It had been a while since her big debut. Everyone had come to see her that day. The night before, it had rained, and there was worry that her debut would be delayed. However, the morning of her big reveal, the sun blazed bright. Dazzling, even.
If you want to know the truth, she willed it that way.
‘Cause nobody was going to rain on her parade.
They’d rolled out a red carpet. And all the townsfolk and eager customers-to-be stood outside on the sidewalk, waiting for her to shine. And when she did, their faces beamed. The adoration was intoxicating. “What a beauty!” they’d exclaimed while pointing at her.
She’d felt like a queen. Or like one of those actors on one of those shows where everyone is always asking, “What are you wearing, darling?”
Fancy. Desired. Admired. That was how she felt on the first day she became a rising star.
Alas.
Years passed; about five at least. She was still a star…naturally. But she wasn’t admired as much. Not quite a “has been”, but not the main show if you get what I’m putting down.
She’d become a little bit of an afterthought.
Shoppers still noticed her. Direction-givers still used her as a marker. It was just … different. Things had slowed down.
Sometimes, in those moments when things felt particularly dead, she’d groan to herself, “Even a new baby is only new for a little while.”
And then one day, she heard them talking. Down there on the sidewalk. Whispers. Eyes averting her now. The adoration had dissipated. Confused disdain in its place.
One of them, the one who made her a star in the first place, said, “We need something new, mes amis.” This was Christophe. A designer. He spoke French because he was French. He didn’t care that most of his Arizona clients didn’t. Christophe was scraggy and handsome at the same time. Curiously charming. Carried a big, nervous smile. She hated him and loved him – all at the same time.
Christophe paced on the sidewalk, snapped his manicured fingers, “Guys, we need some zhuzhing, here.” His white teeth sparkled in the sun. He glanced up at her. “Une nouvelle vie. New life.”
“‘New life,’ my ass,” she seethed.
Hadn’t she done the work? Hadn’t she attracted attention — been inviting, alluring, and stylish without being gaudy? Hadn’t she kept her trim in shape, kept her face flawless and intact so they wouldn’t have to put extra work – or money – into her? Hadn’t she done her job?
She looked down on Christophe. He whipped his dreads into a bun on top of his head. Wiped his brow of the little beads of sweat she could see glistening there. He was stewing. Something was up. Somebody wasn’t happy, and he was trying to please.
He smiled that stupid grin again – the one she loved. He asked his crowd of two, “Qu’est-ce que vous en pensez, mes amis? What do you think?”
One of them said, “Sales are down, Christophe. That’s all we know. You’re the expert here – “
Christophe stopped the nervousness with a gentle hand, “Another sign. We need a co-star, if you will.” Christophe gestured with a sweeping arm as he turned toward the glass windowpanes flanking the store entrance.
“A co-star?” She hissed. “I don’t think so!”
The shop owners looked at one another. Nodded hesitantly. “Let’s do it.”
“Fabulous!” Christophe clapped.
“Merde,” she sighed.
They’d disappeared into her building. Taking their conversation with them. She remained outside; from her point of view, she couldn’t quite see the windowpane below her. At the moment, she didn’t give a crap about the windows. Instead, she puffed out her chest, looked out upon the town she’d come to know and it to know her.
So.
Something new was coming?
Over her dead body.
She took this all as a sign.
A sign for murder.
Part 2 – A Sign for Death
It was a marvelous day on Alpine Street. A Tuesday. The air was crisp and new. The sun was shining. Folks were jaunting along the boulevard with their ice creams and their matcha lattes. They were happy. She felt otherwise.
She was angry.
There was going to be a new sign in town. Not across the street, not down the lane, but right below her. On the storefront window.
Pfft. A window sign. How gauche, she thought. No window sign could ever compete with her greatness. She was halo-lit channel letters, for Pete’s sake. She literally glowed! She was encased in metal; some days she felt as badass as Grace Jones. Furthermore, she had no cracks on her acrylic face; her coloring remained even and fabulous. She remained electrically connected and glowed even more brightly as a result.
She wasn’t trying to look crazy out here.
