Merry Christmas, Mr. Armitage

There is a sense of dread that takes over when they turn the lights all the way up at the end of the night.

The type of work I used to do, I have highly developed dread-sense and the kind that hits you after last calls are made and the owners are serious about wanting to go home is no joke.

They turn those lights all the way up to "real life" and you can see your whole world change right before your eyes.  All that glitters may not be gold, but it sure looked like it twenty minutes ago.  

With the lights set to "harsh," you can watch as the truth breaks across the professionals seated around the bar, their shoulders jammed into their ears and their eyes locked on the bottom of their glass.

Time to move.  Time to leave the oasis and its swaying bar stools.  Time to return to the sow's ear of a life that didn't look so bad, not so many hours before.

Not only do the customers have to leave, but so too does all sense of nuance, of interpretation, of context.  What had earlier been a declaration of personal philosophy becomes a statement of resignation, of defeat.

What the fuck becomes what the fuck.

Back in the day, I closed more than a few bars.  That was different.  That was work.

Now, I find that I am closing bars because I don't have anything else to do, no place else to go.

I'm out there in the open, a civilian.

Tonight, I'm at The Bamboo Schemer.  The menu says it used to be the supper club of choice, but that was when people went to supper clubs and didn't choose where to eat based on whether or not it had "drive-thru."  Now,it's a tired old joint.  The kind of place where the Christmas decorations stay up all year round and the staff thinks nothing about prepping their vegetables at one of the tables in the dining room.

I'm here because there was no place else that was open.  I'm here because I couldn't spend another second in the house.  I'm here because any sound would be better than deafening scream of my own thoughts.

Until they turned the lights on, I had been engaged in a battle of wills with a worthy opponent.  They had one of those cat figures with the hand that rocks back and forth like it's waving at you.  I used to know what they were called, but I forget.

I was trying to stop the arm from waving with my mind.  If I lost, I had to buy the next round.  God damned thing went undefeated all night.

Until they turned the lights on, it seemed like I could almost make it, almost forget.

But, like the bullshit food they serve, any comfort I might have found, was quickly lost and I was just as empty.

For a lot of years, I could avoid this by working. I always volunteered for work during this time of the year because, however much it might have sucked, not working was worse. When I was in the service I would trade details; when I was on assignment with the team, I would take the surveillance shifts, even volunteer to clean equipment.

Anything.

If I didn't keep my head down, if I didn't keep busy, then I would remember and I would relive.

I don't blame myself.  I never did.  I blame those guys and every time that scene un-spools in my brain, I want to hunt them down and kill them all over again.

Seems like I was seven, but it was so long ago that I don't really remember. What I do remember was being at home.  It was daytime and right before Christmas.

All the visual cues were there.  There was a tree and there were presents and, somewhere in the pantry, were the cookies and fruit balls and other treats that made this one of my most favorite times of the year.

The phone rang.

To this day, I still maintain that there must have been a time when finding out a call was for you was pretty exciting:  something to look forward to, to get excited about. It hasn't been like that for a long time.

My mom took the call.

It went on for a while and, at some point, I recall being aware that she was crying.

I'm going to get the timing all wrong here, so don't quote me, or anything.  

When I found out what had happened, it became part of a series of deaths that I associate with the holidays.

A good friend of my mother's had just moved into the neighborhood, as in they were unpacking the truck when it happened.

This wasn't one of those do-it-yourself moving jobs that are so popular these days, they were using a professional moving company:  the kind that puts blankets over your stuff so it doesn't get scratched.

If only they had taken the same care with their trucks....

Peter was so excited about the whole experience and couldn't wait to get his bed set up so he could start building a fort in his new "big boy" room.  He would meet each of the movers as they came into the house and ask them if the boxes they were carrying were for his room.

Finally, his mother got so tired of calling him away from the movers that she suggested he go and play outside.

