As I pull down the driveway, a crowd of people gathers around my car. I have to stop, just to avoid running anyone over. There has to be at least twenty to thirty people clustered on my front yard. They slap their open palms on the driver’s side window, trying to get my attention. I can feel them jostle the car, and I am afraid they’re going to break through the glass. How the hell did Hydra get through the ‘80s? I am sure this sort of thing happened all the time back then, and there were way more than twenty or thirty people. They must have had one hell of a security detail, not to mention car windows made of shatter-proof glass.
“It’s Brenda Dunkirk!” one female member of the crowd calls out. “She’s an old friend of Keith’s!” She holds up a picture that was taken at the Stone Yacht Club. It’s not a flattering picture: my ass is sticking out because, apparently, I was halfway to standing at the time the paparazzi stormed the restaurant. Not my best side.
She called me “an old friend of Keith’s?” Really? Then I suddenly realize: I don’t really have time to reflect on the ridiculous notion that Keith and I are old friends. The group of people swarms along the driver’s side. It’s absolutely terrifying. Are they going to climb on top of my car? Are they going to lift it from one side and tip it over? I honk the horn and gesture for them to get out of the way so I can pull my car all the way in. Thankfully, they part, and I am able to drive up to the house.
“Hi, Brenda!” A woman approaches me as I’m getting out of the car. I am starting to get sick of people knowing my name without my having introduced myself. It’s awkward. “Are they inside? Can I come in and meet them?”
“I don’t think so.” The crowd surrounds me, and my heart begins to race. I don’t have the security of the car anymore. This could get real bad real fast. “I really think you should leave, before I call the police,” I say, threatening. “This is private property.”
“But I have to go inside with you,” she insists. “Keith knows me.”
I don’t know what to say to this woman. Maybe Keith knows her, maybe he doesn’t. It’s not my place to be his bouncer. “Maybe you should call him then.”
“We don’t need a phone to communicate,” she says. “We’ve transcended beyond the telephone.” I consider asking, but I don’t really want to know.
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