The Changeling The Switch Pt 02

THE CHANGELING - The Insertion PT2

I was sitting in my underwear on a soft upholstered bench in a darkened alcove. My clothes were neatly folded in a basket next to me. My jewelry, watch, and rings were in a small container in the basket. I was waiting for Estelle Husdon, the receptionist in The Puzzle Palace’s 3rd Floor Visitor’s Lounge to deliver appropriate attire. I had been sent from the 5th floor Executive Suites to Mrs Husdon in the Visitor’s to be prepared to join him watching today’s web-cast.

Upstairs, in the Executive offices, Mr Erickson had listened sympathetically when I explained that after my husband, a commercial artist, and I lost our jobs and couldn’t find work, a friend suggested I send my photographs in. The real Maggie Dowd told me to keep a cover story simple and as close to the truth as possible to avoid explanations.

Mr Erickson, his thinning hair perfectly combed, opened his computer notebook to study my photographs carefully. As he reviewed my photo spread he stopped at my nude, he commented, “We do not regard what we do here as porn or humiliation theatre. Of course, there are males who subscribe to our services just to drool but do you have any idea how much women spend on the clothing and accessories and health and beauty aids promoted by the show? Perhaps, you’d like to join me during the taping of the webcast.”

My work as an investigative journalist brought me to unexpected situations. Here waiting for Mrs Husdon to return with appropriate clothing was part of my application for employment at The Puzzle Palace whose webcast broadcast a popular strip game show. I had been sent to Mrs Husdon from the 5th floor Executive Suite with its panoramic view of the suburban sprawl-o-polis of little wood frame houses sitting pretty on cookie cutter lots. Somewhere out there, was my real life, but that didn’t matter. Today, I was Maggie Dowd, applicant for employment.

If the real Maggie Dowd were elsewhere on an unstated mission, who had applied for a job at The Puzzle Palace under her name? It was a changeling, a substitute!

You might say an investigative journalist is an actress without a script who has to ad lib convincingly through every difficulty encountered playing the part. “In undercover journalism,” I told my skeptical editor who dispatched me on this mission to uncover the secret behind TPP’s meteoric rise to prestige, prominence and influence from a webcast begun n its CEO’s two car garage, “Like an actress, I transform myself into a different person, but I do have an advantage over a stage actress. I invent the part and invent the script as well as play it.”

Many journalists, like my overbearing editor seduced by the prospect of making a juicy prize-winning story about a secretive, glittery world of salacious sex, exploitation, money and influence, sought to penetrate The Puzzle Palace as a prospective employee, but, of the few accorded an interview, none had made it past the initial meeting with Mr Erickson.

Up in the 5th Floor executive suite, bespeckled Mr Erickson creator of TPP brushed aside with a smile my attempt to question him about TPP’s rise. “I’m here to find out about you.” Looking over my photo spread, “I’m impressed. It follows instructions. TPP has prescribed format: head shot, fully dressed casual, fully dressed formal, lingerie, swim suit, topless, and nude.”

“Following directions,” I questioned, “in a webcast dedicated to art aren’t you more interested in creative expression?”

“In TPP following directions is critical,” Mr Erickson replied, “Suggestion of alternatives is not discouraged.” Continuing to examine the photo spread, Erickson asked, “Jim, your husband, took these?”

“Yes Jim is quite the artist, both with paint and the camera. He did hold the camera straight, fortunately.” I smiled.

“You are aware TPP,” declared Mr Erickson pointing to the reel of Maggie performing an oral on me, “employs couples capable of standing by or even assisting while a partner engages another actor in a steamy scene.”

“An actress on stage becomes a different person from herself,” I responded, “Jim understands that.”

How much did Jim understand? In seeking employment at TPP with TPP preference for working couples, I regarded acquisition of Jim as a significant asset in making the insertion. A graphic artist, Jim was left behind when his employer computerized and went offshore. Jim could have been reactivated with Maggie, but chose not to. Unaware of true nature of myreal mission, Jim had no need to know anything more than I had borrowed Maggie’s identity because I needed a job. “A man of few words,” Maggie presented Jim former intelligence as reliable enough “to respect his bounds.”

“At your height,” Erickson critiqued my appearance, “you would not be considered the headlining super-star, but I was struck by that reel you shot. We might be interested in the other girl – as well as you. Girls next door blowing off steam?”

