#James Bond Moonraker Trading Cards

[trnsocial]

Wax Pack Flashback Finale: Jason Gross Retro Trading Card Folder Tribute

For the finale of Wax Pack Flashback, Adam commemorates the 1 year anniversary of the passing of Jason Gross, by sharing Jason’s personal trading card binder where he kept his favorite cards during his time hosting WaxPack Flashback. Plus, other 80’s and 90’s pop culture treasures. This is the final episode of Wax Pack Flashback for now, thanks for being a part of the adventure and be sure to…

[box-o-paperbacks]

Moonraker Trading Card Package, 1979

[retropopcult]

Moonraker collector cards & stickers, 1979

[cali-holland]

Golden Bullets, Ch 4: Moonlight Trail

Harrison Osterfield X Reader, James Bond!AU

Harrison Osterfield, Agent 007, was once the best MI6 agent around with the astounding reputation as a womanizer. Between illegal gold smuggling and black market trading of weapons, he finds himself deeper in his latest mission than intended, weaving himself into a web of the criminal organization, S.P.E.C.T.R.E.. At the center of it all is the one woman who’s never fallen for his charms- you, Agent 006, the best MI6 agent, the new assistant director of the program, and his new partner.

Word Count: 2700

Gif is not mine

Golden Bullets Masterlist

Masterlist   Harrison Osterfield Masterlist

Let me know if you want to be added to the series tag list

Warnings: discussion of violence/drugs, swearing

Featured Song: All Time High by Rita Coolidge from Octopussy (1983)

 ~ “We´re an all time high, we´ll change all that´s gone before, doing so much more than falling in love.”

+ “Where are you? Why do you hide? Where is that moonlight trail that leads to your side?” from Moonraker by Shirley Bassey from Moonraker (1979)

