One of my best friends owns a designer handbag boutique. Because of her, I sometimes manage to look fashion-savvy instead of like a homeless person carrying my keys and lipstick in a paper bag.
A few weeks ago, her store was robbed by a guy who waltzed in and nabbed her laptop. Several people saw him, and since he has a mohawk in a city where two people sport that particular hairstyle, we’re hopeful he might eventually turn up.
Can I confess something? I’ve fantasized about helping catch him.
In my imaginary scenario, I’m walking down the street when I fall into step behind him. Since my fantasy version of myself knows how to operate mycamera to photograph something besides the inside of my pocket, I snap a covert picture and email it to my friend at her shop.
Then I call her.
“So you know that hot guy we were talking about?” I say in my best wink-wink nudge-nudge tone. “I totally started following him on Twitter.”
Since my friend is also a super spy in this scenario, she instantly decodes my clever message to understand I'm following the bad guy on foot.
“I just got the photo you emailed, that’s totally him!” she shrieks into the phone. “Which way is he going?”
“Well get this – he’s all ‘let’s meet up for dinner at Soba,’ and I’m like, ‘why don’t we try Summit instead?’ And he goes, ‘I guess that’s cool if you want to grab a drink at Common Table beforehand.’”
See how savvy my imaginary self is, naming the restaurants we're walking past to signal which direction I’m headed?
You'll also notice my imaginary self sounds disturbingly like Paris Hilton.
Our conversation continues as my friend slyly uses three-way calling to phone the police and alert them what’s happening.
The fact that neither of us knows how to use three-way calling in real life and we can’t actually utter the phrase three-way without giggling doesn’t hinder my fantasy.
Eventually, I follow the guy to a dingy bar several blocks away, where he sets up the laptop in a cracked vinyl booth and begins using it to download illegal porn. I signal the cops, who come rushing in and wrestle the guy to the floor. Though he makes a brief escape attempt, I subdue him with my badass kung-fu moves and a bowl of peanuts grabbed off the bar.
I might also be wearing a cape and a pair of really hot stilettos.
Am I the only one who entertains hero fantasies like this? Is it a case of overactive writer's imagination, or just narcissism on my part?
Wait, don't answer that.
But I would look good in that cape, don't you think?