Peter's new house was built into the side of a hill.  This was very different from the flat street that he had grown up on.

Gravity was less of an abstract concept.

Much less.

There was lots to explore and certainly there were snow forts to build, but those things could wait.  Right now, there was a parade of boxes going into his house and that parade needed a grand marshal.

At first, Peter simply moved his interview of each of the movers and their loads to the driveway.  What box were they carrying now and where did it belong?  Was it for his room?  Why not?  When were they going to get more boxes for his room?

Again, his mother called him off and told him to stop bothering the men. She suggested that his time would be better spent building a snowman, or something.

To Peter, this new project seemed, at first, to be interesting, but then he found that the snow wasn't wet enough to roll and so he had to find something else to do.

He tried to make snowballs to throw at the inviting target that was the side of the moving truck, but, again, his mother called to him from the living room window and told him to cut it out.

It was only a matter of time, before he was drawn to the open doors of the truck and just a few minutes more before he was issuing orders about which boxes should next be carried into the house.

More calls from his mother.

Peter stopped giving instructions and stood to the side of the truck.

What happened next is open to conjecture, but apparently, one of the crew guys moved a hand truck against the side wall of the truck and it dislodged the clip that had been holding the door open for unloading.

Before anyone knew it happened, it had stopped happening and was done.

The door swung closed and caught Peter fatally on the side of the head.

My mom's friend was not prepared for the next load that the mover's delivered to the front door.  Not prepared at all.

It's easily forty years since this happened and it's not like Peter and I were really friends, but I remember the call, I remember the sense that another holiday season was going to be associated with a funeral.  I remember thinking that gift giving and gift taking were closely linked.

Over the years, the Yin and Yang quality of this time of year played itself out again and again.  There were illnesses and hospitalizations, separations and divorces and always more funerals.

Bittersweet was not just a type of chocolate anymore.

There was a point, and I just won't get very specific about the details--I won't--when I thought that I had to do something to restore the balance, make things right.

It took a couple of years but I found all of them--the whole moving crew--and I made some deliveries of my own.

I don't know what I was thinking.

Of course it didn't work.  How could it?

All I did was add to the list.  All I did was make it harder for some more families to celebrate Christmas.  All I did was give a gift that keeps on giving.

I spent tonight in a staring contest with a plastic toy because I didn't want to think about all of this and yet, with one selfish flip of the switch, all of it--every face, every fight, every tortured silence and forced smile was delivered again, for the first time.

I pushed my glass toward the inside edge of the bar as I pushed my stool away from its outside.  From my pocket, I threw too much money on the bar because I didn't want to admit to anyone--myself included--that I couldn't make out the denominations.

It was quiet when I got to the parking lot.  That wasn't normal for this part of town at this time of night, but then again this wasn't a regular night.

Everyone with any sense was home, nestled all snug in their beds.  It was only those of us with more memories than sense who were on the streets at this hour.

I wrestled the car to the curb and took what must have been an eternity to decide if I was going to pull into traffic.

Across the street, there were a handful of teenagers obsessed with trying to pull down one of the shitty decorations that the City puts up every year.  

Giant electric snowflakes have about as much relevance to this town as an art museum:  something to aspire to, but something that was never going to happen.

They eventually gave up, but not before they left it swinging by its cable and blinking intermittently like a patient on life support.

I took a deep breath and pulled out.  I needed to get home.  It was long past time to let the dog out.  

Click. Click. Click.

I couldn't tell if Phelps' research was that good, or his instincts that sharp. Didn't matter to me at the time, I was too busy trying to be the good soldier. Right or wrong, gym rats like me were, and are, a dime a dozen and I figured that, sooner or later, they'd come asking for their dime back.

We were in transit to the other side of the Curtain—the side where all the seams show—when he comes back to where I'm sitting and he starts going on about how he's convinced that the marks that we're about to play won't buy his legend about Voliticon and it's capacity to override human free will without some sort of dramatic proof up to and including his being asked to order me—in the role of the human lab rat, thank you very much—to kill myself.