A/N: not much action in this chapter, but i’m saving that for chapter five and i’m very very excited about that chapter haha

~~~

You let out a groggy groan, your eyes fluttering open, just to be met with a dull pain in your head from the drugs last night, making you close your eyes again immediately. You tried clearing your mind, focusing on the sound of the DB10’s tires moving with the road, but the sound of Harrison’s music was too distracting. Somehow the normally soothing voice of Sam Smith just made your headache worse- and that’s when it hit you.

“You listen to Sam Smith?” You questioned quietly, opening your eyes just enough to peak over at your partner. The car’s interior lights as well as the streetlights outside were the only things illuminating Harrison’s face.

“I’m surprised you know an artist from this decade.” He chuckled lightly, his thumbs drumming against the steering wheel as he continued his drive down the nearly empty highway.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked as you shifted in your seat, stretching to get more comfortable.

“All you seemed to listen to going to Monaco was Nancy Sinatra.” Harrison stated and you felt a twinge of embarrassment strike you, you’d never have someone so blatantly call out your music taste, but yet again you didn’t exactly spend quality time with many perceptive agents.

“Well, I don’t only listen to Nancy Sinatra. I listen to other artists,” You trailed off, trying to come up with names, “I listen to Carly Simon.”

“As in “You’re So Vain” from the ‘70’s?” He laughed and you let out a groan.

“Alicia Keys.”

“Hardly counts.”

“She still counts.” You insisted, “You were listening to Duran Duran earlier. That’s not from this decade.”

“But I still,” He paused to let out a large yawn, “I still listen to more modern music. Sam Smith is very modern.”

“Where are we?” You asked, wanting to just drop the subject.

“We’ve got about half an hour until we get to Venice.” Harrison replied, glancing over at the clock. You took a moment to study him as he kept his eyes on the road. His hair was the most disheveled you’d ever seen it, and you’d dare to say he had bags under his eyes.

“Let me drive for a while.” You offered, and he glanced over at you like you were crazy. You could tell he was holding back from scoffing in response.

“A few hours ago, you were spilling your darkest secrets to me and then spilling your guts in the toilet. I’m not letting you drive.”

“Then pull over so we can get a hotel. You need to sleep.” You stated. Just as he was about to open his mouth to respond, you added, “As assistant director of MI6 and the lead on this case, I’m telling you to get a hotel.”

Harrison let out a laugh of disbelief, shaking his head at you, “I was just going to say, I’ll stop when we get to Venice. No need to pull the assistant director card.”

“I might as well pull it while I can.” You said, and he raised his eyebrows at you, making you elaborate, “M doesn’t want us to kill Le Chiffre, but if I see him, I will. I doubt I’ll keep my position if that happens.”

The rest of the ride into Venice was silent between the two of you. You didn’t particularly want to talk about last night’s revelations or the upcoming task of having to not kill Le Chiffre; meanwhile, Harrison had his own inner turmoil between trying to empathize with you, allowing you to take out the private banker, or following M’s directions of simply tracking him. By the time the two of you arrived in Venice and got a hotel, it was nearly 3 AM, and, with a six hour car ride behind you and an eleven hour car ride ahead of you, you two were beyond exhausted.

“This bed better be softer than the last one.” Harrison mumbled as the two of you stepped into the elevator. With one hand on your suitcase, you leaned against the elevator wall as he stood in the center, holding onto his own luggage.

“Surprisingly, Monaco had the worst hotel bed I’ve ever slept on.” You stated. The elevator came to a stop on your floor for the next few hours. The doors opened, and the two of you stepped off it.

“Really? I think the worst hotel bed I’ve ever had was actually in New York.” He replied, inserting the key card into the door. He pushed it open, holding it for you to go inside first. You paused once you’d stepped into the room.

“Scratch that. This might be the worst.” You said, eyeing the single king size bed in the room. Harrison blinked, stepping in the room behind you.

“Am I so sleep deprived that I’m only seeing one bed or is there actually only one bed?” He asked.

“There’s only one bed.” You sighed, setting your suitcase down near the dresser and opening it. You started to gather your clothes for the night. “But you’re still sleep deprived, and I’m too tired to even attempt to get a room change, so this’ll have to do.”

“Well, I guess I’ll take the floor, but, for now, while you get ready,” He trailed off, flopping down on the bed with a small sigh of his own. “God damn, this is comfortable.”

With your pajamas in hand, you turned back to face the bed. Seeing your partner so exhausted and sprung out on the large bed, you felt your heart twist a little. “Sleep on the bed, then.”

