Shelly Hack

In the late 90's, I somehow became involved in monitoring elections overseas. I went over a number of times and hope to do so again in the future. It has always been, each time I've gone, an overwhelming experience that consistently teaches me new lessons. Like, always make friends with the military guys in your sector because they usually have bottled water. Or, make certain to bring your own roll of toilet paper unless you want to end up using waxed paper, which really isn't all that absorbent. And that young female interpreters often thing that Lady Speed Stick is perfume to be worn on the neck.

I also met wonderful people when I was working overseas, passionate about their work and their ideals. I met judges, students, election workers, lawyers...well, okay, they weren't all passionate about their ideals. Regardless, I did meet some really cool folks, a number of whom I kept in contact with for quite some time. One of whom was...we'll call him Ken.

Ken and I got to be pretty good friends. We lived relatively near each other in the states--close enough that we could meet up on weekends and hang out. He did computer work and had reasonably flexible hours. He broke up with his girlfriend and we hung out more. He read her diaries to me over the phone during the course of one especially bitter wine-filled weekend, then swore me to secrecy on the off-chance that I might ever see her again (I still haven't). We met the first time I went overseas and somehow ended up on the same flight the second time I went over to work.

The country we were sent to has a long and troubled history. Lucky for us, it is also near some great sea-side resort towns, where the powers that be saw fit to send us for training. We were to catch a flight from Dulles to this sea-side town in order to attend several days' worth of fascinating training (i.e. indoctrination). Although we weren't looking forward to the mind-numbing flight and subsequent pat-down in customs, I did recall getting small bottles of wine with each meal. I would usually save those to drink until right before the pat-down. Wine makes those more romantic.

So I'm standing in the airport, waiting for our handlers to gather all of us together for the flight, when I notice this woman standing near our group. She's blond. And pretty, in an ageless kind of way. Great skin. Flawless. (This memory is in no way influenced by my current breakout on my chin.) And she's wearing a pleated skirt.

Men will not understand a woman's issue with a pleated skirt. Pleated skirts take hours of maintenance. Hours. One cannot simply throw on a pleated skirt without forethought. Pleated skirts take time. And planning. And drycleaning. Only a woman very sure of herself and with a lot of luggage can afford to wear a pleated skirt on a ten-hour plane trip.

So...the woman. And the pleated skirt. And the longer I'm looking at her, the more I realize that I know her from somewhere. Finally, it hits me.

Charlie's Angels.

Shelly Hack, whose character replaced Sabrina on Charlie's Angels. That's who this woman was. Also, the wife in the horridly hacky The Stepfather, with the fabulous Terry O'Quinn.

Somehow, Ms. Hack got involved in this election monitoring business, too, and was being ferried along with our little group overseas. Excellent.

We fly. And fly. Eventually, we land in the little sea-side town and decamp to our hotels. Ken and I ended up in the same hotel. As did Ms. Hack.

Who immediately set up camp in the hotel lobby, holding court and accepting tribute. I cannot deny that the woman has star quality. You look at her and you know she is somebody. Unlike the time that I saw Kevin Pollack in a small midwestern airport and debated with myself for an hour as to whether or not it might be him before deciding that no one from the town we were in would ever dress like he was dressed, ergo, it must be Kevin Pollack. Shelly Hack was obviously somebody, even if you never watched Angels. Or Lifetime.

Men flocked to her. She had French policemen, Indian army guys, British diplomats, American expats all hanging on her every word. And who else? My partner in crime, Ken.

Ken was taken in by her golden locks and dulcet tones. He blew me off to stroll along the water with her and her gaggle of hangers on. And this, in the time before iPods, was a terrible blow.

He virtually disappeared for the three days of training. We only saw him at breaks, when he would rush out to get coffee for her. I luckily fell in with some other people and we proceeded to mercilessly mock him behind his back. But I had to give him credit--he was really putting the time in.

The night before we were to be deployed was the big night for him. He was going to try to make his move. I got this news over wedges of Laughing Cow cheese and rolls that morning during the breakfast buffet, as he was sqeezing lemons into hot water for his new lady love. I told him to get photographic proof or we'd never believe him.

The next day, we got on our respective buses. Ken and I had been sent to the same town, along with a number of other people I'd been spending time with over the previous few days. Those same people who'd been laughing at him behind his back. The look on his face as he got on the bus told me everything I needed to know about the night before. Suffice to say that he did not have, nor would he ever come close to getting, any type of photographic proof of his loving and meaningful relationship with the actress. I didn't say a word--I didn't need to. Yet.

We were stuck on the bus for about 8 to 10 hours. We had a lot of time to kill, especially when we got stuck in snow-covered mountains and had to put chains on the tires of the two-story bus. That's another story, altogether. We passed the time talking, sleeping, listening to music, discussing who'd had carnal relations most recently. I should mention that I did not win that one, although I remember who did. And we played games.

Someone started the name game. You know, you name a famous person: Henry Fonda. The next person has to name someone whose name starts with "F". Freddy Mercury. Miles Davis. Donny Osmond. Oliver Stone. And if someone gets a name with the same letters, like Sylvester Stallone, we reverse the order.

We kept playing. And playing. Michael Jackson. Jackie Robinson. Robert Redford. Robert Duvall. Diane Keaton. Kevin Costner. Round and round. Ken was playing. I was playing. And I was waiting. Just like a spider, as Mammy said to Scarlett.

"Charlie Daniels." That's it. "Dave Foley." Come on. A little closer. "Frank Sinatra." Finally.

I turned to Ken and smiled.

"Shelly Hack."

He pouted for the next three days. And I enjoyed each and every one of them.