I remember laughing.

What else can you do when someone says something to you like that?

I reflexively drove my hand into my pocket and inventoried the change.

Kill myself? How do you fake that?

I asked him what the play was.

They'd most likely hand him a gun and, before he handed it to me, he'd take the bullets out.

“Most likely”?

But what if they didn't? What if they wanted some other way? And, if they did hand him a gun, could he be sure that he could get all of the bullets out?

Could I be sure?

I tried to demonstrate that I could be as cool an operator as those guys riding up front—where there were seats—but this little wrinkle—not, I might add, covered in the mission briefing—was freaking me out.

“Trust me,” was his default reply. Easy for him to say, but he wasn't the one being asked to put an unfamiliar weapon to his head and pull the trigger.

And to not hesitate doing it.

We spent the rest of that leg of the trip practicing.

He'd take the gun from whoever had it, transfer it from one hand to the other, check the breach and rack the slide.

It took a couple of times through before I could see the moment when he ejected and palmed the magazine. And after I could see it, that was all I could see. The move looked so obvious that I was certain the marks would catch him right away.

Besides, Rollin was the sleight-of-hand guy and he wasn't on this job. Some reason I never could get straight, both he and Cinnamon were benched on this run. My life depending on a magician and that's the time we don't bring one.

Perfect.

Things like that would happen from time to time as a reminder that we worked for a government agency.

Click.

Click.

Click.

It never got any easier and, over time, that sound—the hammer striking the firing pin—grew louder until it drowned out every other noise on the plane. Not easily done on a military transport.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Phelps was certain that I would have to pull three times in order to “sell” the idea that our monkeyshine drug was jake.

Click.

Click.

Click.

A couple of hours in, he thought he'd be funny. He intentionally dropped the clip on to the plane's metal floor. It rattled and bounced a lot before coming to rest at the top of the rear loading ramp.

At least I think it was intentional.

Funny guy.

Click.

Click.

Click.

This wasn't going to fall easily for me. Even after the technique was “mastered” and the choreography set, there was still the not-too-small matter of my self-control.

By this time, we'd done a lot of jobs together running some pretty elaborate games on some very dangerous people and it hadn't worried me. At a certain point the risks become so large that they are impossible to manage: you are either going to work the mark and walk with the dingus, or you aren't. The dealer shoots you a hand and you can only play the cards, your cards. You can't worry about cards you don't have, or should have had. In the field, conditional clauses can get you killed, or worse.

But this was different.

It was one act in a larger play, but one in which I had a pivotal role and one that depended on my ability to keep my head in the game.

But, try as I might, disassociating my actions from my experience, my fears, my personal history, was not going to be easy.

There are some things that, no matter how hard you try, you can't un-see.

After we changed planes, Phelps left me alone; just me and my racing thoughts.

Was it too late? Was this a mission I could choose not to accept?

I heard the clicking noise now, even without the gun in my hand.

Click.

Click.

Click.

The water-tight door protecting me from the flood of memory was beginning to leak.  With each click of the gun, the handle on turned a little more and the seal around the door a little less perfect.

I was the last one alive who knew about it and if I didn't mention it then there was no way, I figured, that they could trace it back; no way it could impact my application.

Her family was as anxious to cover it up as I was and, after her mother died, that left me and I wasn't going to talk about it to anyone.

I don't know why I thought it was such a good idea, but I still remember picking her up as if it just happened.

It was a gray winter day. Not cold cold, but cold enough: the kind of day that keeps hot chocolate makers in business.

I had my dad's truck and I went to pick her up thinking I could impress her.

Looking back, I was not a friend; hardly an acquaintance even, but, at the time, I thought I was a viable prospect and, when she agreed to come out, I felt like I had just been called up to the majors.

