The name's Marlowe, Philip Marlowe.

Reading Raymond Chandler makes me want to [1]:

Drink, which I would help along by keeping an office bottle and two glasses in the deep bottom drawer of my desk.

Smoke cigarettes or a pipe, depending on mood.

Play chess, with myself, following all the moves from a book of famous chess matches.

Talk in monotone monologue style sentences dripping with innuendo, cold hard facts, sarcasm loaded with a one-two punch and just enough compassion laced through to imply a soft heart for the underdog.

Wear a trench coat.

Wear a hat at a rakish angle.

Wear red lipstick and red nail polish (I am a girl, after all).

Look at people sideways through my lashes.

Get caught in the rain.

Say one thing and think another.

Drink my coffee (a) black or (b) with whiskey. [2]

Talk softly but carry a big vocabulary.

Get by with only one night’s sleep per week.

Call men by their last name.

Call women “angel”.

Constantly surprise people with my limitless knowledge.

Speak in tight, efficient sentences [3].

Receive admiration (grudgingly) from all the right people and not care.

Describe anything to within an inch of its life.

Light a match with my thumbnail. On the first try.

Be able to follow any person undetected.

Be able to lose any person following me.

 

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[1] Reading Raymond Chandler makes me want to BE MARLOWE. Minus his far too frequent encounters with saps (a bludgeon or club), rolled nickels in fists, iron hands of the around-your-throat-until-you-black-out variety, as well as the occasional make-your-hair-stand-on-end nutcase.

[2] I think a lot about beverages.

[3] Unless, of course, I’m pulling one of those monotone monologue descriptive numbers.