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Authors: Leslie Langtry

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BOOK: 'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
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She was right. The Council often used these occasions to interview members of the family to check up on their work. This was one performance evaluation everyone wanted to get right.
“I don’t suppose it could be Richie who’s in trouble?”
Mom laughed. “Wishful thinking, I’m afraid. Besides, Lou is his biggest fan. Nothing will happen to him.”
Damn. You know how in every family there’s one annoying cousin? One who has the most abrasive personality? Well, that was my cousin Richie. Arrogant, drooling, and I was quite sure, mentally retarded Richie. All my life the brat had tried to one-up me. He looked like Jabba the Hutt—but without the brains. Yet he thought he was God’s gift to assassins.
I only had to see him once a year. Too bad it always ruined Christmas. He would follow me around, asking me questions with that nasal, high-pitched voice of his. Stuff like, “What are you driving?”
I’d tell him about my minivan and he’d tell me the results of every gruesome accident there ever was in that particular vehicle. Then he’d call me an idiot and laugh.
Usually, I could ignore him. He was just so goddamned obnoxious. For some reason, he never did this to anyone in the family but me. Why? I’m not sure. I must be a target for people like him and Vivian to toy with.
Every five years, I hoped the Council would get sick of Richie, but they never did. As much of an asshole as he was, he never screwed up a job.
I caught my mom eyeing me. “No one knows the reason for the reunion, Ginny, so give it up.”
“Fine.” I slumped in my seat like a teenager. “It’s just so weird.”
Mom shook her head. “It’s not that strange. I’m sure it’s nothing.”
But I knew she was lying. The last time the Council had called an early meeting, Lou took out my Aunt Virginia. Mom had to remember that.
“Are you ready for Romi’s induction?” Mom asked.
“No. I have no idea what to do. How did you handle it when I was five?”
Mom smiled faintly. “Well, I just took you to the reunion and let the family explain it. You had no questions. Actually, you took the training rather well.”
“You must have told me something.”
She shook her head. “Not really. Once we got home, I started training you. You never once questioned it.”
“And Dad was okay with it?” I asked.
“No. Did you expect him to be? But he got used to the idea.”
I picked up my glass. “Don’t they all.”
“Aren’t you glad you never told Eddie?”
The question stunned me. I’d never talked about it with her.
“Yes and no. I don’t think it’s easy to marry into the Bombay family and all of our perfectly normal ‘traditions.’”
Mom laughed. “Enough of this. How did your date go with the Australian?”
 
I entered Dr. Anwar’s office fifteen minutes before Vic was supposed to show up. I walked up to the receptionist and told her I was waiting for someone. She nodded without looking at me. The room was full of people, all busy ignoring me. I found the only two open seats and took one, placing my tote bag in the other. The mousey brown wig itched, but I didn’t want to scratch it and risk moving it. I reached into my bag and pulled out a knitting project, waiting for good old Leonard to enter.
I loved knitting. When I say that, I didn’t mean I enjoyed completing projects like sweaters and such. I just loved working with my hands on something less lethal. It was very calming. They say knitting is the new yoga.
A teenage boy with a Mohawk sat across from me, sneering. I’d seen that look before. Why was it a problem to knit in public?
“My grandma knits.”
I ignored him.
“So what are you making, Grandma?” Mohawk’s voice was ugly.
I arched my eyebrow. “A cashmere cock ring. Your grandma ever knit one of those?”
The kid’s eyes grew wide, and he suddenly became very interested in a four-year-old issue of
Teen Vogue
.
As I said before, I loved knitting. I guess you could call me a knitting assassin. The tools were very useful. Once, I had to strangle a man with my circular needles. It hadn’t even messed up the 15 rows of stitches I had on them. A solid pair of metal needles can be plunged into the eyes and brain. Remember Fun Fact #2? Everyday objects have so many uses.
The door opened and in walked Leonard. He checked in with the receptionist, then scanned the room. I gave him a brief smile and took my bag out of the chair next to me. It worked. He joined me.
“I hate waiting rooms,” he grumbled to no one in particular. I didn’t think I was in danger of liking him too much to kill him.
“Me too,” I responded, my eyes still on my circular needles as the second row of stitches began to take shape.
“You can get sick from being here,” he continued. “Too many people, too many germs.”
I looked around, wondering how you could catch heart disease as an airborne virus. Now that would really be cool.
“Goddamned doctors,” Vic mumbled. Oh, he was a winner.
“Mr. Burns?” A petite blond nurse stood in the open doorway with a clipboard. I watched as Leonard followed her into the back.
I was on my ninth row of stitches when he came back. I listened (without looking like I listened, of course) as the receptionist reminded him to fill his prescription. I waited a full twenty minutes before leaving the waiting room and heading to my car.
So what did I know? Vic had heart trouble and a lousy personality. This was enough information for me to finish the job. On my way home, I stopped at the health food store to pick up clear, empty gelatin capsules. The long-haired kid at the counter called me “dude” six times while ringing me up. That must’ve been a personal best for him. Usually I only got “dude” once. I didn’t mind. As long as he didn’t call me Virginia.
CHAPTER TWELVE
[Mr. Furious tries to balance a hammer
on his head]
Mr. Furious: “Why am I doing this?”
The Sphinx: “if you can balance a
tack hammer on your head, you will
head off your foes with a balanced
attack.”
Mr. Furious: “And why am I wearing
the watermelon on my feet?”
The Sphinx: [looks at the water-melon
on Mr. Furious’s feet] “I don’t
remember telling you to do that.”
—Mystery Men
 