As in most things, my timing that day was horrible. And, if I hadn't been blinded by having a pretty and popular girl in my car, I suppose I would have seen it myself.

But I didn't.

She was sad, depressed and, as it would turn out, worse.

Where did she want to go?

She didn't care. I could choose.

So, what did I choose?

I took her to the cemetery.

The cemetery.

I must have had a plan, although I can't reconstruct what it was.

I think it had something to do with looking at the wide disparity in attitudes towards death and the honoring of one's ancestors. It doesn't matter what contributions you may, or may not, have made in life, it was your pocketbook that determined your eternal tribute.

A teenager and I thought that was terribly ironic with the kind of pure, un-nuanced indignation that only youth permits.

I was too busy thinking I was being clever and funny that I was not paying attention to my audience.

She was paying attention, but not to me.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I can't imagine what she must have been dealing with. She didn't share much with me. But, as I contemplated my assignment, I was finding it easier to relate.

As the plane droned on through the night, I sat with my thoughts and continued to feel the weight of the pistol in my hands.

To this day, I remember the headstone: “Bezbadchenko.”

I don't know why she chose that one. We had driven past it and I remember sounding out the syllables, but she was staring blankly out the window and I had no idea she heard me, let alone remembered it.

I recall the dark stains on the marker as the police asked their questions the following day. I recall the yelling and the crying as her parents asked theirs.

I couldn't associate the white sheet with somebody I had just talked to so I focused on the abstract form of the stain.

The snow was a funny color too, I remember that.

Click.

Click.

Click.

I wonder to this day what must have been going through her head as she walked from her house through the snow.

What made her do it?

Why did she stop here?

What was so intolerable that this choice was the best one for her.

She wouldn't seriously have given me the time of day, but she instead gave me something I will carry with me to the end of my days.

Was this some sort of test? Could Phelps somehow found out? Had I somehow failed to prove myself?

The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became.... What if it was a test and he had decided I wasn't passing? When the time came, would he really palm all the bullets?

A kind of quiet descended over the plane as the rest of the team settled down to sleep.

There would be no sleep for me.

I was obsessed with the details of this part of the job. Once we were on the ground, I spent every moment trying to create a character who would do what I was going to be asked to do.

Nothing I came up with felt right and the more I worked it, the more I kept playing back that car trip to the cemetery.

Sometimes I was driving and sometimes I was the passenger.

I couldn't eat.

I couldn't do much, it seems, except think.

The clicks kept getting louder as the nights got longer....

And the funny thing is that my watch seemed to stop working properly. I was forever having to check it against the others on the team. We all had the same watch, all synched up at the beginning of the job and this was the job where mine got buggy?

Time slowed down.

I was having trouble keeping it together.

I became very anxious waiting for my part to begin. I knew what was at stake and I didn't want to fuck it up.

I could feel that I was losing it and, if I was going to get it right, I needed my part to come sooner rather than later.

I can remember those days leading up to the moment as feeling like I was jacked up on espresso: all fidgety and pacing all the time.

I just wanted it to be over.

I really wanted it to be over.

Every spare moment I was standing in front of a mirror with a pistol in my hand. I practiced putting it to my head and pulling the trigger. I practiced not flinching.

I practiced not remembering.

The more I tried to put that trip out of my mind, the more firmly it embedded itself in my consciousness.

The show clock was running now. Everybody else was in play and it was time for me to get in the game.

Barney tossed me a package. I didn't even see it until in hit the floor under the window. It was time to put on the prison clothes and get into character.

Paris had left his alarm clock in the bathroom. It was one of those wind-up deals that used to be everywhere and are now almost nowhere.

I was standing at the sink, combing my hair, staring at the reflection of my face and wondering if I was every going to see it again.

The ticking got louder.

The comb got heavier. It took on a familiar weight.

I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.

I heard Barney pounding on the door. Time to go. We were going to miss my entrance.

Tick.... Tick.... Tick....

Click.

