I was still getting two paychecks, which was nice. Not that I went crazy splurging, but I lived comfortably and my savings account was filling up nicely. There was some guilt with depositing the CIA checks, but it’s not that I wasn’t willing to do the work. I kept the money and told myself I’d be ready whenever they needed me.

So I was left with one job that actually wanted me to contribute, and I decided to throw myself fully into it. I was lucky to have it, because, as you can imagine, being immediately forgettable is a huge obstacle in the job market.

Once I realized that my one shot at exposure was through my writing, I went after it aggressively, scouring websites and newspaper listings for jobs in any area of print journalism. I had written much for the college paper, and had a well-stocked portfolio to share.

My resume was strong, particularly for entry-level journalism, and I got quite a few bites. I thought I interviewed well, but never received a call back. Why would I, when no one could remember meeting me. Even when I called the interviewer to see where they were at in the decision-making process, I got the standard “still interviewing other candidates” line, but I could tell that they had no idea who I was.

When I got to Farm Technology Monthly, I felt I found the perfect environment for a forgettable journalist. The consumer magazines and newspapers I applied to called for a higher-profile presence that I hoped I could rise to, but clearly wouldn’t. Trade publishing, with its smaller staffs, offered a greater role in the whole publishing process, and its targeted audience didn’t need rock star — an unseen editor who proved solid, reliable information was enough.

The offices were also conducive to my needs. On a tour during my interview, I passed the cubicle that I’d been sitting at if I got the job. It was ready to go with a computer, stapler, and what looked like a comfortable chair. Simply insert Terry here, and we’d be rolling.

So I did. The interview went great, and I really wanted the job. I knew that the second I left, they’d never remember me being there, so I took what was, up to then, the biggest chance of my life.

The day after the interview, I got to the office early and went to what I now considered my desk. At 9 AM, I reported to HR and told them I was the new editorial hire. An eyebrow was raised, but that was about it. The HR director shoved paperwork at me and sent me on my way.

I love paperwork. It doesn’t disappear the second I leave the room. It says, “Terry was here.” So I filled it out, submitted it, and went back to my desk. As the office workers filed in, I said hello to everyone and introduced myself. I know, why bother when they won’t remember me two seconds later — but it’s what you do normally in that situation, and I didn’t want to raise any red flags.

When my boss came in, I followed him to his office and “reminded” him of who I was that he hired me and asked for some assignments. He stared at me silently while he removed his jacket, his face twisted as his brain strained for some recollection of me.

Sadly, I knew it wouldn’t work.

But I was here and eager, and, as I mentioned, I was a good editor and writer, so I was confident I could do the job. He was apparently under a great deal of stress since the previous editor left, and he readily passed off the work to me. It was good, solid publishing work, and I handled it readily. His life got easier, so I kept the job.

Years and several promotions later, I was running the book, but had done it so often, it was almost as if it was on auto-pilot. Now that the CIA had rejected me, it was time to re-examine the brand and bring back some of the excitement I felt when I first started. I was going to use my position to set the farming industry on fire!

So I wrote memos. I initiated the redesign of both the magazine and the website. I reached out to my PR contacts looking for the big stories – who was using what in innovative ways. Who is leading the farming industry into the future?

And though, surprisingly, since no one mentioned it to me directly, by scouring all the recent press releases from the biggest technology companies in farming, I think I found him: Roderick King.

Looking over releases from the last year, I saw that King-owned organizations had purchased huge amounts of gear. Harvesters, lighting, irrigation systems, automation systems. I did a Google search on him, and saw only a few references. Somehow this was sailing beneath the radar, and could be a huge story for me to break.

I began getting into the Roderick King business, learning all there was to know about him. Which wasn’t much.

King was a scientist and inventor originally, not a farmer or involved in agriculture at all. His first public work seems to be for Rockton Petroleum, second only to Exxon-Mobil in the world of oil and fuel production. He developed a particular refinement process that almost gave Rockton the top position. Almost.

He left the company unceremoniously. At least I assumed it was unceremoniously, as there was no news of it. All traces of him were scrubbed from the Rockton web site. Bad blood perhaps? Was he pushed into agriculture to get the taste of big business out of his mouth? Nobody in the media deemed it to be worth a story, so perhaps it was something more mundane. A mid-life career change is not unusual.

But, after digging even deeper, I found out that King hadn’t completely left the oil business. A King-backed company owed the majority share in EverTech, which provides sophisticated gas pumps to stations worldwide. We’re talking high-precision, high-tech pumps that have been embraced by not only the big brands, but even the locals.

Innovation in farming and gas pumps? Clearly I had found the huge story I was looking for. And no one else had caught wind of it. It’s not saving the world, but still pretty damn exciting.

Even more exciting: several addresses of King-owned companies led to a small town in Kansas. Heading over to Google Maps for virtual tour, I found the location — a huge compound in the middle of nowhere. Huge. If featured several large buildings, what looked like a tremendous garage, and few smaller structures spread out amongst the miles and miles of farmland.

I don’t know if it was my CIA training or just wishful thinking, but this had James Bond villain HQ written all over it.

Yes, it was definitely time to enter the world of the mysterious Mr. King.

Sometimes weeks would go by — months, even — without a mission, and I’d wonder if Sloane lost my pictures, and would never remember to call me again. But eventually he would, and I’d excuse myself from the magazine and take off on what, for me, was a whirlwind adventure.