On top of appearances, she worked her ass off. During the day, she was a beacon, drawing customers in. At night, she didn’t rest. The store closed at 8:00 p.m. While her owners were at home doing whatever they were doing, her timer went on at 10:00 p.m and she lit up the place all night long – well into the night. She even helped the third shift workers from the hotel next door see safely as they walked to Swifty-Zs for a Bud Light before heading home to their pillows. (She wasn’t throwing shade, but Swifty-Zs sign? It was a metallic dimensional sign. It didn’t have sh*tt on her!)
She was light, bright, big, and amazing. One of the best channel letter signs around, they’d all said that monumental day five years ago as she was being installed.
Christophe had named her “Channelle”. He had said, “We’re not basic bitches, darlings. This channel letter sign is exquisite; this girl’s name is Channelle!”
Channelle, she became.
A star. A golden girl. An icon.
Until now.
She learned her fate a few weeks ago. Christophe had been outside on his cell phone. “How do you install window vinyl…?” He said, while pacing nervously and waving to passersby as though they were long-lost friends rather than strangers.
“Please hire a sign installer, darling. I’m the designer,” he said, twisting his dreads. “I don’t know the details other than that. Call a new sign company near you if you can’t find the one that created Channelle.”
A few days after that, Christophe met two people from a sign company for a tête-à-tête. The three of them stood on the sidewalk below her. They chatted about the retail company that she was in charge of, “Betty & Bob’s Vintage Vêtements”. Christophe explained how the windows were original to the building, which used to be an old Woolworths five-and-dime store. To all three of them, it was an opportunity. A chance to bring more dollars into her store, an opportunity to bring window art to Alpine Street. She saw them as ungrateful, blood-sucking leeches.
The sign guy looked pleasant enough, eager and happy to do some problem-solving. He twisted the tips of his handlebar mustache as he sized up the window. He then pulled out his measuring tape and got to work. The sign woman, she must have been mustache-man’s partner. She smiled and chatted up Christophe. She even leaned against the windowpane dramatically, back of her hand to her forehead like some Hollywood starlet. With a fit of giggles, she called out to Christophe, “Can’t you just see perforated vinyl here, Christophe? Your design will be to die for!” She spun around like a top, her full skirt twirling around her.
Mustache-Man shook his head at her, “Can you focus, please?”
“What?” she laughed. “This is how you sell signs. Right, Christophe?”
Christophe smiled; he suddenly seemed a bit more relaxed than before. “Absolutely, darling. Sold!” The two of them high-fived while Mustache-Man continued to measure the windowpanes. “You are a breath of fresh air. You and your husband. You’re making my job so easy.”
Channelle looked down at all three of them. Perforated vinyl. Grrrr. She could give two CRAPS about perforated window vinyl. She was the star. She was the sign to bring in all the business to their vintage clothing shop – and she had been doing exactly that for five years – alone!
Channelle took a deep breath.
Ok, fine. Change was coming. But she was going to do something about it.
She started to wiggle. To shimmy. She could dance, too. The dance of death! Before things got entirely out of hand, she decided she was going to drop herself down and end it all.
Her target?
Christophe.
Part 3 – A Sign of Fatal Attraction
She chose Thursday as the day she would end it all. Not herself, darlings. She loved herself too much for such things. She was going to end her relationship with Christophe, her designer.
Christophe usually visited “Betty & Bob’s Vintage Vêtements” on Thursdays. He called his visits Happy Beginnings. He liked touching and feeling his clients. “Darlings, if I don’t see your face at least once a month, you’re not seeing mine. And my face is stunning,” he’d laugh while sipping his Flat White from the coffee shop next door.
Channelle agreed. He was stunning. He was an attractive man with lots of charisma. She remembered noticing him while her installers hoisted her onto the brick building five years ago. From the sidewalk below, his dreads perched atop his head like a majestic crown, he’d demanded, “You big lugs are cute, but be careful with my Channelle. Elle est magnifique!”
As channel letters go, she was magnificent. She was fabricated from the best front-facing acrylic; her electrical wiring was pristine. She had a vintage flair with a dash of sophistication. She was everything and she was so because Christophe had designed her to be so. He worked with a sign company to make her, but for some reason, he had been very invested in her beauty … and her efficiency.