“What?” Harrison mumbled, sitting up to look at you. “No, you take the bed. I’m a man of chivalry, I can’t let you sleep on the floor.”

“A man of chivalry. Is that what you call yourself when you sleep with all those women?” You questioned, sarcasm dripping in your tone. For a split second, he pouted, before it grew into a smirk.

“If gets the women into the bed, then yes.” He replied, cockily. You turned, making your way to the bathroom as you shook your head at his words. He hopped off the bed to follow after you, “Look, it’s big enough for both of us. Besides, I wouldn’t mind sleeping with you.” 

“How lovely.” You rolled your eyes, and he shook his head.

“That’s,” He sighed as you shut the bathroom door, locking it to ensure privacy away from him. “That’s not what I meant and you know it. We can share the bed and sleep next to each other, nothing sexual about it.”

“Agent 007 not wanting to sexualize sharing a bed with a woman? That’s a surprise.” You scoffed through the door, beginning to change in the privacy of the spare room.

“You’re one to talk.” Harrison bit back, “You know we’re really not that different. We both sleep with the enemy.”

“Except you sleep with women for sport and you’re called a womanizer, whereas I sleep with men for strictly professional purposes and get called a whore.” Now changed into your comfortable clothes, you threw open the door, jaw clenched angrily at the double-standard that cursed your ‘profession’. Pushing past Harrison, you sarcastically remarked, “Sexism- isn’t it wonderful?”

“You’re not a whore.” He said, quietly, a new softness in his tone, making you look at him curiously. You could see the genuineness in his blue eyes, “You’re intimidating and, quite honestly, scare the shit out of me sometimes, but you’re not a whore. Anyone who calls you that obviously doesn’t realize they should be less concerned with how you handle your body and more concerned with how well you handle a gun. You use your assets like I do, like any spy would.” He paused, “You don’t like to be known as the maneater, but I don’t like to be known as a womanizer. For us being MI6’s top agents, neither of us are winning in the reputation department.”

You swallowed an uncertain lump in your throat, not sure how to respond to his unusual yet kind words. Turning away from him to put away your clothes, you replied, “Let’s just get some sleep.” 

Harrison wordlessly entered the bathroom to get ready to sleep himself, and you quietly climbed into the bed. You laid on your side, facing away from the bathroom and the other side of the bed, keeping to one edge of the mattress. A few moments later, he emerged from the bathroom, turning off the bedroom light as he did so.

“Do you- do you mind if I sleep without a shirt?” He asked.

“I don’t care.” You answered quietly, despite the odd feeling in your gut at his question. Momentarily, you thought it could be leftover from last night, but as you heard him discard his shirt and climb into his side of the bed, you knew it was something much worse- butterflies.

You lay on your side of the bed, waiting for sleep to overcome you, but it seemed to be taking its dear time. Meanwhile, it only took a matter of moments for Harrison to fall asleep. Your poor partner passed out almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and you were left to listen to his soft snoring, little noises that you hadn’t noticed while sharing a room with him in the past. Yet again, the past few nights, you two were plenty far from each other and tonight, well, there wasn’t much space, especially when you heard and felt him shift closer to you in his sleep. You just about put Harrison in a choke hold, feeling his arm sling around your waist, but as you flipped over to look at him, your fight reflexes dropped. He was still asleep and, god, he was a cuddler. You considered shoving him away or even just getting up and sleeping on the ground, but then he let out a soft murmur of incoherent words, light puffs escaping his lips. Finally feeling a sense of peace overcome you, you let yourself lean into his embrace.

The next morning, you woke up to the sound of the laptop ringing with an incoming call from M, or at least you recognized the ringtone as that; your arms were currently trapped under the tight cuddles of Harrison, who was still peacefully asleep. With how heavy of a sleeper he was, you were surprised no one had murdered him in his sleep yet, considering how annoyingly loud the laptop was.

“Wake up, Osterfield.” You grumbled, kicking your legs harshly against his. He mumbled something, tightening his grip around your arms and torso, pressing you further into his bare chest, before his eyes fluttered open. His arms dropped from around you immediately as he processed his position, cheeks flaring red a little in embarrassment of his cuddly nature. You shot up from the bed, grabbing the laptop from the coffee table and sitting down on the couch. You open it, answering the call without a second thought. The screen flashed to M in her office, and you bit back a groan at how obvious it was that you just rolled out of bed- it didn’t help that Harrison was in the background, getting out of the bed and tugging on a shirt. Talk about the professionalism between the two of you for not only stopping Venice for some sleep, but also sharing a damn bed.