Click.

Click.

I just wanted it to be over.

Waiting to Unpack

Enough time has passed, enough people have died--the right people, anyway--that I can begin to let go of some of this shit I have been carrying around all these years.

I remember hearing somewhere--TV probably--about a guy who said he got up every morning and the first thing he did was read the obituaries just to make sure his name wasn't listed.  Any day that you're not in the obits is a good day.

I read the same pages, but for different reasons:  I'm looking for other names, names of people who could hurt me.  They could hurt me because what I know could hurt them.

When I first went in, they had me take a lot of tests and sign a lot of papers.  I promised to be faithful, trustworthy and brave, to keep the law of the Wolf Cub pack, or whatever its equivalent for my line of work.  I promised never to tell my story under penalty of fines and imprisonment.

At the time, it seemed fair enough.  We were engaged with enemies both foreign and domestic and I was ready to do my part to keep the country safe.  Whatever it took and wherever it took me.

That was then....

Nowadays, the contestant agreement on Survivor is more binding.

It's a different world, a greyer world and the country I promised to defend is getting harder and harder to recognize.

My country right or wrong is a lovely sentiment:  primo Hallmark stuff.  But when it's more wrong than right?

People should know what's being done in their name.

Writing sentences like that make we want to look over my shoulder.  Nothing new about that:  I've been looking over my shoulder my whole life.

What's different is how quickly we have learned to adopt the principles and practices of those countries that we used to criticize.

I can remember watching the commie fear films that were so popular in the fifties and sixties.  They would point to things like national identity cards and robust domestic intelligence as hallmarks of the fascist state.  Not so funny after we have been living under these same systems, or their analogs, for the last decade.

Is that the same country I promised to defend?

The sad thing is that there is no going back, no way for the pendulum to find its natural center.  This is the new normal and we had better get used to it, or we will have some 'splaining to do.

As one of my acquaintances from the old days told me after too many Jager Bombs, "Rendition:  it's not just for combatants anymore."

I know from experience how much a difference it makes when you interrogate a suspect offshore and anyone who has ever done anything on a vacation that they would never do at home knows exactly what I am talking about.

It would have been easy to fall into the predetermined role of "disgruntled ex-spy," to drink myself into the early grave that claimed so many of the people I used to work with, but I spent a lot of time steering clear of easy choices.

I am not so stupid as to think that I will be received with open arms.  I will immediately be labeled as a quack, a nut-job and another brick in the wall of conspiracy theorists that "protect" large subsets of the population.  

That's a stratagem right out of the playbook I helped to write:  shoot the messenger.  But having shot one or two messengers of my own, I can tell you that there is nothing either satisfying or definitive about it.

I can't be concerned about how I will be received.  I have bigger fish to fry.  I would like to be able to sleep through the night like I did before I took up this work. To sleep the Sleep of the Just just once more before I take that big sleep is, as they say, a "consummation devoutly to be wished."

I need to be able to look at myself in the mirror and see something I can be proud of and know that the price I have been asked to pay has been worth it.

Cutting

After I got out, I had trouble finding work, a lot of trouble.

I had this seven-year-wide hole in my resume that I couldn't talk about.  The more I couldn't talk about it, the more frustrated I got as opportunity after opportunity slipped away.  

I'd often as not get the interview only to get tripped up on the questions about my work history.  I knew they were coming.  I'd even practice possible responses, but anything I could come up with sounded like exactly what it was, an evasion.

I'd have been better off having them think I was an ex-con, but my pride kept getting in the way. 

It's a hard turn to make: going from being the sharp end of the sword to being something scraped off people's shoes.  I had so many skills and so much experience and I couldn't talk about any of it, much less show it.  If I tipped my mitt just a little, there would be the questions, followed by the silence, followed by the door.

Every so often, when I was working, I'd catch an episode of "The Fugitive" on the tube.  You know, the one about the doctor accused of killing his wife?  Every week, he'd be in a different town, dealing with a different life and trying to stay one step ahead of the law.  

