Adult-FanFiction.org : Celebrity

Playing Hooky	By : rainey Category: Individual Celebrities > Orlando Bloom Views: 3069 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Orlando Bloom. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Disclaimer: Obviously, I do not own Orlando Bloom. *wistful sigh* Just a warning, this fic is meant as ‘light entertainment’ as opposed to ‘profound literature.’ Judge it accordingly:
PLAYING HOOKY
Chapter One – Tedium
(Braidie’s PTV)
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
White.
All around me the world was white…gleaming with reflected sunlight. Halogen bulbs hummed above, echoing in my brain. My retinas burned, trying to process the intensity of the brightness.
Hung-over.
So very hung-over.
It was Sunday morning at McEwen’s Grocery on 9^th St, where I’d worked for the past six months, give or take. I felt, looked, and probably smelled, like death.
No.
Correction, I smelled like the last locker on the wall in the Break Room (underneath the produce smocks), which, in many many ways, is worse then death. If hell is the Checkout of a grocery store (which I’m beginning to suspect), then Satan is the Head Teller. In this specific instance, her name is Lindsay. Speaking of her Royal Anal Retentiveness…I glanced across the isle to customer service…yup, there she stood, in all her fake and bake tan glory. She was filing her nails…probably concocting some new way to ruin my life.
I hate her so much.
I watched her for about six minutes, willing her plastic nail to snap of and lodge itself fatally in her plastic brain. Awesome as this would be, I eventually resigned myself to the fact that it was improbable, and turned back to my till.
I opened the cash drawer, shut it, then re-opened it again.
There was nothing to do.
Why?
Because nobody in their right minds goes grocery shopping at 7:30 on a Sunday morning.
That’s why.
So, why was I here?
Valid question.
It all started about a four months back when I first applied to McEwen’s grocery to underwrite my chosen profession of “struggling playwright/actress.” I’d left home at seventeen to move out east and write plays.
I always love how pretentious that sounds!
Anyway, I soon discovered that life is rarely that straight forward. When I got to Montreal, I leased a basement flat form an old friend of my mother’s and set about trying to build a career and a life for myself. I wrote quite a bit, published some smaller things, got a couple of insignificant acting gigs, and painted “pro-bono” for a friend’s art gallery. I dabbled in the music scene, but couldn’t really get into it like I had back home. I didn’t really know where I was headed, and basically did what I could to pay the bills.
Enter McEwen’s Grocery.
Nothing fancy, but it fed me between gigs. At the time I applied, I was actually getting paid for a small role in an up-and-coming play at an equally small theatre, as well as occasional painting commissions, and writing a bit here and there. But none the less I chose to enter the real work force as a cashier… what else is there to do in Montreal? This is where things get a bit sticky. One of the first people I’d met, upon moving out here almost a year ago, was the son of my landlady, James. James was a nice boy, from a nice family, with nice hair, a nice job, a nice car, and a consistent history of glamorous girlfriends. I have spent most of my life as the “nice” girl. I was never too sure what he saw in me. A couple months ago, things between us started to get a little tense. He was loosing interest… I knew this story. Maybe I should have acted on it then, but a part of me always hoped he’d come around again, and things would be more like they used to. I remember secretly hoping he was cheating, because that, at least, is a justifiable reason to stop loving somebody… but ultimately, it just came down to us. I think he was a bit too much James for me to handle, and I wasn’t as much Braidie as he’d wanted. I’d seen the pictures of his ex’s…most of them were models, gorgeous, thin, high class, would-be celebrities who spent their Saturdays helping orphaned puppies at the local animal shelter, or other crap like that. I could never compare to them, and I never wanted to… they may have been perfect, but they were all phonies. These shells of idealized women he’d shaped. I was never particularly malleable. I was entirely too self reliant to be James’s “sort of gal”, something that, as of late, was becoming painfully obvious.
Enter Lindsay.
The first time I ever met Lindsay was at the McEwen’s Grocery Christmas party three months ago. I’d come back from the punchbowl to find her sitting on James’s lap, with a glass full of eggnog in one hand, and a handful of James in the other.
I’m not really the “jealous girlfriend” type.
But there are limits.
James blushed.
“Oh! Hi Hon! This is…uh….Linda.”
Yup, let’s have a round of applause for Mr. Classy.
What could I do?
I did what any civilized woman would do in this situation; I politely offered my hand for the skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch-from hell-who probably has Chlamydia- to shake, of course.
“It’s Lindsay” She giggled, in that insipid and moronic way I would soon come to despise.
As you have probably guessed, James recently left me for the afore mentioned skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia.
Which is fine…because he’s an ass.
I hope he impales himself on one of her pointed silicon breasts and dies.
This, by the way, is what most psychiatric professionals would call the “angry phase.” Whatever, the psychiatric professionals can bite me.
My friend/ personal therapist, Ben, thinks I need a rest.
Wrong.
Wrong Ben, you are so wrong.
What I need is a fuck.
A really, really good fuck.
