Strangers in Costumes

Flash fiction about living a double life.

Mar 09, 2025

A(void)ant, Miriam Uhura. “There is often a reluctance to ‘enter the void.’ However, the ‘void’ can be a place that leads to interconnectedness. In the void, you see yourself. Don’t avoid that connection with yourself.” -Miriam Uhura

“Flight 3756 to St. Louis will be boarding in 30 minutes.” the airline attendant announces.

I’m seated by the window, studying the passengers as they make haste in their Crocs, balancing coffee in one hand while hauling small stacked bags in the other. It’s been five years since my last visit to St. Louis. A city that I hold near to my heart but left behind twenty years ago. Nothing else awaits me between the cracks of the city or off the suburban exits of Ferguson. In different cities, I effortlessly shape shift to my new environments, laughing and smiling in faces that have never known me before. Weekend dinner dates with befriended strangers who’ve unknowingly broken bread with a serial thief. My part time lover who believes our chemistry is full time will awaken to learn I abandoned her by sunrise. I’m not who anyone wants me to be, and I never will.

While waiting to board the plane, I’m drafting my next story about people living double lives. Who are we beneath our flesh and bones, beyond our statuses and occupations? People watching is my favorite yet unusual obsession because I delight in fabricating bogus stories about random people. Toying with the notion that my fantasies aren’t too impossible to be true.

I closely observe a crew of loadmasters unload four large palettes from a plane. Loadmasters don’t get enough appreciation for their jobs but, they’re fortunate to not listen to disgruntled passengers everyday complain about weight limits and damaged luxury bags.

Oh - what’s happening here?

A young loadmaster and fellow crew member are discussing the new treasures while loading wooden crates into a truck. A man wearing a black polo passes the loadmaster a dark brown bag, perhaps payment for his participation in transporting weapons to sell on the black market. The loadmaster checks the money and shakes his hand, no sign of suffocating under guilt or pressure. His quiet cooperation awards him monetary benefits that he routinely collects towards his retirement.

I snap out of my daydream by the sound of an older woman sitting two seats beside me. I acknowledge her with soft eyes and a half grin. Between words from her phone call she flashes off white dentures and whispers hello to me. She plops her overstuffed tote in the seat between us and the contents on top nearly spill over, revealing her unfastened Coach wallet from beneath her pink knit sweater.

Why do people walk around like this?

Don’t they know how easy it is for someone like me to slip my hands inside without digging through the bag? My temptation is rising and I’m drawn to her carelessness. I’m the least of her concerns because to her I’m a nobody. There’s no dire need to take this lady’s hard-earned money, but my palms are itching and I relish in the rush of a little pick pocketing every now and then. What would my mother say if she knew this was my hidden hobby amongst other things? She’s my mother and like many of them, they just know.

The woman’s back is to me as she’s talking on the phone about her trip plans and I pretend to keep my attention on my notebook and the loadmasters. I cross my legs and gently lean my body towards the tote. As I snake my hand under my left arm I caress the edge of the bills, grab the tiny stack and tuck it inside my sleeve. Easy. Do I need it? Nah, but I’m obsessed with the thrill of risk and deception.

I can’t recall when I conceived the idea to live an alternate lifestyle. Maybe when I was weary with my lack of fulfillment and simply existing in the safety of the mundane left me empty and dissatisfied. I constructed a secondary life that allows me to explore drugs, theft and experimental sex without judgement from people that know me. Then again, no one knows me.

The flight attendant announces its boarding time and I make my way to the line. On the plane, I smile at the older woman once again, mentally thanking her for making my thieving experience easily attainable today, and shuffle down the aisle to row G. I briefly waited to get to my seat and found myself staring at the scars on the gentleman seated in row F.

What’s his story? He’s a detective but moonlights as a rogue vigilante. His wife was killed in the crossfires of a shootout but unfortunately no justice was served. He’s headed to Oakland, but he’s supposed to meet someone important before he gets there. The cuts held together with liquid stitches are healing and it looks like he dressed the wounds himself. Perhaps I’m staring too long because he locks his gaze to mine. Shit. Is my mouth open?! I dismiss the fantasy and climb in the seat behind him.

I laugh to myself at my depth of imagination. What are the odds that my ridiculous stories will ever be true? As I get comfortable for my short flight, the gentleman in front slips me a folded note between the seats. I’m reluctant to read it but the knot in my belly is tightening and I'm curious to know what it says. I held my breath and grabbed it.

Did you bring it?

I shudder.

What the hell is this and who does he think I am?

Thanks for reading + making it to the end. I hope you enjoyed it.

What do you think happens next?

Fun fact about me: yes, I was raised in St. Louis + Ferguson. A moment of transparency - this story is not entirely fictional. I know…daaammmnnnn.

We know at least one person, if not ourselves, that is finding escape, safety and satisfaction of living an alternative life. Let’s be real - we don’t truly know anyone that well and will quickly dismiss what they’re capable of. Hell - we don’t know what we’re capable of and what we’re willing to do and sacrifice. Some alternative lifestyles may seem harmless at first but what happens when you enjoy it so much that it’s the desired life you prefer to live?

HUGE shout out to my husband for helping me write this story!