Warm up writing exercise: I poll followers for three things to include in a short vignette, then give myself 20 minutes to bang one out.
Today’s three things
- Spilled milk
- An electric dildo
- A sarcastic mime
Philippe stuffed the dildo back in the box, shoved the box in his jacket, and rushed out the door. He had exactly eight minutes before he was late for work, and he just knew fucking Jack would be standing in the foyer waiting to see if he could finally fire Hot Flicks’ newest employee. Being late for the fifth time was bad enough, but if Jack caught him with company property… Philippe knew he shouldn’t have brought the dildo home to show his roommates, but it was controlled with an app and he couldn’t pass up the chance to prank Sarah.
He should have, though. He couldn’t afford to lose this job – not that the pay was all that great, or the job that fun (turned out working for an adult film company isn’t the non-stop party he’d hoped it would be). But local, third shift jobs weren’t just hanging from the trees ripe for the picking, and Philippe had student loans to pay and one fifth of a rent to cover, so, he sped up.
He had six minutes to go when he spotted the Insomnia Cookies sign and knew he was in trouble. He shouldn’t have come this way…
Three minutes later he stumbled out of the cookie shop juggling a fresh-baked Black & White and a bottle of milk, sampling both on the run. The brownstone that Hot Flicks operated out of was one avenue away, so if he jogged he might just make it. Then one of Time Square’s panhandling Characters stepped in front of him. Not a Spider-Man, or a Superman. A freaking MIME, complete with the beret and the stripped shirt.
The mime had both hands and both eyebrows up, mouth in an “O”, blocking his path.
“I don’t have TIME for this, asshole!” he shouted, juking left. The mime stepped right, his hands describing an invisible wall separating them. Philippe gave him his best New Yorker ‘don’t fuck with me’ glare. The mime put both hands on his chin, feigning shock, then turned them around to give Phillippe the finger, twice.
With wordless shout Philippe tried to dash passed the mime, but the street-performer was ready and “rope-pulled” himself directly into the way. They crashed together, flattening the bottle of milk between them, sending a geyser of dairy up and into both of their faces.
This time when Philippe glared at the mime it worked. He turned and fled, laughing. Philippe’s phone buzzed.
He signed, slung milk from his hands, and pulled out the phone. It was a text from Jack. “Don’t bother showing up. You are fired.”
Philippe turned and started slowing back to go home and clean up. He shoved his phone in his jacket and felt the contraband held there.
“Well,” he mumbled, trying to look on the bright side, “at least I got something out of this…free dildo!”