The Secret Life of Mrs. Claus Read Online Free Page A
Author: Carly Alexander
passed.
“It’s my ex-fiancé,” I said, trying to explain the unexplainable. “He’s the producer of that show, and he’s a total asshole.”
“That’s not what I saw, hon.” He spoke like a chastising father. “You can’t go pounding on a bus like that.”
Passengers’ heads lifted, their curiosity piqued at the stylish woman clomping down the aisle like a matinee monster. I wanted to lift my hands and deliver a sermon on the evils of Bobby Tharp, the betrayal of a Judas who sucks your soul, then spins the details of your life into a prime-time TV show.
But they wouldn’t get it. Of course they wouldn’t.
I sat down alone, pondering the downward spiral. Just when I thought my life had sunk to rock bottom, my marker sent back ten spaces without passing go, Bobby had made it worse by twisting and exploiting it.
He had some nerve, calling me a nutcracker. He was the king of rats, a seven-headed creature deserving a sturdy, well-placed kick.
And I had the perfect pair of pointy-toed shoes…
1
A fter my involvement with Bobby, I understood why certain species of females devoured the males after the nuptials.
As a kid, I’d found that practice disgusting, barbaric… “Gross!” Bonnie and I had said at the same time, our freckled noses scrunched up in horror at the detailed lives of arachnids unfolding on the TV screen. As a teenybopper and dedicated reader of Tiger Beat magazine, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have sex, let alone kill their mate.
But after Bobby, it became clear that the female spider wasn’t just killing the male; she was putting an end to the madness, chewing him up before he had a chance to go off and mock her personal foibles with his spider buddies, before he could mate with her friends and suddenly find success and fortune to spend on someone else, before he landed a ten-minute interview on prime-time TV, during which he looked fabulous in the cashmere sweater she’d given him to wear at their engagement party.
Not that spiders wear cashmere or watch television, but the female spider’s motivation is now clear to me: eat the sucker before he betrays you big-time.
“I don’t know why you’re taking this all so personally,” my friend Lanessa had told me one night when she and I narrowly missed running into Bobby and his crew after they’d just finished taping a segment at the Wharf Rat, a smoky, dark saloon in Fells Point. “The guy is writing and producing a show. It’s what he does. He was a producer when you were together, right?”
“An unemployed producer,” I said, gripping the shiny wood lip of the hundred-year-old bar. Talk of Bobby did that to me—sent me clenching surfaces with my fingertips or gritting my teeth. “Always out of work, chasing down deals, sticking me with the check.”
“So be glad that’s over and let him do his job. You moved on, can’t he go where opportunity takes him, even if that’s Baltimore?”
“I moved back home to Baltimore to save some money and regroup.” It seemed like an appropriate distance away from Bobby, who was into the L.A. scene back then. But I wasn’t back three weeks when I flipped through the trades and read that he was back in Baltimore, filming a show. “It’s bad enough that he came back at the same time, but he’s filming here, right in my own backyard. And by the way, why are you defending him?”
“Man’s got a right to earn a wage,” Lanessa said, in that judicious inside-the-Capital-Beltway voice. “It’s the town he grew up in, too. And you’ve got to admit, the idea of another show being shot in Baltimore is damned exciting. I’m kind of sorry we missed the shoot here tonight, because you know I’d be right in their faces, asking them questions. I wonder how they filmed in here, with this place so dark. I mean, what do you think it looks like in the light? Scary. And what’s the show about? Do you know the story line? Last time I read about it in the trades, they
“It’s my ex-fiancé,” I said, trying to explain the unexplainable. “He’s the producer of that show, and he’s a total asshole.”
“That’s not what I saw, hon.” He spoke like a chastising father. “You can’t go pounding on a bus like that.”
Passengers’ heads lifted, their curiosity piqued at the stylish woman clomping down the aisle like a matinee monster. I wanted to lift my hands and deliver a sermon on the evils of Bobby Tharp, the betrayal of a Judas who sucks your soul, then spins the details of your life into a prime-time TV show.
But they wouldn’t get it. Of course they wouldn’t.
I sat down alone, pondering the downward spiral. Just when I thought my life had sunk to rock bottom, my marker sent back ten spaces without passing go, Bobby had made it worse by twisting and exploiting it.
He had some nerve, calling me a nutcracker. He was the king of rats, a seven-headed creature deserving a sturdy, well-placed kick.
And I had the perfect pair of pointy-toed shoes…
1
A fter my involvement with Bobby, I understood why certain species of females devoured the males after the nuptials.
As a kid, I’d found that practice disgusting, barbaric… “Gross!” Bonnie and I had said at the same time, our freckled noses scrunched up in horror at the detailed lives of arachnids unfolding on the TV screen. As a teenybopper and dedicated reader of Tiger Beat magazine, I couldn’t understand why anyone would want to have sex, let alone kill their mate.
But after Bobby, it became clear that the female spider wasn’t just killing the male; she was putting an end to the madness, chewing him up before he had a chance to go off and mock her personal foibles with his spider buddies, before he could mate with her friends and suddenly find success and fortune to spend on someone else, before he landed a ten-minute interview on prime-time TV, during which he looked fabulous in the cashmere sweater she’d given him to wear at their engagement party.
Not that spiders wear cashmere or watch television, but the female spider’s motivation is now clear to me: eat the sucker before he betrays you big-time.
“I don’t know why you’re taking this all so personally,” my friend Lanessa had told me one night when she and I narrowly missed running into Bobby and his crew after they’d just finished taping a segment at the Wharf Rat, a smoky, dark saloon in Fells Point. “The guy is writing and producing a show. It’s what he does. He was a producer when you were together, right?”
“An unemployed producer,” I said, gripping the shiny wood lip of the hundred-year-old bar. Talk of Bobby did that to me—sent me clenching surfaces with my fingertips or gritting my teeth. “Always out of work, chasing down deals, sticking me with the check.”
“So be glad that’s over and let him do his job. You moved on, can’t he go where opportunity takes him, even if that’s Baltimore?”
“I moved back home to Baltimore to save some money and regroup.” It seemed like an appropriate distance away from Bobby, who was into the L.A. scene back then. But I wasn’t back three weeks when I flipped through the trades and read that he was back in Baltimore, filming a show. “It’s bad enough that he came back at the same time, but he’s filming here, right in my own backyard. And by the way, why are you defending him?”
“Man’s got a right to earn a wage,” Lanessa said, in that judicious inside-the-Capital-Beltway voice. “It’s the town he grew up in, too. And you’ve got to admit, the idea of another show being shot in Baltimore is damned exciting. I’m kind of sorry we missed the shoot here tonight, because you know I’d be right in their faces, asking them questions. I wonder how they filmed in here, with this place so dark. I mean, what do you think it looks like in the light? Scary. And what’s the show about? Do you know the story line? Last time I read about it in the trades, they
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