“Sorry, was I interrupting your beauty sleep?” She questioned with no actual apology laced in her words as Harrison sat beside you on the couch.

“Good morning, M.” You greeted, professionally.

“I must say I was surprised to hear from Moneypenny about Monaco last night. How did Britain’s finest agents get drugged so easily?” While her question was directed at both of you, you couldn’t help, but feel like she meant it more towards you than your partner. You were meant to be the one calling the shots for this mission and you were the one that drank the suspicious champagne.

“It was a mistake, and it won’t happen again.” Harrison replied definitively. Sensing how you tensed beside him at M’s words, he placed a reassuring hand on your knee, hidden from the laptop’s view; he felt almost protective of you for your actions last night, and, having been so vulnerable yourself, you were hesitant to lean into the security.

“It damn well shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” She let out a small sigh, “I know your next target was intended to be Le Chiffre in Montenegro, but there has been a slight change of plans.”

“Are we no longer going to Montenegro?” You asked, trying your best to not sound hopeful about never going back there.

“You’ll still be going there, 006. Le Chiffre has decided to host a charity gala tonight; and, seeing as it’s currently 11 in the morning in Venice,” She spat out the city’s name in distaste as if to question why you two had stopped there for so unintentionally long, “You’ll be taking a private jet to Montenegro straight out of Venice’s airport. Leave the DB10 behind, Agent 003 will be there shortly to retrieve it.”

“How is this different than our prior mission of interrogating Le Chiffe?” Harrison voiced.

“I believe you’re familiar with this woman.” M stated, and a photograph of Pussy Galore appeared on the screen. Harrison dropped his hand from your knee as he recognized the blonde, “Pussy Galore has been identified as Goldfinger’s personal pilot, and she has been spotted in every location the sniper has struck in.”

“She’s the sniper?” You questioned. You already thought the woman was a joke just because of her name, but now, she was the bitch that shot you, and you weren’t about to let that go.

“We believe so. Q traced her to Montenegro this morning. Your new mission is to keep an eye on Le Chiffre and try to keep him alive- he could prove useful as an asset to take down Goldfinger or he could be the perfect bait to get the bullion smuggler.” She sent you a pointed look, catching how you clenched your jaw as a picture of the private banker flashed onto the screen, “As for Pussy Galore, bring her in alive. If she’s Goldfinger’s personal pilot and favorite sniper, she’s valuable to him.”

“Is that all?” You asked, and she shook her head.

“I need to speak with 007 alone.” She said, making you and Harrison look at each other in confusion. You nodded before getting up and leaving for the bathroom, deciding to get ready while they had their private discussion.

“M, the champagne wasn’t Y/N’s fault-” Harrison started, immediately believing that M’s private conversation was about your mistake from last night- that or she was going to strongly suggest Harrison take a leave of absence again.

“Last night happened, and I am not going to fret it any longer. I’m far more concerned with Montenegro.” She spoke, and Harrison’s face fell, giving it away to her that he knew already, “Agent 006 is my best agent, but by now, I assume you can tell she lets her emotions get to her. Four years ago, once she was healed, she went rogue for a few weeks. My only way of finding her and bringing her back to MI6 was a trail of dead bodies- all of which were connected to Le Chiffre.” Harrison gulped at the new information, his eyes flicking nervously to the bathroom door. Le Chiffre really did a number on you and you had the physical scar to prove it. “She will kill him at the first opportunity. You accused me of hiring her as your nanny for this mission, but now I need you to take care of her. Don’t let her kill Le Chiffre; he needs to be alive. Don’t let her kill Galore either. Do you understand?”

“I understand.” He nodded with a heavy head.

“And, for the love of God, no more champagne between the two of you.”

“Got it.” He nodded again, “When will Q be in Montenegro?”

“He had to finish a new prototype for 005, but he will be there tonight.” She explained. “Now, you two get to Venice airport as soon as possible; you have a gala to attend.”

Before Harrison could reply, M ended the call. Shutting off the laptop, he stood from the couch, already feeling anxious about tonight. The only reason he had a partner for this entire mission was his own mistake, and M didn’t trust him, but, now, it seemed like the tables had turned- M didn’t trust you in Montenegro. With each new piece of information, this was transforming into so much more than it was just days ago in London, and, without Q to crack the flash drive, all Harrison could do was keep you from killing the two people that could lead back to Goldfinger.