It was entertaining at the time; it was my life later on.

In those first years after the cake, I moved a lot. I needed a job and I didn't want to have to talk too much.

For a time, I ended up on a ranch in Idaho.  I know, but there are no beaten paths anywhere in that state.

I had no business doing that kind of work, but I needed the check and they knew enough not to challenge me about whether I could ride a horse.  I was a gym rat, not a barn owl, but they didn't need to know that.

I was there for a whole season and, by the end, I would almost have called myself a rider.  Thanks to equal parts luck and timing, I was given enough time to convince my mount that I could be trusted and she took good care of me whenever my luck turned and my timing was off.

For a time, I was paired up with this guy--swear to God, his name was "Dusty"--and we worked a cutting crew.

It was our job to separate a cow from the herd and drive it off for whatever they needed.  Sometimes it was for shots, other times for branding and castration.

Dusty did the cutting.  

His horse, "Lefty," had uncanny cow sense.  It was like she knew what the cow was going to do before it did. The two of them would work a cow to the edge of the herd and then shear it off like a car taking a highway off-ramp.

It was my job to block the lines of retreat, stay in the cow's eyeline on the opposite side from where we wanted it to go.  With Dusty on its ass and me on its side, the cow couldn't help but go where we wanted it to go.

In the beginning, it was exhilarating:  like after the first time you work with C-4 and can still count to ten without taking off your shoes and socks.  The challenge for each of us--Dusty, Lefty, me, my horse and the cow--was to translate thought into action and to do it faster than the others.  It was a game.  Sometimes we'd win, sometimes the cow and, I hate to admit, sometimes I'd end up in the dirt having zigged while my horse zagged.

But we got better.  I got better.  And pretty soon, we were a real team.  We got to a point where could peel off cows like a Vegas dealer peels cards.

It was hard work: the kind that, by the end of the day, made your bed roll look like the Presidential Suite at the Ritz.  Equal parts mental and physical.

I didn't have any trouble with the physical, but the mental part of that work took its toll on me.  You think too much about the cattle you're cutting and what's going to happen to them and suddenly you can't do the job.  It becomes like trying to walk across the platform in a Tokyo train station without running into anyone:  not going to happen.

Cows are social creatures:  they eat together, sleep together and even run amok together.  You cut one out and suddenly the cow gets nervous, skittish, dangerous.

And what were we going to do to that already nervous cow?  Burn it, stick it, or cut its balls off.

It got so I was identifying more and more with the cows.  I would wake up some nights in a sweat.  I had one recurring nightmare where I would be running from Dusty and from some other person whose face I couldn't quite make out.  They were chasing me toward a group of guys who were standing around a campfire looking at me.

I know, sign me up for Doctor Phil.

And when I wasn't the one being cut, I would see faces from the past, from my work life.  Faces of people whose lives we had changed, ruined, ended.  All in the name of "truth, justice and the American way."

I got off the cutting crew.  I had to.  

I did manage to make it to the end of the season, like I said, but as part of the chuck wagon team.  

Turns out, everyone liked my coffee.  I didn't think it was that good, but they all raved about it--the whole crew. Nothing to it really:  boil water, insert beans, serve when ready.  

So easy to do, I could make it with one hand tied behind my back.

Coffee Shop Confessions

There's a bunch of us that gather every morning at the coffee shop near my house.

It's not one of those chains, it's one of those other chains that have defined themselves in opposition to the first chain.  There's still whip and foam and shots and scones, but with a more rustic feel.

We don't gather in the traditional sense of the word.  It's not a meeting.  Hell, we don't even talk to one another.  But every morning, it's the same crowd--each of us alone with our thoughts, trying to make sense of the crossword puzzle, or that day's news--whichever is less confusing.

