I decided that I should write a sequel to Tailored Suits. I really don't know why her story beckons to me to tell, but alas, I am the messenger, and remember, don't kill the messenger.
So alas, gather up your Margaritas and put on your stylish Hawaiian shirt, for it's time for my newest story:
What Would Jimmy Buffet Do?
Disclaimer: I just borrow them so that they can play in my playground in my head.
I sit alone at the bar twirling the annoyingly small stirring stick around in my Jack and Coke, and as I watch the straw spin around, I wonder when my life went from being normal to completely complicated. I miss my life before Washington. Mostly I miss my brother. I miss how he would call me names, I miss how he would teach me everything he learned in boy scouts, and I miss his reassuring attitude. As I feel sadness sweep over my already depressed mood, and in hopes of hiding the pain that inflicts my body, I take a long sip of my drink, allowing the carbonation and Jack Daniels, to burn down my throat, long and slowly, forcing the shallow tears to build up in my eyes.
I'm not sure why I decided to come to this bar, let alone the fact that I am here alone, although it's not as if there is anyone else in my life. Everyone has up and left me, stating that they ether couldn't stand working around my FBI schedule, or my supposed emotional issues I have with losing my brother. It's not as if they didn't have their own problems themselves. But I guess that is beyond the point.
As I wallow in my self pity of sorrows from being alone, I hear a voice from the past. I can feel my face become pale as my brain registers a name and a face to the voice from my past.
"And I swear to God, even with no heart rate, and no blood pressure, no nothing for over 12 hours, she sat up right there in the morgue, dazed and confused. Trust me, I was there."
I grumble as I hear another Baltimore story from an arrogant special agent whom I once worked with. I didn't need to turn around to know he was with him. He was always near when I didn't want him to be. And as some people can sense when a loved one is in danger, I can sense when I'm in danger of being a disappointment, and a let down. And once again, his words of disappointment swept through my mind, echoing "Almost" over and over. I can't tell which is worse, having to hear another Baltimore story, or the fact that I'm in the same room as my former bastard of a boss.
The next voice I hear over the normal chatter of the bar startles me. It was a voice that I hadn't heard before, which requires me to turn around to make certain that the strong female voiced woman was with them, otherwise known as my replacement.
"Tony, if I have to hear another Baltimore cop story tonight, I am going to get my gun out and shoot you in the foot."
Her comment from a few feet away makes me smile for the first time tonight. I'm guessing that Tony has been relating all his rookie stories from the time he spent with the Baltimore police department with her. I'm sure I heard almost every single one when I spent my stint at NCIS.
Their conversation fades in and out while blending in with the other sounds of the bar. I take small glances towards their general directions, hoping they wouldn't notice my presence. In the corner of my eye, I look my replacement up and down, taking inventory of her key features, hoping to grasp why he would hire her. She had to be around the same height as me, if not a bit shorter. Her hair on the other hand was another story. She definitely wasn't his type. She lacked the red hair that the others had in the past, the hair that I have. I wonder if that was why he hired me. Was it because I had the color of hair that turns him on, the looks that were just right to get him excited at the possibilities? Of course, I knew why he had been married three times, and it would take a damn fool to turn down an offer from a man who was as handsome as he was.
So is that why she came to work with him. Was she like the others, was she swallowed up by the possibilities of working with a man like him, a man as stubborn, pig headed, attractive and yet as hard nosed as he was? Or was she like me, on a quest for something, perhaps a quest for revenge against a death of a love one.
As I hear his voice booming in the distance, I realize that he wouldn't make that mistake again, he wouldn't hire someone whose sole purpose for wanting a job with NCIS was for seeking and enacting revenge against a life that was taken away from her. This was highly unlikely, considering that I doubt that Gibbs would ever make the mistake of hiring someone as emotionally unstable as I was at the time of my hiring.
And with that, I take the last sip of my Jack and Coke, quickly swallowing up the intoxicating drink, hoping to soon feel the effects that I so desperately wanted it to bring. As I handed the bartender a twenty to cover my tab, I grab my purse and proceed to stand up, only to discover that while I was lost in my bitter growing thoughts, my previous drinks had however, produced at least one of their side effects. I quickly maneuver around the bars patrons as I make my way towards the back of the bar. I dodge fleeting elbows that tend to want to jab in the general direction of ether my chest area, or my gun toting hips, all while trying to maintain my low profile. As I make my way towards the ladies room, I pass by the dully lit jukebox that was play an addictive Caribbean country tune which asked the question, "In a moment like this, I can't help but wonder, what would Jimmy Buffett do?"
What would Jimmy Buffett do?
What would Jimmy Buffett do? Would he just smile as he asked for another drink, or would he have done the same thing I had done, gone out for revenge for the murder of my beloved brother? What would Jimmy Buffett do? I should make a mental note in my palm pilot to write Mr. Jimmy Buffett someday and ask him what he would do.
"Dear Mr. Buffett, I screwed up royally. What would you do? Sincerely, All Screwed Up."
"Dear All Screwed Up, Drink a margarita, and remember, it's always 5 O'clock here at Margaritaville. Your Friend, Jimmy."
As I sit in the bathroom, wallowing in my sorrows, I lay my head down against the palm of my hand, swearing silently as the alcohol rushes through my already exhausted and drunk body. It takes me almost double time to do what would take mere minutes. As I struggle with getting my pants and my gun situated back where they were, I hear someone else walk into the bathroom. As I adjust my tailored jacket and attempt to struggle with placing the small black buttons back in their holes, I can hear the other person digging for something in what I assume to be her purse. When I exit the stall, I see her of all people, standing there in front of me, frustratingly digging for something. I quickly hide my gaze away from her in hopes that she won't see me. I quickly walk to the counter and wash my hands as she stands beside me. I can feel her turn to face me, and I pray to God, any God, that she won't talk to me.
"Excuse me, I really hate to ask you this, but it seems that my coworker went through my purse again and he seems to have taken my tampons." She pauses as I start to laugh at the irony of the situation. She had to put up with one of the annoyance in my life, and due to his nosiness, she had to get help from the person she replaced. "What I mean to say is do you have a tampon that I could use?"
What would Jimmy Buffett do?
"Dear Mr. Jimmy Buffett, I was just approached by the woman who replaced me at my former job is standing in the same bathroom with me, asking for my help. What do I do? Sincerely, Perplexed Ex."
"Dear Perplexed Ex, Remember, she doesn't know you. And remember, it's always 5'O'clock in Margaritaville. Your Friend, Jimmy."
She doesn't know me. She doesn't know me from Adam. All she knows is that I'm a bar patron who might have something she needs. To her, I didn't screw up, to her, I could be the worlds greatest FBI agent, to her, I am nobody. Just another agent in a town filled with thousands of gun toting agents. I smile slightly as I reach in my purse and retrieve the item the fellow special agent so desperately wanted. "Here." I say as I hand her the tampon and proceed to head towards the door.
"Thank-you, so much." She says as I disappear quietly into the bar. And as I walk smugly away, I smile knowing that I am one up on the woman who took my job. As I walk pass my former employer, who had a surprised to see me look on his face, I simply smile knowing that I am better off than I was with him.
Thanks Jimmy Buffett, thanks.
"5 O'clock Somewhere" by Alan Jackson featuring Jimmy Buffett.
Comments gladly accepted.