Thanks, 99
© 2026 Rumnations
I was putting money into a parking meter the other day, typing the parking space number into the electronic kiosk. 007. Just the sight of the numbers gives me the same delicious sense of danger and excitement it did when I had this under my bed in 1965:
I was almost eight. I wore pigtails and party shoes, sewed outfits for my trolls and stuffed animals, had tea parties with my dog. Unfortunately, the tight purple Danskins I wore revealed a (very) chubby little girl with a space between her front teeth, who looked more like Terry Thomas than Sean Connery.
But my alter ego was a stealthy, suave male secret agent. When my family traveled I always took my 007 attaché case to the motel. I could hear the baccarat tables and tuxedos downstairs, while I loaded my silencer above. (We stayed at a Howard Johnson’s, with only soda and ice machines downstairs, but I had a vivid imagination.)
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When I was not traveling to exotic places like Cleveland, when I knew my attaché case was too conspicuous, I’d leave it at home and opt instead for this:
It was always the highlight of the lunch table in our school cafeteria. I had to be very careful to watch all those who begged to play with it, always catching someone’s fist clenched around one of the six “amazing” accessories, ready to make it theirs. The recess bell would ring, I’d pack up my SixFinger lovingly like a seasoned marksman, and inevitably a piece was missing. None of us had yet mastered the poker face. (That came into its own around fourth grade, when duplicity became a necessity as we edged toward preadolescence.) The guilty parties always looked guilty, so my SixFinger stayed intact till I moved on to my next secret agent phase.
I was nearing the edge of the great hormonal abyss, and pretty boys were starting to catch my eye. Oh, Illya. Now I see that you look disturbingly like ET in this poster, but back then you were so dreamy. That turtleneck. Napoleon Solo was cute, but Illya Kuryakin got the wall space.
The bumps in the Danskin tops were changing shape rapidly, so I knew I’d soon have to rethink my role as a male spy. The women associated with the secret agents of the sixties were bright, but in a Barbarella sort of way. I needed to find a solid alternative I could admire. Someone brainy, clever, and fully clothed. The Bond girls were a mostly half-clothed group, and I was not going to look good that way for a few more years. I certainly couldn’t pull off a walk out of the surf in a white bikini, with brass knuckles and a very large knife. And James Bond’s Pussy Galore, Mission:Impossible’s Cinnamon Carter both had molded hair like June Cleaver, downright matronly. As I moved slowly into the double digits I could not relate to either type.
Thanks, 99 for inspiring me. With you I edged (somewhat) gracefully out of my previous secret agent persona and into my new one. I could pretend my hairbrush was a transmitter. My lip gloss could be a microphone. I could wear pantsuits with lots of useful pockets. Go-go boots with room to hide a short stiletto if I needed to. I could be brainy, clever, and I did not have to wear a bikini.