Something I’m fairly sure we don’t carry at McEwen’s grocery… I think some people have a real “evil fetish”…if so, Lindsay (the skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia.) is one of them. As if stealing my boyfriend wasn’t enough, she insisted on trying to ruin my life in every other possible way as well… this may have had something to do with the gum I stuck to her locker two months ago…but I prefer to believe that she’s just a boyfriend stealing-skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia-and is out to get me for no good reason what so ever. I find my life is simpler when I structure my philosophy so nothing bad that happens to me is ever my fault, and avenge myself on my mortal enemies by calling them childish things behind their fake-and-bake tan backs. So, due to no fault of my own, and because the bitch queen of the known universe and beyond hates me with the intensity of a thousand suns (which, for the record, is probably only half as much as I hate her) I am resigned to work the crappiest shifts humanly possible. (For example, 7:30 on a Sunday morning).
I looked across to Jean, who worked at the till in front of me. She was sitting on the conveyor belt, with her feet propped up on the register, snapping non-stick gum and reading a copy of US Weekly. If there was anything to know about anyone that had ever made a name for themselves, Jean would have it down. We used to play ‘spot the celebrity’ with customers. Whenever people walked in we’d whisper under our breaths stuff like ‘Jude Law…twenty years from now’ or ‘Michael Jackson, if he gained 100lbs’ or (my personal favorite) ‘Daniel Radcliff…40 years from now… if he were black…and a woman.’ It’s lame, but whatever, it passes the time.
I looked back at the cash drawer, opened it, and then shut it with a tumultuous BANG that reverberated through my tender cranium. Lindsay dropped her nail file and looked up to glare at me. YES! Bradie:1. Skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia: 0.
I smiled sweetly and waved at her.
Mme. Cow continued to scowl.
God! Grow a sense of humor!
Jean snapped her gum again.
Distantly I could hear a cart squeakily rolling down an isle.
I cracked my knuckles loudly and Lindsay pursed her lips.
With a resigned sigh I reached across the till, grabbed a pack or gum and rang it through, before voiding the purchase only to ring it through again.
So bored.
So unfathomably bored.
I paid for the gum and stuck a piece in my mouth, chomping loudly and trying to snap it in perfect tandem with Jean.
Lindsay’s scowl deepened.
I proceeded to unwrap every single piece of gum in the package, cram them all in my mouth, and slurp loudly in between trying to blow enormous pink bubbles.
Eventually, Lindsay had enough.
“No Gum!” She barked.
Jean rolled her eyes at me before spitting her gum into the till garbage in a perfect arc. I, somewhat less glamorously, took the giant pink wad out of my mouth and fixed in triumphantly to the bottom of the cash register. Lindsay fumed, whipped out a pen, and began to scribble frantically in the company ledger. As she wrote, I quickly un-stuck the offensive material and properly disposed of it, reveling in the knowledge that Lindsay would be the one to catch the flack when the discovery was made that there was, in fact, no gum on the bottom of the cash register of till number six. Lindsay really needs to learn to document things more accurately…Braidie: 2… skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia: 0.
This day was looking up.
I gathered all the little wrappers from the conveyor belt and set about trying to build a giant Origami robot, with little success.
Someone nearby cleared their throat.
“Excuse me, is this till open?”
“Unfortunately.” I said, with a resigned sigh, sweeping my paper creation into the trash. “And how are you today sir?”
“Well, thank you.”
He said politely through a subtle English accent. I looked up; standing in front of me was easily one of the most attractive men I’d ever met…or ever was likely to meet. I blinked like a deer in the headlights…at least, I prefer to think so…. In all reality I probably gaped like a goldfish out of water.
So pretty.
So very pretty.
I rarely think of men as being “pretty”. Attractive, yes, handsome…probably, but never pretty. This man was pretty. He was beyond pretty, he was downright GORGEOUS.
I resisted the urge to squeal and giggle like a demented fan girl…barley… suddenly I was very conscious of my own appearance. That morning I’d thrown my plain brown hair loosely into a French braid, from which much of it was currently escaping, and decided to overlook make-up completely. This whole glamorous look was capped off beautifully by my blue and red striped “McEwen’s Grocery” pinafore.
Have you ever wanted to just sink into the ground and die?...yeah.
I started to scan his purchases slowly, maximizing the time I had to gaze upon him in adoration. At that point, my Adonis spoke again.
“How are you?”
How was I? Elated! Spellbound! Enraptured!
I shrugged.
“Other than a sore back, dry throat, splitting headache and itchy polyester pants that were probably forged by Satan, not too bad… would you like your milk in a bag today?”
AHHHH!!!! Why did I just say that! Shut up damn you! Shut up!...Fortunately the stranger just grinned and chuckled softly. It struck me that something about him was incredibly familiar…maybe I’d met him before somewhere…no… that was impossible… this wasn’t the type of face one easily forgets. I was shaken form my reverie when I looked down at the purchase in my hand.
Blueberries.
What the crap was the code on blueberries?
I looked over at Jean who was still avidly reading US weekly, and had somehow managed to procure another piece of gum.
“Jean?”