I was never a big fan of coffee.  In my line of work it was more of a tool than a luxury.  After long hours on a sneak and peak, or a smash and grab, mole jobs or Trojan Horse work, breaking out the thermos was a chance to break the tension and talk about something else for a moment.

Usually, when I was on a job with Barney, we would talk about how shitty his coffee was.  I know everyone thinks he was this super-genius when it came to putting ten pounds of shit into a clear plastic box, but he made a shitty cup of coffee.

He liked flavored coffee.

I don't think I need to say anything more about that, do I?  Flavored coffee! 

And it's not like it was easy to come by in those days.  This was long before you had to look both ways before you approached the coffee pot.  On average--unless we were on a job together--coffee tasted like coffee.  And you judged its quality not by what side of the hill it was grown on, but by its texture--how close it came to tasting like dirt-flavored chalk.

Every time we went out of town, Barney had an extra tool box he carried just for the coffee.  It was packed with pounds and pounds of Chock full o'Nuts and lots of tiny bottles of flavoring extracts of one kind or another. 

Every pot was a science project and I was his test subject.  

I could have made the coffee, but then we would have had nothing to talk about.

He would get up about half-an-hour ahead of me and come up with that day's formula, we would go out and do whatever crazy shit Phelps had dreamed up and then, when we could, out would come the thermos and I would give Barney nothing but shit.

Truth is, the only thing I cared about was whether there was any caffeine left after he was finished screwing around.  But giving Mr. Super Genius shit for his coffee was our way of breaking the tension and staying frosty.

Almond and mint flavored, but frosty.

***

I come to this coffee shop every morning because I have to get out of the house.

Without a routine that gets me out of the house every morning, I find it too easy to stay in bed and turn the pages in the atlas of roads not taken that is my life.

I found this place after I was laid-up from a surgery.  I knew I was recovered when I recognized I was looking forward to the manufactured drama that is Jerry Springer. I didn't care how much it hurt, I had to get out of the house--even if just for that hour.

I took a drive south and hadn't gone more than about five minutes when I saw this little set of shops and, on the corner, the coffee shop.  

I wasn't so much looking for coffee as responding to the side effects of one of the medications I had to take, but once I got in the place, there was something about it that just felt right, familiar, comfortable. 

I think it's supposed to look like the inside of a log cabin.

They have a fireplace and lots of pine-ish looking furniture so it kind of feels like the north woods, if the north woods had a place that served a mochachino.

In one corner of the store there's a big dining room size table and this is where the Bible group meets every morning.  Every time I come in, there are about a half-dozen men studying the Bible with the intensity of lawyers parsing a contract, or politicians a sentence.  

It would seem to me that, by this time, that book has been well and truly picked over, but there they are, every morning, savoring the nuances like after-notes in a bottle of wine.

Around the walls are a series of high-top tables and stools that are the perches of the retirees and the unemployed.  Their faces buried in their tablets and laptops, these guys all have the same desperate look on their faces.  They are trying to connect, trying to close the deal, trying to get off the bench and back in the game.

That time we were in Berlin for all those months, there was a little cafe around the corner from our safe house.  Every morning, I would find some excuse to go in there just so I could get the taste of Barney's latest experiment out of my mouth.

I'd walk in and I could immediately feel every eye in the place on me.  The place was full of operators.  They might as well have been wearing Homburgs and leather trench coats.

Spies and private school kids don't have casual clothes:  they don't know what to do with them.

No question in my mind they knew if not who I was, certainly what I was.  We weren't playing them so it didn't matter, but I would fuck with them anyway.  I'd order a very particular brand of Russian tea...,and a Coke.

If you're careful, the combination isn't really that bad.  No worse than anything Barney came up with.

I think of that place every time I go in to my new place.  Mostly because I get the same kind of looks.

There's something comforting in those looks.  

They remind me of a different time:  a time when I knew things that everybody else didn't.  They help me forget that those tables were turned a long time ago.