 
Setting up my plans for Vic’s demise really helped to calm me down. There’s kind of a green tea—Zen feeling to it all.
Calgon, take me away
and all that crap.
I needed to relax. After all, hell awaited me that afternoon. And it had nothing to do with my family . . . for once.
“Mrs. Bombay?” Emily O’Toole raised her hand. “Can I go to the bathroom?” Suddenly, all ten little girls raised their hands. Only five minutes into my first-ever Girl Scout meeting and I was already in over my head.
I looked through some papers they had given me down at the Scouts Council. “Um, yeah, just, er ... take a buddy with you.” They were gone before I looked up. Liv shrugged. Fat lot of help she was.
The screams from the girls’ bathroom told me they weren’t limiting their activities to the hygienic. Ten minutes later, I wrangled several soaking wet Daisy Scouts back into Romi’s classroom.
“Okay,” I began, “now that we know what
not
to do, I guess we can get started.” I nodded to Liv and she proceeded to pass out the uniforms and handbooks.
“Here’s your Daisy tunic and book. Remember to bring them to every meeting. Yes, Hannah?”
The tiny little girl put her hand down. “When are the meetings?”
“Oh, um ...” I shuffled through the papers again in an attempt to look like I knew what I was doing. “Every other Tuesday, in here, right after school.”
A discordant chorus of squeals pierced my eardrums. Apparently, they approved. Yippee.
Somehow, we managed to make daisies out of pipe cleaners before their moms came to get them. There I sat, covered in pipe cleaner fuzz and glue—which was really weird because we didn’t even use glue. Liv took over at that point, handing out the application forms and giving instruction to the parents. I just sat there, like a lump, until it was over.
Liv flopped down into one of the teeny tiny chairs next to the teeny tiny table. “Jesus. I’m glad that’s over.”
I looked at her. “Yeah. I didn’t really expect that. How did it go?”
Liv rolled her eyes. “You led the meeting!”
“Oh, right,” I responded. “Can we call that a meeting? I mean, it was more like a riot.” I pictured Liv and myself in Riot Squad gear, approaching the kindergartners with plasticine shields and rubber bullets. For a moment, the idea appealed tome.
Liv frowned at the handbook. “It says here we have to teach them the Girl Scout Promise and they earn the petals for their daisy insignia through the meetings.”
“You’re just now reading the
Leader’s Guide?”
I asked while pulling a clump of glue (and hair) off my head.
She looked alarmed. “It also says we’re supposed to have training.”
I perked up. “Maybe that’s it. We should’ve done that first.”
“Well, there’s a training session for Daisy Leaders tomorrow night at the Lutheran church down the street from you. I’ll call and sign us up.”
I nodded, finally brave enough to rise from my itty, bitty chair. My muscles threatened to assassinate me. “Okay.”
We gathered our things, straightened the room and left. As I walked to my car I realized that for once I had no clue what in the hell I was doing. I could kill a man with my thighs, but I couldn’t control a bunch of five-year-old girls. I think terrorist organizations would learn a lot from this kind of experience.
“Mommy?” Romi squeezed my hand, reminding me she was there. “That didn’t go very well, did it?”
I slid open the passenger door and lifted her to her seat. “No. I guess not. But Liv and I are going to a workshop tomorrow night. We’ll be okay.”
The dubious look in my daughter’s eyes made me realize she had little faith in me. Great. How could I train her to kill when I couldn’t keep kindergartners from trashing the bathroom? And how do you get wet toilet paper off of the ceiling? Maybe they’d cover that tomorrow night.
 
The following evening at the Lutheran church, Liv and I sat up straight, eager to find out what we had done wrong. I was convinced that some hip, young Girl Scout Council professional would give us all the tools we needed to succeed.
Ergo, I wasn’t prepared for the obese, elderly, wheezing woman who sat down across from us, reeking of beer and cigarettes. Wow, I guess scouting hadn’t changed much since I was in it. All she needed to do now was tell me how great the handheld shower massage was for masturbation and I’d be right back in middle school.
“You two here for the workshop?” Eldamae Haskell eyed us with disdain.
“Um, is this for Daisy Scouts?” I spoke up. Hope refused to wane. Maybe we were in the wrong room?
“Yeah,” she sputtered, coughing loudly. “Fill out these forms.”
“A test?” I couldn’t believe it. It was a test! How could we take a test on something we didn’t know yet?
“It’s to see what you know. You’ll take the same test when we’re through.”
Liv asked, “And how long is the workshop?”
Eldamae gave a heavy, wet, rasping cough, “An hour . . . hour and a half at most.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s all the time it takes to teach us everything we need to know?”
“Yup,” our teacher replied. She tossed us the papers and left, probably for a smoke break.
Actually, the test was pathetically easy. Upon Eldamae’s return, we watched a videotape, possibly made in the early 1990s. The scene opened on some lovely, mythical mansion in a perfect world at the beginning of a scout meeting. A tight-lipped, professional, middle-aged woman with perfectly coiffed, glossy blond hair told the camera how she ran her meetings.
“First,” she said with perfect diction, “you greet each girl at the door personally, discussing the subjects that interest her the most, and then guide her to a simple yet engaging activity to keep her busy until the other girls have arrived.”
These Stepford children wore immaculate clothes and quietly colored pictures promoting world peace and multicultural diversity. During the meeting, the kids quietly listened to everything the leader said, raising their hands if they wanted to speak.
Following that, they commenced learning activities worthy of a postgraduate science seminar. Somehow, and without making a mess, they measured barometric pressure using Saran Wrap, an empty two-liter pop bottle, and fingernail polish. Of course, the experiment opened their eager, young eyes to the possibilities and later in the meeting, they went on to cure cancer.
BOOK: 'Scuse Me While I Kill This Guy
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