Stan the Man

This story is for an assignment that FoN over at Kids and Daiquiris threw out there. (Doesn’t the rhyming remind you of a Sesame Street sketch with a man in a van?) Go check it out, and add another story to the mix!

The dance rehearsal was interrupted mid-Tango when a crazed delivery man in tan carrying an awkward bundle burst out of the rear room. He raced toward the door, followed by a middle-aged woman with a tape-measure strung around her neck like an anorexic, robin-egg blue cashmere scarf. “Tob! Tob!” she yelled. Her lips were pressed together, holding straight pins. They dangled from her mouth just as an old-fashioned detective would have dangled a half-smoked cigarette from the corner of his mouth while gabbing on the phone, feet propped up on the desk.

I instantly sprang into action, shouting, “Call the police!” as I two-stepped it out the door. Out on the street I looked left, then right, and spotted the man in tan slamming the door on a double-parked delivery van. The chase was on. I leaped onto the rear bumper and grabbed the door handles. As the truck veered into traffic, I swung myself up to the roof, limber as a cat. “Being a dancer has unexpected advantages,” I thought, and I flattened myself against the warm metal. The truck lumbered along, the driver unaware of its debonair stowaway. I inched my way forward, up to the cab. I swung my feet into the open passenger window and gracefully descended into the seat. I found myself face-to-face with the startled thief. “Wanna rumba?” I growled as I forced him off the road and up an embankment. A squad car pulled up, lights flashing, and officers pulled the man in tan from the van to question him.

A reporter arrived soon after, and I flashed her a smile as I revealed my prize–the costume designer’s coveted sewing machine. Why the man in tan wanted it, I could not say. “And you are?” the reporter asked.

“I’m Stan.” I replied.

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