The Pass Word

I went to the movie by myself. It was about East Berlin in the fifties, a who-done-it-spy-thriller filled with car chases and gun-fire and half-dressed women with great big boobs.

The first scene began with a car speeding around hair-pin mountain curves. I sat in the nearly empty theater eating popcorn and marveling at how well Bond drove. I was about to turn sixteen, and wondered if I would be able to drive like him. I noticed Bond wore brown leather driving-gloves.

“Which road do we take?” The question was a hot-whisper close to my ear.

I turned around. In the darkness I could only see enough to register that this was one strange looking dude with a long thin nose and old fashioned eye-glasses reflecting a car chase in its thick lenses.

“Excuse me?”

“I said, vich road do ve… Ach, neva mind!”

The man sat back in his chair and I faced forward, the movie forgotten completely as a slow chill went up my spine.

A moment later I saw the man had moved to behind another guy eight seats over in my row.

I realized the guy he was now whispering to had a Dodger’s cap on same as me, which is an unusual hat to wear in Cincinnati. I saw two manila envelopes trade hands. Both men wore brown leather driving gloves! The creepy guy got up and left. A minute later the other followed. I hurried after them. Screw the movie. This was better. I’d grab a cab and say, “Follow that car!” Maybe later, after I uncovered their secret spy-den, I'd get myself some brown leather driving-gloves. And a girlfriend... with big boobs, well, not big, I decided hurrying sideways down the aisle, more like gigantic, gargantuan mambos!

-300 Words-