~~~

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[culturespy]

Saying goodbye to my hero, Sir Roger Moore. Baby, you were the best!

When I was 15 years old, I wanted to be Roger Moore.

If you saw my bedroom walls back then, you would know. Roger Moore found a place on all four of them. I broke out the Scotch tape to put up full-page magazine photos surrounded by Moonraker trading cards, and of course the Bond film posters. I had Moonraker and The Spy Who Loved Me to start with because those were the films that got me hooked on Roger Moore and James Bond. The For Your Eyes Only poster with those sexy legs came along after a while, and an Octopussy poster went up a few weeks before my high school graduation.

My mother called this the shrine, and she wasn’t far off. Roger Moore was my idol. My teenage life was measured in the two-year periods from one of his Bond films to the next. In between I got my chance to catch up with his two earlier films, Live and Led Die and The Man With the Golden Gun, when they appeared on the ABC Sunday Night Movie. Sure, I was also excited to see the Sean Connery movies for the first time, but completing my Roger Moore 007 experience was more important.

And, oh, that glorious week in the summer of 1980 when a double feature of The Spy Who Loved Me and Moonraker played at Cinema 18! Cinema 18 was Erie’s sleaziest theater; it used to be a porno house. But not even a questionable cinema floor was going to stop me from seeing Spy on the big screen—the way it was meant to be seen!—for the first time.

Also to mark time between films, I scanned magazines for interviews with Roger Moore and the TV Guide listings for talk show appearances. When Roger was on the Merv Griffith or Mike Douglas shows, I sat in front of the television set with my tape recorder running. Every golden word had to be preserved.

It may sound shallow, but in a large part I am who I am today because I saw The Spy Who Loved Me when I was 13. I’ve written about that momentous first viewing before, but I should point out that Spy was not my first James Bond film. I had previously seen Dr. No, From Russia With Love and most of Goldfinger—the first three Bonds, all starring Sean Connery.

But even though I had seen the films I would later consider Connery’s best, I didn’t connect with him the way I connected with Roger Moore that first time I saw Spy Who Loved Me. So what was it that drew me to Rog? I think that extra bit of cockiness helped. Roger Moore exuded cool invincibility.

The scene that most struck me comes near the end, just as Bond arrives at the oceanic base of the evil Stromberg (Kurt Jurgens). Bond steps inside an elevator with a trap door in the floor. Bond doesn’t know about the trap door, but we the viewers do because Stromberg used it at the beginning of the movie to drop his double-crossing secretary into the shark tank below. The elevator doors close, and Stromberg hits the button to activate the trap door.

The first time I watched this, I was tense. “Oh no!” I thought. I expected Bond to plunge into the tank, where he would fight the shark. But the shark tank on Stromberg’s monitor remained Bond-free. Then the elevator pinged and the door opened and there, to Stromberg’s surprise and mine, was Bond, his feet straddling the trap door. “You were expecting me to drop in,” he drawled.

That was one of those corny lines that sounded so natural coming out of Roger Moore’s mouth. Moore would always undercut his own talent, saying that all he could do was quip and raise his eyebrows, but he made it seem so effortless. If you want proof it’s not easy to deliver a throwaway quip, watch the last two Pierce Brosnan Bond movies. (I don’t like being mean to Pierce, but he got stuck playing Moore half the time and Connery the other half, and the discomfort sometimes showed.)

What I grew to admire above all else about Roger Moore was that he was suave. I wanted to be suave. I wanted to charm ladies with that kind of a deep, smooth voice. I wanted to put on a tuxedo and saunter into a tony nightspot on the Cote D’Azure. I wanted to go to a Cordon Bleu restaurant and order red wine with anything but fish (OK, I did learn a thing or two from Connery.) I never got to do any of those things, but I did teach myself to raise my eyebrow RM style.

One of the benefits of being a Roger Moore fan in the early ‘80s was, thanks to the popularity of Spy and Moonraker, CBS started showing reruns of The Saint late nights during the week. This was my chance to get acquainted with Roger’s other signature role, and I grew to love Simon Templar nearly as much as James Bond and the works of Leslie Charteris soon joined those of Ian Fleming on my bookcase. However, because these episodes ran late on school nights, I tended to fall asleep in the last 15 minutes. I used to joke I had the endings to about a dozen Saint episodes locked in my subconscious. Several decades later I bought the DVD box set to finally learn how those episodes ended.

