Bachelorette Diaries, WK51; 2012


Idiot Alert!!! Idiot Alert!!! Sounded the warning in my head.

Father Frank pushed me out of the helicopter as though he was shooing away chicken. I wanted to scream at him, ‘leave me alone, psychopathic killer’, but I found myself tongue-tied, thanks to the ludicrousness of the whole thing.

In the distance (in my head of course), sirens sounded. Somebody must have called an ambulance in advance. You hear that, damsel in digress? I said to myself. That’s the wail of the vehicle that would take you to morgue screaming for motorists to create way.

“Time to go, Shiri.” I was already out, airborne, plummeting down. I could even see my prince waiting down there with arms open to receive me (as in the fairy tales).

I’m a big girl, I always say, I can take care of myself. If it’s getting what’s coming for me I face it like the toreador I pride myself to be. Honestly, I was not ready for death. Worse still, to stare at it.

So, I did the only thing a woman who is about to have her intestines splattered on asphalt would do – close eyes. I couldn’t let them open and see myself die.

That’s when it happened, the most incredible thing I’d have dreamt would happen. I had a soft landing. Like on a mattress. And instantly I was moving at the speed of light from the scene. What happened to the yellow crime-scene tapes I had envisioned?

The overly cushioned convertible that had come from nowhere like a gust of wind and cushioned my fall sped at full pelt. Hot pursuit velocity. Overhead one of the helicopters followed. What was this? James Bond in action? Well, I could very well play James’ Bond’s girl with my demeanor.

Minutes later, the car, definitely a Ferrari, was tailgating the rear of any vehicle that did not give way. Gangway! Bad guys closing in on us fast! This isn’t a movie shoot.

The car careened through the ritzy Karen neighborhood. The driver was trying to lose the helicopter overhead, I realized. Where did he, no, it was a she, think was going? Did she really think she was going to get away with this?

But then it happened. The car cut through a thicket that blanketed it completely and entered a parking garage. No, wait a minute. It was not a garage. It was an articulated lorry.  The way Vin Diesel does it in his Fast & Furious movies.

The whirr overheard stopped, or just died. We were safe, said the driver. We could even manicure and pedicure. Well, not her words.

Then I had a grand welcome to the life of a fugitive, or runaway, or whatever I had become. It was the girls, all of them, in there waiting for me. My three bestest friends in the whole wide world.

And the driver who had saved me was none other than the media girl who’s fond of poking her nose in places she shouldn’t – Gwendolyn.

Of all things imaginable, Gwen and Father Frank? The Pope must hear this!

Copyright ©2013

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