“Oh, the romp on the floor with my husband’s Jim’s model,” I recounted the limited authorization that model granted me, “The condition the other woman set on her participation was that her face would not appear and her name would go unmentioned.”

“Understandable,” Mr Ericksen observed.

I recalled, “The other woman did not want her co – workers to know of her sideline posing nude. She wasn’t averse to having fun.”

I gulped. Before she left, the real Maggie had told me that the best cover stories are simple, somewhat close to the truth. Actually, employment was at the heart of the truth. The undisclosed nature of the real Maggie’s undercover work for the military or the police, precluded photographing her face.

With Maggie, I had an advantage over previous investigators attracted to the glitzy world of The Puzzle Palace in search of a story about money, sex-ploitation and abuse . I had a solid legend behind me, the real Maggie Dowd. My resemblance to the real Maggie Dowd was more than a passing similarity. It was a virtual congruence which Maggie and I demonstrated to my editor funding the investigation by standing buck naked back-to-back in the communal shower of the gym where I met Maggie. My editor was suitably impressed, “Everything seems to match up, nicely,” my editor declared as she circled around us, taking an opportunity to scrooch my nipple in the process.

With the real Maggie reactivated into an undescribed intelligence deployment, I was installed in her house, drove her car and wore her clothes. Early this morning in preparation for this interview at the Puzzle Palace, I awoke in the real Maggie’s bed. To emulate the attire of the contestants on the Puzzle Palace’s webcast, I had ample pickings in Maggie’s closet. Carefully selecting conservative business ensemble, a black skirt, a white top, a black one button jacket from Maggie’s closet, I wore my own charcoal grey stockings. I checked the mirror to take a thorough assessment of myself and decided to bind my hair grown to shoulder length in a black bow.

Introducing me to her wardrobe, Maggie advised, “Think of it like a second skin, like a snake, you shed it to blend into the terrain you’re in.”

Looking at her computer screen when I arrived a few minutes ago at her circular reception desk at the entrance to the Visitor’s lounge, Estelle Husdon, had announced in a raspy voice that complimented her faded reddish-brown hair and spoke of a woman of mature years, “Mr Ericksen puts you in the audience today.”

“First things first. Handbag on the desk,” Mrs Husdon ordered in that raspy voice. “You can’t bring anything on set that we haven’t issued to you.”

The real Maggie Dowd had told me to assume that an organization that keeps its secrets well will find a way to inspect anything you bring with you. Show some reluctance, but comply.

I hesitated but placed my bag on the desk. Everything in the bag, wallet, photographs, date book, checkbook, driver’s license, credit cards, cell phone and even the monogrammed handkerchief and gym membership card belonged to the real Maggie.

I smiled when I thought of Maggie having entrusted me with her identification. What had she said of it with a laugh, “Where I’m headed, I can’t bring any identification or personal items. Try not to get too many traffic tickets.”

After examining the contents of my purse, Estelle turned to me. Despite my care in selecting attire for the interview, I was now faced by an intense critical glare from Estelle which would have seared the clothes off my back.

Grabbing my jaw with her bony hand and moving my face side to side for her critical inspection, “your makeup,” Estelle bobbed her head up and down evaluating my face critically, “and hair are passable but those clothes have to go. I’ll get you appropriate attire. Go in the back find an alcove and get undressed. Take off everything.” Estelle commanded, with maleficent dark eyes staring through me. “I need your watches, phone, jewelry, rings, piercings, anything metallic.”

Answering the quizzical look which spread across my face, Estelle informed me, “Ms Dowd, it’ll interfere with the digital recording on set.” Estelle paused, “Maggie Dowd, I do have your name correct?”

Earlier when I had arrived for my interview, I took a deep breath when I stopped Maggie’s non – descript dark blue Ford at the security gate and without hesitation gave my assumed name as Maggie Dowd and rattled off Maggie’s license plate number without hesitancy. The Security Officer at the gate called in my name and plate number to the Silver Tower in the distance and after a few minutes delay I breezed through to my interview with Mr Erickson in the well-appointed 5th floor executive offices.

Where was the real Maggie Dowd today? She was off on an unstated mission, two years, she said. Aside from a striking resemblance, Maggie's convenient absence enabled me to slip into her house, car, and clothing, completely absorbing her persona.

