Best Foot Forward

(From the Writer’s Digest creative writing prompt Funny Feet…I almost didn’t do this one, but a coworker talked me into not giving up so here goes…)

I plop myself down in my desk chair, my head still pounding. I down a couple aspirin with a sip from my Mondays Suck coffee cup as I fire up my computer. I open my email and send off my article on the “Foot Fling Fashion Show” to my boss, convinced that the last laugh is mine. She knew how much feet bother me when she assigned the Show coverage to me…that’s what I get for failed office romance I guess. After the assignment came in, I schemed my way out of it.

How? Simple…I have a twin, and he loves feet. So I gave him my press pass and I took a weekend vacation to Atlantic City while he went in my place to cover the Show. He even wrote up the article for me, so I didn’t have any worries all weekend except for having my glass run dry.

The sound of a commotion has me peeking over the edge of my cubicle, and I see two of the city’s finest talking to my boss. She points at me, and I can feel the heated accusation in their glares as they turn my way. Before I know it, I’m being cuffed and read my Miranda rights as they escort me out of the magazine office and into the cramped backseat of a squad car.

A million questions are ricocheting through my head, but I’m having trouble formulating them around my hangover. We get to the precinct and I’m hustled into an interview room. An old, crusty detective that reminds me of Colombo sits down across the table from me.

“Mr. Grady, can you tell me where you were Saturday night at between 11:45pm to 3am?”

Right away I don’t like where this is going. “I was at Caesars in Atlantic City.”

“Can anyone verify that?”

A rock drops to the pit of my stomach, and I wonder if my couple sips of coffee are going to make a repeat appearance. “No. I went alone and paid cash…I won a couple hundred at the blackjack table.”

“Can you explain to me how your press pass was found in the dressing room of Olivia DeVaughn? Or how the other models said they saw you entered her dressing room that night?”

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly very dry. Just what did Calvin do this weekend anyway? “My brother went to the fashion show for me…I gave him my press pass.”

Colombo leans back and scrutinizes me. “Why did you do that?”

I look down to where my cuffed hands rest on the table’s edge. “I…can’t look at feet without laughing. So I asked him to go for me and took a little vacation instead.”

The door to the interview room opens and a uniform comes in, whispers something to the investigator. Now I’m standing in a line up between a brick wall with prison tattoos and a dweeb with an overbite and glasses. I really should have known better than to switch places with my brother after that spirit rally incident in high school.


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