But it also wasn’t easy being a Roger Moore fan in those days, believe me. We had to contend with the older generation of 007 fans, the ones who condemned Roger Moore for committing the mortal sin of not being Sean Connery. The divide between Connery fans and Moore fans ran deep (nobody really talked much about George Lazenby back then). We Moore fans were constantly told we weren’t true Bond fans, as if we were less able to appreciate Ian Fleming’s novels because we came of age when Roger Moore was carrying the Walther PPK. The early James Bond fans clubs were run by people who hated Roger Moore and let us know it with every newsletter. The only book on the Bond films at the time, simply titled The James Bond Films, was written by a guy, John Brosnan, who also hated Roger Moore but had to grudgingly admit Spy was pretty damned good. 

Time and three subsequent Bond actors have made this issue largely irrelevant, but things were heated when I was young and I admit I still have a bit of a chip on my shoulder. I probably don’t appreciate Sean Connery as much as I should because of it, but, truly, I don’t dislike any Bond actor. I appreciate what each of them has brought to the role. I just appreciate Roger Moore best.

When pushed hard enough, I would defend Moore’s Bond as more than a smooth quip machine. It would have been easier if Moore himself had been on my side. A master of self-deprecation, Moore would insist in interviews he never took Bond seriously. Asked how he made acting choices as 007, Moore would reply, “Sometimes I wear a white dinner jacket and sometimes I wear a black one.”

Despite his protestations, Roger Moore did take Bond seriously. He may be remembered for the grins and the one-liners, but he had his tough and poignant moments as well. Listen to calm, assured way he tells Melina, “We’re not dead yet,” before they are keel-hauled in For Your Eyes Only. Watch how he winces when Anya Amasova mentions his deceased wife in Spy. Look at the anger in his face when he discovers General Orlov’s plot to kill thousands with a nuclear blast in Octopussy. These aren’t the only moments. The insouciance Moore projected was what first attracted me to his 007, but on the proper occasion he knew how to make Bond human rather than superhuman.

This leads me to Roger’s greatest 007 moment. It’s one that, curiously, won’t make many of the tribute compilations you can find online these days. It is a moment when he is at once smooth and steely and I can’t imagine Connery playing it so well (sorry, chip on my shoulder). You’ll find it near the beginning of Octopussy—the film containing Moore’s best performance, if you ask me—as Bond first confronts the villain, Kamal Kahn (Louis Jourdan, a dark reflection of Moore’s elegance) at the backgammon table.

Bond’s sharp eyes have caught Kahn cheating with a pair of loaded dice that come up double six when needed. Bond takes the seat across from Kahn and raises the stakes by betting the film’s MacGuffin, the Faberge egg. If Bond rolls anything but a double six, he loses. Bond connives to take control of Kahn’s dice, gives his opponent a cold stare, rolls the dice and—still locking eyes with Kahn—declares, “Double sixes.”

When I first saw Octopussy my good friend and fellow Moore Bond fan Brian Sheridan was seated next to me. “Whoah!” Brian said under his breath, “He didn’t even look down!” We knew we had just seen Roger Moore put proof to an earlier theme song: Nobody does it better.

I went to college and my Roger Moore posters came with me. Dorm rooms need decorations too. A new poster went up as Roger departed Bond with A View to a Kill—one film too late, but we’ll leave it at that. Another fellow came along, and a poster declaring Timothy Dalton as “The Most Dangerous Bond. Ever.” appeared on my wall shortly before I graduated Marquette University.

Roger Moore was no longer James Bond, but I was still his fan. Apartment walls also could use a few movie posters, I found. The burgeoning home video industry meant I could watch his movies pretty much whenever I wanted.