It was too bad he had to go. Murder was never anything she had contemplated before. She wasn’t even sure what was inside her that made her believe she could do it.
One day, she heard two actors talking. They had exited Betty & Bob’s. Each held a few shopping bags and was elated over their vintage finds. One said, “This Liz Claiborne suit is something Glen Close would have worn as ‘Alex’ in the movie Fatal Attraction.”
Then the other one said quite dramatically, “I will not be ignored, Dan.” They both laughed heartily as they recreated what Channelle assumed was a famous scene in the film.
Then one said, “My acting coach says to play a murderer, each actor must go within to find that ‘thing’ that would make them kill.”
Channelle thought that was an interesting thing to say. Frightening. Yet, realistic. At the time she’d heard those two thespian chicks chatting, she’d never thought about murder. Today was a new day.
She wiggled the ampersand in her sign. (That’s the “&” for those ‘a you who don’t know.) She thought the ampersand would make a nice dagger. She’d shimmied it from its stud mount and it was just about ready to come loose. Ready to do damage.
It wasn’t so bad that a new sign was coming. It wasn’t like she was being replaced – nobody could replace a channel letter sign. It was just that perforated vinyl was so not her. She knew Christophe would design it to complement her, and the storefront presentation would be cohesive and far from garish; it was just that she wanted to be the star. She wanted to be the sign that was the number one reason people found the business. Not some piece of flexy-flexy windowpane plastic that never touched a CNC router. Christophe should have known this! He should have thought twice about how she would feel. But, he hadn’t. He just hadn’t considered how his actions would affect her.
“I will not be ignored, Dan,” rang through her mind.
Just one more wiggle…
She was ready.
Christophe arrived on time. Consistent and cute. He looked unusually pleasant. His dreads remained perfectly piled on top of his head. His face looked…relaxed? Something she hadn’t seen in a great while. His tailored, high-water pants, vintage shirt, and crispy-clean Adidas sneakers looked amazing.
“What a fabulous outfit to die in,” she mused while looking down upon him.
On Thursday, there was a good amount of traffic on the streets and on the sidewalk. She would have to aim carefully.
Christophe pulled out his phone, as he normally did. He dialed. “Hello, you sign-making darlings,” he beamed. “I’m at the window waiting for you so we can install Victoria, our vixen vinyl!” Christophe threw his head back and laughed loudly.
Now! Channelle screamed to herself.
What happened next was not supposed to happen.
Her ampersand torpedoed straight to Christophe. BUT, instead of impaling him as she had hoped, he caught the motherfudger. Christophe literally threw his phone and his Flat White to the sky and with arms wide, her ampersand landed safely in his arms.
Unfortunately…
At the same time, two jackass kids on electric bikes came tearing down the sidewalk. Frenetic with glee, so happy to be out of school for the summer, they didn’t even see Christophe until it was too late. In an attempt not to hit her dread king, the bike flew out from under the kid, careened into the air, and straight into the glass window. With thundering, grotesque applause, the window shattered dramatically. Shards of glass jettisoned dangerously into the atmosphere … and one particularly large triangle of glass torpedoed itself toward Christophe and stabbed him in the back.
It was quite disgusting, really. Much more gore (and real) than Channelle had imagined.
He landed with a thud on the sidewalk, still clutching the ampersand. He rolled to his side, flopped onto his back. Christophe looked up at her with a sadness she had never seen before. Or felt. A tear fell from his eye, and his dreads cascaded around his beautiful head.
“Why…?” he whispered. “Pourquoi?”
She felt herself crumble. Bits of her fell from the wall and crashed to the sidewalk below — to be closer to the man she loved. She tried to answer him, but her explanation was drowned out by the whaling sirens approaching from a distance. Nothing she could have said would have mattered anyway.
Because this had become a very pane-ful murder.
You’ve just enjoyed an original short story in our “Sign Noir” series: When A Bad Sign is a Crime by Peppur Chambers. Care to comment or got a bad sign to kill? Join us on Instagram: @collaborativesignanddesign
Want to hire Collab to create a channel letter or perforated vinyl window sign for your storefront that’s so good it’s criminal? Give us a call at 480.790.INKS (4657)
