A Hoboken Hipster In Sherwood Forest

A Hoboken Hipster in Sherwood Forest

If Chrissie Hayward knew that morning she'd be going back in time to rescue her crazy coworker Kat, she'd have worn better shoes. Doubly so if she'd expected to meet her true love. According to the mysterious gypsy, Chrissie was the "gentle soul who would tame an outlaw's thirst for revenge" -- aka the real Robin Hood. So how come the guy was such a dud?

LOST...IN SHERWOOD FOREST?

No, Robin of Locksley was no Prince Charming. And the part about robbing the rich to feed the poor? He didn't get the memo. In fact, all the guy seemed to do was mope. (And he and his not-so-merry men thought Chrissie was a boy. Sure, she wasn't stacked, but still!) Nonetheless, he was loyal and brave and handsome as sin. If Chrissie could just get him with the program, she could right his wagon and get these boyz'n the wood to be heroes of the realm instead of twerps in tights. Only then could this prince of thieves become king of her heart.

Chapter One

Kat Jones is so dead!

Seriously, when I find that Park Avenue princess I'm going to wring her Burberry-clad neck. The girl has been nothing but a pain in the ass since we arrived at King Arthur's Renaissance Faire a few hours ago. Nonstop whining and complaining—worse than all the Real Housewives of Orange County put together. I mean, she even bitched out a poor old gypsy who was just trying to eke out a living by reading palms. And now I turn my back for one second and she's disappeared.

I'm Chrissie Hayward, by the way, a simple fashion magazine photographer not normally given to violent tendencies. In fact,
I've even been called a hippie by some. But hey, just because I prefer tofu to tuna and peaceful politics to unjust occupation of third-world countries that pose absolutely no threat to the United States, that doesn't mean I'm some unwashed, patchouli-drenched flower child, does it?

But enough about me.
Right now I need to find my slacker coworker. Last I saw her, she was watching the jousting match. I offered to get her some water since she said she had a headache. Now I realize that was most likely her ruse to get rid of me so she could take off early.

I push past the throngs of
people, many dressed in authentic-looking medieval garb. I myself am wearing a capped-sleeved, royal blue velvet gown I made from a pattern I got off Etsy. I know it's a little silly, but when in Rome, right? I certainly fit in here a lot better than Kat does, what with her couture clothing and stiletto heels. Who the hell wears stilettos to traipse through upstate New York mud?

When my
La Style
magazine editor boss first e-mailed me today's assignment, I was over the moon. After all, how many times does one have the opportunity to get paid to hang out at a medieval faire all day, taking photos? Then I read the P.S. I'd be working with her.
La Style
's resident fashionista and all-around shallow bitch. Sure enough, the second we got here, Kat started complaining. You'd have thought our editor asked her to go to the front lines of Fallujah the way she's been moaning and groaning. I've tried to make the best of it, to ignore her and enjoy the faire, but let me tell you, that girl could put a damper on Pollyanna's day.

"Excuse me," I say, tapping a random knight in shining armor on the shoulder. He turns around and gives me a dazzling smile. Delicious. "I'm looking for a girl. Blonde. About this tall." I hold up a hand to illustrate approximate Kat height. "Dressed in Armani—"

"Me too." He grins. "All my life, in fact. Be sure to introduce us when you find her."

I roll my eyes. "I'm serious."

He laughs, then shakes his head, black curls tossing from side to side. "Sorry. Haven't seen her." I try to ignore his thick Brooklyn accent, which seriously detracts from the medieval authenticity level of his costume, and concentrate on his tempting backside as he turns to walk away. Not that I should be looking at a knight in shining armor's backside; I am still technically married, though those 'til-death-do-us-part vows don't really mean anything to me anymore. After all, they certainly meant fuck all to Danny when he was off screwing that coffee house waitress after the poetry slam in the West Village last month.

I'll never forget the moment I caught the bastard, naked and writhing and spouting bad verse in the women's bathroom stall. It was like a cheesy Lifetime movie, except for the fact that in made-for-TV land, the husband's usually a successful businessman in corporate America. Someone with assets the jilted wife can acquire to get her revenge. Danny's assets consist of a dresser filled with vintage t-shirts and a signed,
first-edition copy of Jack Kerouac's
On the Road
. You don't end up a rich divorcee on the Riviera from that.

Shaking unpleasant thoughts from my head, I squint and scan the crowd some more. Where could Kat be? Maybe she went back to the car. I make my way to the front gates of the faire and into the parking lot, finding my old-school yellow Volkswagen Bug still parked where I left her.

"Have you seen the bitch, Flower?" I ask the car, patting her hood. Unfortunately, for all her cuteness, Flower is more the strong silent type; and if she's seen Kat she's not telling.

Suddenly, as if on cue, my camera bag bursts into song. After listening to a few polyphonic bars of Arcade Fire, I reach in and pull out my phone.

"Hello?" I say, putting the receiver to my ear.

There's static on the other end of the line.
Typical upstate New York reception. At least the residents’ babies won't die of cancer from living in close proximity to countless cell phone towers tike the rest of us probably will. I'm totally anti-cell phone and wouldn't even own one if work didn't require it.

"Hello?" I repeat, walking a few steps away from the car, seeking a better signal. "Can you hear me now?" I ask, unintentionally mimicking the old Verizon commercial.

"Chrissie?" A tinny voice registers from deep within the static.

"Kat?" I pull the phone away from my ear to glance at the screen. Full bars. That's weird. Must be on her end. "Is that you, Kat? Where are you?"

