Immediately Forgettable

Chapter 6

I was sent to Virginia for CIA training. I don't want to reveal too much because I'm not sure what's classified or not. (You may remember a few details of what I say, though you won't remember who said it.)

Suffice it to say that my training was similar to my college experiences. The majority of the agents-in-training blended in, and I did well, but not great.

I graduated and was given my official ID, which I flashed in the mirror for hours. The day I was leaving the training facility, Sloane came by to see me. I was sort of happy to see him, figuring he had forgotten me and was leaving me to dance in the wind. In fact, when I first saw him I asked how he remembered me, hoping I was able to leave a lasting imprint on someone. Anyone. He opened his jacket and showed me one of the Polaroids he had taken at the police station.

"Every night," he said, "I move these pictures from the clothes I am wearing to the clothes I will wear the next day. Every night. Even when I'm not working. So I don't forget I own you. And I do own you."

When I first started training, I was wondering why he just didn't use a camera phone and make me his desktop pattern. While in Virginia, I learned that CIA agents don't carry camera phones because they have access to top secret U.S. facilities, and they can't have pictures of them leaked.

It was a brief visit, where he continued his treating me like a piece of dog shit he found on his shoe. He told me to go back to the magazine and wait for his call.

And so began my exciting life as a spook.

Months went by and I never heard from Sloane. Did he forget about me? Did he accidentally put all his pictures of me through the washing machine? Or did he decide I was just useless and not worth his time?

I was a little bummed by the whole experience. I really wanted to save the world.

Finally he called. I was on line at the deli counter at my local supermarket. Actually, it was a little bit out of the way for me and not all that local, but it was the only one nearby that had one of those "take a number" machines. Being invisible, no one remembers me getting on line, so I get overlooked a lot. The numbers can't be ignored.

But I digress.... Sloane needed me to immediately meet him at an office in Brooklyn. Two subway trips later, I found the building and made my way up to the second floor, where I found an unmarked office at the end of the hallway. Unmarked, that is, except for the room number, which Sloane had given me.

Despite the urgency of the meeting, he didn't look happy to see me. To be fair, I doubt he ever looked happy. Still would've been nice to get a handshake or something.

Anyway, Sloane wasn't alone -- there was another agent with him. Late thirties, little chunky, round face. Didn't look like a guy who could make you disappear in the middle of the night, but what did I know. He looked me up and down and started digging through a knapsack filled with electronics and wires.

"This is Special Agent Provano. He's going to wire you up," Sloane said, motioning toward his chunky companion. "You're going in undercover."

From the start of my relationship with Sloane, I knew how our relationship would always work. He tells me what he needs, I shut up, listen, and do it. So, despite the fact that I had a hundred questions burning through my mind, and a swirl of butterflies twittering in my stomach, I said nothing. When Sloane moved toward the window, I followed. Chunky continued to pull wires.

Through the open window, across the street from the building we were in, Sloane pointed toward a restaurant on street level. It was a small, storefront place named "Arabia" that, in exotic lettering, promised fine Middle Eastern cuisine.