At the urging of his friend Audrey Hepburn (my all-time favorite actress), Roger Moore became a goodwill ambassador for UNICEF, and I found a new reason to admire him. He didn’t show up on the screen much anymore, but stories of his generosity continued.

When Pierce Brosnan’s first Bond movie, GoldenEye, was released in 1995 I was reading a magazine article about its production. One of the crew members interviewed for the story went off on an unexpected tangent. He said that the Bond film family, the regular crew that Cubby Broccoli had employed for decades, dearly missed Roger Moore. He treated everyone on set, from his co-stars to the grips, as mates and kept them all laughing. As improbable as it may sound, he said, a lot of the regulars would have loved to see Moore return as Bond.

Testimonials like that became common. It seemed no one who had ever worked with Roger Moore spoke an unkind word about him. Sometimes people would go out of their way to praise him. In a career retrospective for the AV Club, actress Nancy Allen started gushing—quite to her interviewer’s surprise—about working with Moore on a mostly forgotten TV movie called The Man Who Wouldn’t Die.

Although Moore was becoming more and more obscure on this side of the Atlantic, I could tell from press reports that the elder Moore was now regarded as a national treasure in the UK. After Desmond “Q” Llewellyn died in 1999, Roger gracefully stepped into the role of unofficial spokesman for the Bond franchise. When Roger became Sir Roger in 2003, I cheered.

In his later years, Sir Roger Moore became something of a magical person. Warmth and kindness and humor just seemed to flow from him. His tweets were hilarious, though he never missed an opportunity to raise consciousness about his beloved UNICEF. His speaking tours of the UK were interspersed with press reports of him grabbing a meal at a local restaurant, or even showing up at a pharmacy, and regaling everyone he met. It cheered my heart to see that my childhood hero was, by all accounts, simply a wonderful person.

In 2012, a dream came true for me. When Moore was promoting his latest book, Bond on Bond, to coincide with the 50th anniversary of the 007 films, I had the opportunity to interview him for the Chicago Sun-Times. It was just a phone interview, alas, but I still got to talk to my hero of 34 years. He was as warm and funny and gracious as I had hoped as we talked about kicking the car off the cliff in For Your Eyes Only and pulling pranks on Desmond Llewellyn. He broke my heart a bit when I asked about the Lotus Esprit from Spy Who Loved Me (still my dream car) and he said he didn’t like it. “My legs are too long.” Still, when I hung up the phone I was thrilled. It was one of the happiest days of my life. And when I concluded the conversation, I was careful to say, “Thank you for being my idol.”

Those words came back to me the morning of Tuesday, April 23. I had just arrived at the YMCA and wanted to take a quick look at Facebook before heading to my 8:15 aerobics class. Instead of the usual Snoopy cartoon, I got punched in the face by the first report of my hero’s death. I was angry at first. There were no other reports yet, so I assumed it was a hoax even though the source, the London Standard, sounded trustworthy enough. I went straight to Roger’s Twitter page, hoping to find a tweet saying, “Relax. I’m still alive.” Instead I found the statement from his children, and I knew it was real. My childhood hero was gone.

I didn’t make it to my aerobics class. I couldn’t look away from my phone as the tributes trickled in. I was grateful there was a box of Kleenex nearby in the lobby.

Several days have passed, and the Roger Moore tributes have continued. I was fortunate to participate in one on the Spybrary podcast. But of all the words said and written about Roger Moore since he passed, the ones that most struck me came from Ian Ogilvy, who succeeded Moore as Simon Templar in Return of the Saint. In a Facebook post, Ogilvy wrote: “If everybody could comport themselves in the style of Roger Moore, who was beloved by everybody and hated by none, the world would be a nicer place.”

When I was in high school, I imitated Roger Moore because he was suave. Now I plan to imitate him because he was good.

I am 51 years old, and I still want to be Roger Moore.