"I need your help." The crackling grows louder. Her voice sounds like it's a million miles away, even though I know she's probably somewhere within a block radius. The fair's just not that big.

"Um, okay," I say, though I'm more than a bit wary of what she's going to ask me to do. Knowing her, she's probably having a broken heel crisis and wants me to swing by the nearest Neiman Marcus to grab her a replacement
Manolo. "I can barely hear you.”

"I know. Sorry. Evidently they're still working out the kinks in this time-cell continuum thing. Actually, it's pretty amazing they can do it at all. I mean, think of the practical applications! You could call your dead grandmother, for example. Though, of course, that might freak her out a little. I guess it'd only work if you had a dead grandmother that didn't have a weak heart—"

I pull the phone away from my ear again, staring at it in confusion. Is the static distorting her words so much that I'm mishearing them?

"—
but I suppose you could always call your dead grandmother and not tell her it's you, or pretend that it’s the you that existed when she was still alive…What?" I hear muffled voices on the other end. "Oh, okay. Sorry. Chrissie, I've got to go in a sec. Sorry. Evidently these time-cell calls cost like a million dollars a minute. Literally. Stupid twenty-second century inflation. And there's no nights and weekends plan, either."

"Kat, what the hell are you talking about?" I ask, trying to gain some semblance of control over the conversation. "And where are you? I've been looking everywhere."

"Well, that's sort of why I'm calling. You're never going to believe this, but I'm in the future. Like, a thousand years in the future."

I let out a frustrated breath. "Kat, stop screwing around. We need to get going soon if we're going to beat traffic back into the city."

"I'm not joking, Chris. Believe me, I wish I were. I'm really stuck in the future. Well, first I went to the past. To the days of King Arthur if you can believe that. The land of knights, damsels and no flush toilets. That was a little rough, let me tell you. Then Lancelot and Guenevere and I went through this time portal at Stonehenge to get back to the twenty-first century, but Mordred and his army showed up and Guenevere must have messed up the spell in her rush to cast it. 'Cause now we're stuck in the twenty-second century. And I need your help."

I can't believe I'm actually listening to this BS. "Kat, I'm hanging up the phone now. I'm tired and ready to go home. Go prank call someone else."

"No, wait! You have to believe me."

I pause, the desperation in her voice making me reconsider hitting the End button.

"What, Kat?" I ask, tight-lipped.

"Please, Chrissie, I need your help! I know it sounds bizarre. I didn't believe it myself at first. But I'm desperate! I have to get word to
Nimue and you're the only one I know in close proximity to her. I can't call the medieval Nimue 'cause they didn't have cell phones then and the time-cell continuum thing only works through cell phones."

"
Nimue? As in, the Lady of the Lake from the King Arthur legend?" I shake my head in disbelief. Kat has lost it. Seriously and utterly lost it.

"Yeah, her. She's disguised as that gypsy we went to visit. The one who cast the spell on me to send me back in time to begin with. Just go and tell her that Lancelot,
Guenevere and I are stuck in the twenty-second century and we need to know how to get back. She'll know what to do."

I roll my eyes. "Let me get this straight. You want me to go ask the
Renn Faire gypsy how you can travel back in time?"

"Yes."

"No."

"No?"

"No way. Kat, just stop screwing around and meet me at the car."

"I can't, Chris!" Even through the static I can hear my coworker's anguish. "You have no idea how much I wish I could." However deranged she sounds, I can tell she seriously believes everything she's saying. Which means she's not joking. She's simply snapped.

"Maybe you've had too much sun," I suggest in my gentlest voice. The one I used as a child to talk my mom down from her bad acid trips. "Tell me where you are and I'll send the medic. I'm sure there's a first-aid tent somewhere around here."

"I don't need first aid. I need
Nimue. Find her, Chris. Please. I'll do anything. I'll ... I'll give you all the shoes in my closet!" Even through the static I can hear her hard swallow on the other end of the line. "Even the limited-edition gold Louboutins I got at that sample sale last year."

I raise an eyebrow. Even an insane Kat Jones wouldn't give away those shoes.

"Fine," I mutter. "But you owe me. Big-time. And when the gypsy laughs me out of her tent, you'd better give up this act and meet me at the car." I pause then add, "And I'm holding you to that shoe promise." Not that I'd ever wear such uncomfortable shoes, but surely there's a market on eBay for them.

"She won't laugh. Seriously. Just tell her."

"Okay, okay. Call me back in ten." I click the End button on the phone and trudge back to the faire. I reveal my wristband to the ticket taker, halfway hoping she'll tell me there's no readmission. But she simply waves me through. I push past the turnstile and take a left toward the gypsy tent.

Insane. Kat is truly insane. Either that or she's playing some kind of mean trick on me. I should report her to our boss when we get back. In fact, I'm going to demand that I never have to work with her again. I'll even volunteer to work with Talking Tabitha, the gossip editor. No one wants to work with Talking Tabitha. But I'll do it. As long as I never have to cross paths with Kat again, it'll be worth the risk of permanent Tabitha-induced hearing loss.

I duck into the gypsy's tent, blinking a few times as my eyes grow accustomed to the darkness.

"May I read thy palm, milady?"

The gypsy is sitting at her little crystal ball table, right where we left her. A tiny gnarled woman dressed in gaudy mauve robes and dripping with heavy gold jewelry, she's hunched over, perhaps suffering from some serious rheumatoid arthritis. Poor soul. Hopefully she doesn't have a heart condition or anything, because what I'm going to say next could send an elephant into cardiac arrest.