a vision, all done up for a night on the town. Her dress hugged the curves of her body, leaving little to the imagination. Her fur coat hung lazily on her shoulders, and her wide brimmed hat covered her curly brown hair. She walked up close her doe eyes looked right into mine with a passion unmatched in any dame I've ever seen.
"Sorry I'm late, Tiger" she said cooly, "Bad Mexican food."
She slipped me a piece of paper with the information I needed, then kissed me on the cheek. She lingered by my ear, whispering, "See you later, handsome."
With that she turned to walk away, out of my life until God knows when. But she had left me a present. And it smelt like burrito.