She looked up.
“What’s the code on blueberries?”
There was a long pause. It was very obvious that Jean’s mind was definitely not on blueberries…she looked from me, to the man at my till, then back to my again…cheeks nearly as flushed as red as her hair. She struggled to concentrate, before eventually choking out “4769” through her gum.
I entered the number.
“Thanks” I called, smiling. “Sorry about that.”
He grinned.
“Not a problem…er….Braidie?”
He read off my name-tag. He’d pronounced it like ‘Brad-ee’ as opposed to ‘Bray-dee’… I was about to correct him when I noted Jean, behind his back, frantically trying to signal something to me. I ignored her, scanning the next purchase…whipped cream.
No! Bad brain! Stop!
I bit my lip in a painful attempt to keep a sly grin from spreading across my face. Jean was signaling again, this time trying to mouth something that looked like “Hernando’s Room” What the crap was that supposed to mean? I ignored her again and went back to scanning… next item, a bag full of bulk rolls. I sighed internally, I hated the paper bags we used in out store, I could never tell the quantities of anything that people bought bulk, and from personal experience I found that customers didn’t really appreciate you riffling through their purchases to count.
“How many buns, sir?”
He blinked a little, like his mind had been elsewhere.
“Um…I’m not sure…can you just count them?”
I nodded. “Yeah, but as a general rule I like to get people’s permission before manhandling their buns.”
He grinned mischievously.
“That’s probably a good policy, but I assure you you’re welcome to manhandle my buns any time you like.”
The penny dropped, and I laughed outright.
Jean was now standing on her till, flailing frantically, doing something that vaguely resembled the “I have to pee” dance, all the while continuing to mouth the same thing. I looked closer… what was she saying? Fernando’s tomb? I’m in the gloom? Sailor Moon? I pretended not to see her, and counted the buns.
Six.
I rang them in.
Jean was now looking positively desperate. She’d given up on mouthing whatever it was she’d been trying to communicate, and had taken up a kind of charades game that involved her prancing around looking like a gay drunk. What was she getting at?
“McEwen’s Club Card today sir?” He shook his head, relaxing a little. I surveyed him one last time. He was wearing ripped jeans and leather boots, topped off with an old bomber jacket. On any other individual, this get-up would have seemed grungy, but for some reason, on this man, is was positively suave. I flashed him my best smile, praying that there was nothing in my teeth.
He returned it.
“Your total this morning comes to 23.56”
He nodded, producing a plastic green card, which I recognized as an international visa.
“On Visa?” I hit a few keys.
Jean was still swaggering around, but now she had developed a limp and was wearing a paper pirate hat. She must be on crack. What the hell kind of message is that? That pirates are invading? She wants to join the touring musical Pirates of Penzance?
I was distracted at this point when my beautiful stranger extended his credit card, I took it gently, deliberately brushing my fingers against his, and swiped it. The machine processed the transaction immediately. Damn. I was hoping it would be slow (as usual) and buy me a few more minutes of conversation. The receipt printed promptly, and I passed him the store copy to sign. At this point, Jean came rushing over, having discarded the deranged charade game.
“Excuse me, sir, it’s…uh….company policy that when you…uh….buy blueberries you have to sign…. uh…. my arm!” She announced triumphantly.
What the FUCK!?!
Instead of looking at Jean incredulously as I had expected he would, my stranger flushed, and looked at me questioningly.
I laughed. “Apparently this is a new policy, would you like a pen?”
As he signed Jean’s freckled arm, I collected the receipt.
“Thank you very much Mr-”
Bloom. Bloom? BLOOM!??
I looked closer at the Visa, the name read “O. Bloom”
Oh my God! Orlando Bloom was about three feet away from me!
Orlando *fucking* Bloom.
Oh my God.
I asked to manhandle Orlando Bloom’s buns!!!!!
“Thank you very much Mr. Bloom.” I said professionally. He smiled politely, and we both looked over at Jean who appeared to be hyperventilating.
“Would you like a hand out with that today sir?” She wheezed.
Orlando looked from the single bag of groceries back to Jean, who looked as though she might die of a broken heart if he refused to let her carry them.
“That would be great, thanks.”
Jean grabbed the bag in a flash and was almost out the door.
“Nice to meet you Brad-ee” he said, flashing the smile that had made him famous.
“It’s ‘Bray-dee” I corrected involuntarily. He stuck out a hand for me to shake.
“Nice to meet you too, Mr. Bloom.”
“Just Orli”
“Alright, take care, ‘Just Orli’”
He winked as we broke contact,
“You too love”
And with that, he followed Jean out the door.
My hand was tingling, and my heart was beating a mile a minute… there was only one thing that could possibly make this better…. And…yep… there it was: Lindsay was leaning across the counter looking wistfully at the door.
Braidie: 2 000 000 003, Skank-ho-demon-soul-sucking-dirty-slut-bitch- from hell-who probably has Chlamydia: 0.
~*~*~*~*~*
Sorry to leave you all hanging! Good stuff soon to come!
- 1
- 2
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Playing Hooky