I was putting money into a parking meter the other day and had to enter the parking space number into the electronic kiosk. 007. Just the sight of those numbers gives me the same delicious sense of danger and excitement it did when I had this under my bed in 1965.
I wore party shoes, sewed outfits for my trolls and stuffed animals, had tea parties with my dog. But my alter ego was a stealthy, suave male secret agent. Unfortunately, I dressed in tight black Danskins that left nothing to the imagination. I was a (very) chubby little girl with a space between her front teeth who looked more like Terry Thomas than Sean Connery.
My favorite times were when my family traveled and I took my secret agent attaché case to a hotel. I’d imagine the baccarat tables and tuxedos downstairs, while I strategized above. (We stayed at Howard Johnson’s, with only soda and ice machines downstairs, but I had a vivid imagination.)
When my attaché case was too conspicuous, I’d leave it at home and opt instead for this:
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, often catching someone’s fist clenched around one of the six “amazing” accessories. The recess bell would ring, I’d pack up my SixFinger lovingly like a seasoned marksman, and inevitably a piece was missing. Most of us hadn’t 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 I managed to hang on to all the pieces till I moved on to my next secret agent phase.
Oh, Illya. Now I see that you look like ET in this poster, but back then you were so dreamy. That turtleneck. I was nearing the hormonal abyss and pretty boys were starting to catch my eye. Napolean Solo was cute, but Illya got the wall space.
I was becoming conflicted. The women associated with the secret agents of the sixties were bright, but in a Barbarella sort of way. 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 wasn’t developed enough to pull off a walk out of the surf with brass knuckles and a very large knife. Bond’s Pussy Galore and Mission:Impossible’s Cinnamon Carter had hair like June Cleaver, downright matronly. As I moved slowly into the double digits I could not relate to either type.
But the bumps in the black Danskins were changing slightly, so I knew I was getting too old to pretend I was a male spy. I needed to find a solid female secret agent I could admire. Someone a little brainy, a little clever, fully clothed, and pretty in a normal way.
With Agent 99 I edged (somewhat) gracefully out of my masculine secret agent persona and into my new feminine one. I could pretend my powder compact was a transmitter. My lip gloss a microphone. I could wear poorboys and pantsuits with useful pockets, op-art dresses and go-go boots; I did not have to run around in a bikini! I could be a regular girl and easily run circles around guys, even Maxwell Smart. Thanks, 99, for being there at just the right time in this secret agent’s life.