Maggie’s value exceeded mere resemblance. Her coaching taught me to keep my cool when giving Maggie’s name. Maggie insisted that she and all those around me my editor, my husband James and her husband Jim refer to me as Maggie. If any slipped, I was to offer firm reproof on the spot with a simple show of annoyance, “Maggie! Thus, I was able to deliver a confident “Maggie Dowd” without stumbling to the gate guard, a receptionist, Mr Erickson, thinning haired, dark suited chief executive officer at The Puzzle Palace.

As I sat in my underwear, awaiting Mrs Husdon’s return with an “appropriate change of clothes,” I hoped that wherever my friend was she wasn’t sitting in the dark, shivering in her underwear waiting – how would she have put it in mil – speak, military jargon, “issue of the appropriate uniform for the sport.”

Yes, Maggie was one of most important assets. Not only did Maggie hatch the idea of adopting her name and persona but also she convinced my tight-fisted editor to go the expense to make the penetration of a security conscious target like The Puzzle Palace feasible.

When shooting my photo spread in Maggie’s house, Jim, Maggie’s husband, gruffly ordered me to strip, I was taken aback. I might have run, but Maggie reminded me “You need a full spread clothed, half naked and nude. Your target TPP which politely claims to accomplish artistic celebration the human form, needs to appraise your physique before acquiring rights to it. Less, politely an organization as security conscious as TPP will inspect your person.”

In the Third-Floor visitor’s lounge at TPP, I was sitting on the upholstered bench swinging my legs idly when suddenly a spotlight was switched on in the dark alcove. I looked around. The walls were bookcases stacked with bound books of considerable age. “Books,” I gasped, “who reads books these days?”

Unseen, Estelle crept into the alcove with a black shoulder button dress on a hangar. A black thong, bra, stockings and open toe heels dangled from the hook. In her raspy voice, she growled, “TPP is a bee hive busy 24 hours a day Our researchers use the lounge at night to prepare the questions for the contestants.”

Estelle cleared her throat and hung the apparel from one of the upper shelves. “But hold your questions for later. It’s almost time for the shoot and you’re not ready. Stand, if you please! Raise your arms up above your head!”

“Is this necessary,” I protested.

“Darling, you applied to be employed a contestant on a strip game show!” Estelle roared. “An actress is by definition an exhibitionist. Why should you be embarrassed?”

Upstairs in the Executive Suite, Mr Erickson answered that question. Looking over his spectacles, Erickson examined my photo spread. “While not everyone gets a starring role,” slowly and deliberately eyes focused on my nudes, the nude pictures, Erickson commented, “however, chances are you will get a walk – on at some point.” Looking up to speak directly to me, Erickson noted, “Oh, women are paid well for walk – ons, don’t misunderstand me. But have you thought of what your friends, or better yet your mother or father, might say if they watch the feed on the webcast and catch a glimpse of your bare butt dancing across the screen?”

Looking Erickson in the eye, I responded, “I’d ask Mom or Dad or Uncle Elmo which wholesome values TPP promoted that attracted them to the webcast, the fine classical art, the intellectually stimulating questions in the game show or the designer clothing for sale.”

In the visitor’s lounge, Estelle cleared her throat to prompt me, “Ms Dowd, few applicants are honored to make it this far. You must be under serious consideration.” Hanging my change of apparel from one of the upper shelves, Estelle advised, “Hold your questions for later. Mr Erickson is probably waiting in the auditorium for you. Arms up!”

Estelle’s hand reached under my cups to briefly massage my breasts before she slipped my bra over my head. “Didn’t even muss your hair,” Estelle assured me. Brushing aside my arms to inspect my breasts, Estelle tittered. “Them cupcakes real, no implants?”

“No,” I replied tartly, “would you like to feel them,” I paused and smiled daringly, “once again?”

Estelle grunted in disdain. “Good coloring in your tits,” She waved a finger around my nipples, “Sometimes that’s a problem for you dirty blondes, but your nips should show up nicely on camera.”

Reaching at the band of my lacy-frillies she yanked my panties down to my ankles. “Butt needs a little tightening, but there are no tattoos, scars or stretch marks. Natural bush uncut, hair shade a little darker. A hairy pussy gets the audience into guessing about the natural color of your hair. Best go bare down there. You don’t have any piercings down there on your clit. Do you?”

“No,” I taunted her, “Would you like to check for yourself?”

The questioned went unanswered.

When Estelle motioned me with her index finger to turn around, I was relieved that the focus of her careful scrutiny had turned to my coif.

In the transformation from Marjorie Keating to Maggie Dowd, the hair had been the greatest difficulty. I had to grow it longer and change the color from the reddish tinged auburn to sandy brown. Memorizing her resume was by far simpler than selecting the correct color.

