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See and Believe
by Limey
It happened only yesterday. At least ... I think it was yesterday. I'm not too sure of anything at the moment.
I've not been into the office today ... which isn't surprising seeing that I'm sitting here still in my pyjamas eating breakfast at two o'clock in the afternoon? But then ... well ... you couldn't believe me. Why should you when I hardly believe it myself?
The trouble is that, whichever way round I look at it ... it just doesn't make sense. I'm a theatrical agent and all day every day young hopefulls - and a few old'ns who should know better - come knocking on my door hoping for a career on the Stage. They've heard about me : "Get on HIS books and your made." That's what they think.
Truth to tell it has more to do with reputation than with any ability on my part but I prosper on it and so I don't complain. But it can be a boring life when so many try to rehash the old tricks or think up what they imagine to be something new when in truth it was thrown overboard by Noah. Over the years I've developed a handwave that says it all - No Go; Been Done Before; You're wasting your Time and mine
as well . Goodday.
The only bright bit of it all is the young girls - they're always young whether they do the tricks or play the assistant and, of course, they are always good looking and well built.
I certainly enjoy that part of the job but, that said, I never mix business with pleasure. It can lead to too much complication in life and I like to keep things under my own control. I take my pleasure strictly on a commercial basis without connection to the office and never contemplate that silly business of the Casting Couch.
Yesterday was a good day ... well, up to that point where the door opened ... and closed again ... so quietly. I was sitting there thinking how nice it was to go for a whole hour without that knock on the door when, yes you've guessed it, there came a knock on the door. "Come," I said hoping that it didn't sound as bored as I felt.
The man who came in was bound to catch the attention. His skin was white and yet there was something hard to define. He was dressed in a dark grey two-piece suit with a white collarless shirt fastened at the neck with a stud or button. I believe the Indians wear that sort of thing? He was of medium size, medium build and looked neither muscular nor weak - I guessed he might be an athlete of the kind that make circus performers?
He carried a medium-sized black ... ish .. suitcase which he put down on the floor in front of my desk and then stood briefly to attention. He made me a slight dipping bow, as though it were something that one did out of good manners when one is either greeting or making a farewell. Then he turned and left the room silently. Even the door was closed without a sound.
Right on cue came a click and the suitcase opened. "Not THAT one again." I groaned and started my practised handwave on its upward journey. But it stopped of its own volition as I caught a glimpse of the girl who was unfolding herself from the interior .
The first impression was of very long legs but they couldn't be all that long to get into that case? As she emerged it became clear that she was herself very small and the legs were only relatively long. It wasn't surprising that the handwave stopped because she was the kind that would stop a 707 in the middle of a take-off run.
She was dressed in a one-piece see-through black catsuit that reminded me of Marilyn Monroe ... she appeared to have been poured into it. It fitted exactly and failed to wrinkle as she moved. "Like a coat of paint," I thought. She stood before me without expression and silently waited. Although covered entirely but for her face she was, if anything, more naked than the minute of her birth.
Parts of me that I never knew existed were beginning to rise and this had to stop. "Well?" I demanded.
She tipped her head a little to one side but otherwise offerred me nothing.
"Lady," I said: "If that's all then your wasting your time. And you're wasting my time too. That's all been done before."
Then she spoke and her voice was as intriguing as the woman herself. "You haven't looked;" she said softly.
"Lady. You've made damn sure I couldn't do anything other than look. And what I see is more than worth the time. But if this is it ... ?"
Her face remained emotionless but she pushed forward a beautiful little hand palm up: "The case," she said: "You haven't looked in the case" and advancing to the desk she lifted the case to plant it directly in front of me.
I wanted to bring this to a close and so I stood up and opened the case. Inside I found another identical case except that, of course, it was smaller. I looked up at her but she simply repeated: "You haven't looked."
I removed the inner case and opened it to find yet another and still smaller case within. Inside that was another and then another. "The Russian Doll set," I said with disgust. "Lady, have you got anything new to show me?"
She didn't reply and, when I looked up, I found that she was no longer there. Then again came that knock on the door. My hand was ... sort of ... making its practised wave and I didn't respond. The door opened quietly and the dapper little man entered. He repeated his dipping bow, seized the suitcase and departed once again closing the door noiselessly behind him.
Only then did I realise that the suitcase should not have been on the floor from where he'd gathered it; it had been on my desk with its contents spread around.
I've had several stage hypnotists try their game on me and one pronounced me too sceptical to be a hypnotic subject. I don't believe in Magic and I've seen too many conjuring tricks to be easily fooled. So what DID happen?
One thing's for sure ... I'm through with taking home scantily-clad young ladies.
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