Jacqueline Druga - Protocol One

I felt a little insulted. ‘Sorry if I kill your image.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. You know why.’

I spoke to my phone as if he could hear me, “Really, Gil? I know why? No, I don’t. Tell me why.”

And then I typed. ‘Is there a killer comet headed to earth?’

I waited for the beep. I waited for another ‘don’t be ridiculous’ message. Instead I got nothing. No reply. Just silence.

Gil didn’t respond to my later texts and any attempt I made to call him went directly to voice mail.

I was left alone with my beer, laptop and raging imagination. The combination wasn’t a good one.

June 28

I barely slept. It was worse than when I was waiting for the season finale of one of my shows, dreading the death of a favorite character. Saying I was neurotic was an understatement.

Maybe it was because Gil didn’t give me any helpful survival tips or quizzes. He only gave me a shopping list.

But this felt right. For the first time I had a sense of urgency and doom about something. Then again, it could have been from the lack of sleep. I spent the night learning ways to survive a comet impact.

In reality, there was no way to survive a twelve mile comet slamming into earth. One could try, but post impact would be nearly impossible. I had no way of knowing how to prepare, what to buy and even if I did stock up, I could very well be sitting at ground zero. In that case, I was dust.

Nowhere in my research did I find that aluminum and cardboard were essential to building a comet proof shelter.

In an odd occurrence, I heard only once from Gil. A text message.

‘ Shopping is done. Distance must be drawn. Do not text or call. Delete please.’

Was he kidding me? There was something about that text that made me angry and scared. Never had Gil been so mysterious and never had Gil cut off contact.

It was as if he left me hanging. Like I uncovered the secret and because I knew, I was out.

My neurotic thoughts were fueled.

I found myself turning on the news to see if they showed him, to look at his face and see if there were any signs of concern.

Nothing.

Gil had on his candidate smile.

By evening, I drew the line. I decided I was going to go see a movie. I invited Jackson, who declined because he had to finish his project and really wasn’t in the mood to watch the type of movies I liked.

That was fine, I’d go alone. I was used to it. I definitely would pick a movie no young people went to. There was nothing worse than that feeling of teenagers staring at you, the odd older chick who pathetically was alone in a movie theater on Saturday night.

I finished the dishes, slapped on a light dose of makeup and had just changed my clothes when Jackson knocked on my bedroom door.

“Come in.” I called out.

Jackson opened the door. “Nice try, Mom. But you have to venture out on your own some time.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Tony is here.”

“Who?”

“Ha, ha. Tony.” Jackson pointed back. “Your date, the one you tried to get me to tag along on. He’s in the living room waiting.”

“I don’t have a date. Oh my God.” Immediately, I yanked Jackson into the room and locked the door. “Oh my God. Your dad is a presidential candidate. It’s an assassin!”

“Mom.” Jackson laughed. “He doesn’t look like a killer.”

“Would you let him in if he did?” I moved left to right in a panic and then raced to my closet. “He’s here to kill us. Call 911!”

“Mom…”

“Never mind, just be ready.” I reached up and grabbed my gun case from the top of my closet. I fiddled with the lock on the case.

“What are you doing?”

“Being brave.” The gun case popped open.

“So he really isn’t your date?”

“No.” I squealed out.

Jackson moved to the door and I stopped him.

“I got this.”

“What if he’s just a reporter pretending to be your date?”

“Then he won’t come back. Stay here.” I opened up the bedroom door. My hands shook. I should have called the police. I could have been walking into an ambush.

Turning the corner into the living room from the bedroom hallway, the man rose from the sofa.

Of average height and build, my living room bandit, a man in his forties, actually looked like he was dressed for a date. A nice shirt and newer jeans. His dark hair was styled and he wasn’t bad looking. But despite his pleasant appearance, it was something I couldn’t trust. Before he could speak, I extended the hand gun.

“Who are you and why are you in my house?”

He lifted his hands to chest level. “I’m your date.”

“Bullshit, I haven’t had a date in six years.”

“Well, to be honest, if you greet all dates like this, that would explain the extremely long lag in your social life.”

“Funny.” I stepped close to him. “Why are you here?”

“We have a date.” He repeated. “And I’m not here to assassinate you and your son.” He winked. “Your house isn’t that big. Sound travels.” He moved to me. “And really, honestly, if I can give you some advice. If you do have a home intruder and you’re serious about protecting yourself. You may want to turn the safety off and…” He reached out and took the gun from my hand. “For God’s sake, if you’re gonna come out playing Clint Eastwood, at least load a magazine. You can’t shoot anyone with an empty gun.” He placed it on the table.

“Well, that went well.” I turned my head slightly. “Jackson, call the police!” I yelled.

“I’m right here,” Jackson said from behind me.

“I told you to stay put.”

“Mom, I was worried. You didn’t load the gun.”

“See,” the man said. “Even your kid knew.” He raised his hands. “Son, she’s fine. You don’t need to call the police.” He moved his hands slowly as he spoke. “I’m not reaching for a weapon, only my phone. Okay? Just my phone.”

I nodded.

He reached to his back pocket and pulled out his phone. After fiddling for a second he showed it to me. “Recognize that number?”

I looked closely. “That’s Gil’s number.”

“Read the message,” he said.

I did.

“What’s it say, Mom?” Jackson asked.

“It’s says, ‘Anna, I sent him’.”

“We good?” he asked. “Good. Ok.” He put away his phone. “Right now you have a reporter camping out across the street and two federal agents down the road. If we want this to look legit we really should go.”

“I still don’t know who you are,” I said. “Gil sent you. I got that. Why?’

“My name is Anthony Garrison. Call me Tony. The average time in a house to pick up a single mother for a date is…” he looked at his watch. “Six minutes. We’re at that mark. We need to go. Plus, we have a reservation.”

“For what?”

“Our date,” he repeated almost annoyed.

“Gil sent you? He’s finding me dates now? Well, I’m sorry. I had plans.”

“Mom,” Jackson snickered my name. “You were going to the movies alone.”

“You were going to the movies alone?” Tony asked.

“Yes,” I answered defensively.

“Alone. On a Saturday night. You know how that looks.”

“Yes, I know how that looks, asshole.”

“And you find that a better option than going out to dinner?”

“I don’t know you.” I said.

“Gil sent me. And this is a little more than a date, ok?”

I looked at him.

“Okay?”

I stared at him. “This isn’t like a prostitution thing, is it?”

Jackson groaned.

Tony tossed up his hands. “Oh for the love of God.”