“Oh,” Estelle pointed to the blue bow in my sandy brown hair, “this bow will not do. Generally, applicants cannot bring anything with them that wasn’t divinely sanctioned and authorized by me.”

“As long as, `He,’” I joked as I feigned looking up to the heavens, “approves.”

Ignoring the comment Estelle promised, “I’ll get you a bow that goes with the dress.” Estelle paused to critically inspect my body. “Otherwise, I guess you’re passable. Can I trust you to dress yourself and report to my station in a few seconds?” Estelle picked up the basket and nodded to me to step out of my panties dangling around my ankles and left the alcove.

Alone, bravado faded and panic set in. I stood there stark naked under the spotlight wondering whether I should flee.

I thought I’d run out of the building another failure in terror until I heard Estelle’s voice yelling, “What’s holding you up? We have a show to tape.” I was encouraged by the unintended reminder that I had gotten further than my overbearing editor at the magazine might have expected.

At Estelle’s desk, she clipped a white necklace around my neck and white circular earrings to my ear lobes and had me gather my tresses into a white bow. “Costume jewelry, no interference with the recording,” Estelle took note in a more pleasant voice. “I really wish we had more time. I’d send for the makeup artist. I’m not fully satisfied, but this will have to do.” She buzzed me through a door behind her station.

I found myself in an auditorium with several rows of black theatre chairs. A dark curtain hung on the side nearest to my chair; the opposite wall was mirrored.

Mr Erickson, the studio executive who had interviewed me, emerged from a fold in the curtain. “You’ll have a million questions, I’m sure, but we’re taping.” Taking a seat next to me, he cautioned, “Hold questions and concerns to an intermission. Excited?” He smiled.

“I’m very pleased with myself that I made it this far,” I replied.

Up front, an Emcee jumped onto the stage. He started his introduction. “Welcome to the Puzzle Palace. For those of you unfamiliar with the game, above the stage,” he pointed to a large computer board, “is the puzzle. There are 26 squares. Beneath are the lecterns,” he pointed to the three podiums on stage, “where the contestants stand. Now let`s bring out the contestants. The games are about ready to begin.”

I was now the first reporter to have made it inside the sacred precincts of the Puzzle Palace.

In an intermission in the Webcast, Mr Erickson took me backstage leaving me to chat with the starlets, clothing losses concealed under sparkling silver robes. “Everyone here starts at the bottom,” the ladies explained, “in maintenance and laundry and works their way up. A newbie who sticks with TPP has a good chance of landing on the stage; some may be selected for administration.”

When Mr Erickson returned with my clothing freshly cleaned, my handbag, and a case with my personal effects, he invited me to return with my husband Jim, “You can return clothing we issued you tomorrow. We like working couples. I’d like to see your husband Jim and his portfolio to see if he has potential. Do you think he’d be interested? Can you come back with your husband Jim tomorrow? We can discuss your employment at that time.”

After the interview, I informed Jim, Maggie’s husband of The Puzzle Palace’s interest in his sketches. Jim had not questioned my reason for assuming Maggie’s identity. “It might,” the real Maggie persuaded Jim, “lead to employment and an outlet for your silly sketches.” Predictably, Jim said by the real Maggie to be truly in love with his art, faithfully collected his portfolio in a black case for his meeting with Mr Erickson.

On our way to The Puzzle Palace for his interview, Jim, carefully clutching his portfolio, declared, “We both need jobs, eh—Maggie dearest—there’s no need to squash a good deal by bring up your eh-checkered past. Is there?”

Security directed Jim to the elevator bank while I would wait downstairs at the circular reception desk on the first floor lobby. In the lobby, I watched the usual comings and goings. Almost everyone, with few exceptions, entering seemed to be in casual wear, jeans and T – shirts, even though upstairs, Secretaries dressed like models. No one headed for the elevators. Rather everyone was swallowed up in some portals at the sides of the first – floor reception desk.

Presently, Jim, I almost said James, returned to reception with Mr Erickson. Both wore big smiles. “You’re in,” Mr Erickson congratulated us. “Now, I told Jim, like I told you yesterday. Everyone starts learning every aspect of the back - stage work. You, Mr Dowd, start in housekeeping. Mrs Dowd, you’ll start in laundry. Tonight, but first, I’ll take you to security for some pre – employment forms and then they’ll send you to the fourth floor for a medical exam.”