I eventually even stopped caring that Sloane was a jerk toward me. I suspected that our work together was taking down a lot of bad guys, and that Sloane was taking all the credit for himself. That’s fine — it’s not about the credit, it’s about saving lives. Of course, getting credit could get me noticed, but it’s about the lives, not me. Saving lives.

Yay lives.

The whole spy business also set my already-active imagination into overdrive. I began following people who looked suspicious, or who were really attractive women. Naturally, these all led nowhere, and I’d have to remember how I got where I was so I could make it home.

I was trained and issued a gun from the CIA academy. I used to carry it with me all the time, except on missions where Sloane said it’d be more dangerous to the other agents than the bad guys. When I had it with me, it gave me confidence. Just mess with me punk, and you’ll be surprised. You picked the wrong victim.

But I never got noticed, even to muggers. And the gun was heavy. And in the summer I’d get a rash on my skin under where I had the gun. Really unpleasant. Then I took it with me on special occasions or on the occasional fruitless patrol around town.

I was the James Bond of the neighborhood watch.

So things settled in nicely, well, for me, anyway, for about a year and a half. Then the calls stopped coming.

At the two-month mark I decided to be proactive. I kept a journal of my assignments, and I knew exactly when the last one was. I had to sit through some lecture with a Russian author at the Borders bookstore in Columbus Circle. And, no, I don’t know why. It was local, brief, and not very satisfying. I didn’t even have to miss a day of work at the magazine.

Calls to Sloane were useless. He now had a secretary who took my information, and did little else. It was time for drastic measures – I’d have to go see Sloane in person.

I’d had been past the Manhattan offices of the CIA many times – just in case it came down to this. I had never been inside before, though, and my heart and stomach were competing for attention as I entered the door. I wore the suit that I bought because I thought it looked very government. I left the gun at home, remembering that Sloane wasn’t happy I even had one, and proudly flashed my badge at the security desk. It was enough to get this faceless person to the elevators.

I had an old business card of Sloane’s, so I knew what floor he was on, or at least used to be on. I figured it was a good starting point. I got off on the right floor where a receptionist was sitting. I wondered if she was the one intercepting the calls to Sloane, or if he had his own secretary. Since I was there as an official CIA agent, I used my powers to walk right past her and down the hall. I’m sure she saw me, but there was nothing about me to cause any alarm, so down the hall I went.

After wandering around for about 10 minutes, I found him and his own personal secretary. I could see him in his office, but I was sure his assistant would stop me before I made it though the door and, although she didn’t know the face — and wouldn’t remember it five minutes after I left — I had no doubt she’d know the name of the man who constantly pestered her.

I had purposely come near lunchtime with the hope that either Sloane would come out or his assistant would take her break. I lingered unnoticed in the area for another 15 minutes before she told Sloane she was headed out for a bit and left her desk.

I made my move. Sloane was mulling over some paperwork when I walked in. “Excuse me, Special Agent Sloane,” I said meekly. “Can I speak to you for a moment.”

Sloane looked up slowly, as if to say he’d acknowledge whomever on his own time. He looked at me and tilted his head squinting his eyes to coax his brain into remembering something that was on the tip of his tongue. It failed.

“And you are…,” Sloane asked.

“Check your jacket pocket,” I responded, hoping he still had the pictures on him.

He almost smiled in acknowledgement, but still reached behind him to the jacket draped around his chair and dug through the pockets. He pulled out the picture of me on my finest moment. He smirked.

“Right. Laine,” he said with a slight nod. He put the picture back. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said more annoyed than angry.

Everything I had planned to say completely fell away and, as I always had been in front of Sloane, became a timid fool.

“You hadn’t called in a while,” I said, sounding more like a jilted girlfriend than I had wanted. “I was just wondering if there were more assignments coming my way.”

“Yeah, about that,” answered Sloane. “There will be I’m sure. Probably not with me, though. I’ve been promoted, and I’ve got a number of squads under me.”

“I see,” I said, not hiding my disappointment well. “Perhaps there’s another agent I could work with?”

“Maybe,” said Sloane unconvincingly as he returned to his papaerwork. Why give anyone the secret to his success — word might get out. “We’ll be in touch.”

I stood there for a few more minutes, not sure of what my next move should be. Was there a way I could convince him to let me join one of his squads? Could he ever see me as a full-time agent? Heck, could he ever see me and remember me?

Sloane was engrossed in his paperwork, and I had the feeling that if I knocked again, I’d have to re-introduce myself. I just wasn’t in the mood for that, so I walked away.

Sometimes…most times…this power really sucks.

And so ended my exciting life as a spook.

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 badge, 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.

Plus, I surmised, if he had my picture on his phone everyone would assume I was his boyfriend.

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.

“We have good intel that a group of high-level Al Qaeda operatives use that restaurant for meetings.”

“Kind of obvious, don’t you think?” I blurted out before I remembered that I should just shut up and do what he says. I stared with grim determination at the restaurant, hoping that the comment would be ignored.

Sloane shrugged. “Yeah,” he responded in near-conversational tone, “you’d think that, but I suppose that’s the beauty of it. Obvious enough to think we wouldn’t bother, plus they get a good home-cooked meal.”

He then remembered that he’s a jerk. “Whatever. You are going in, grabbing a table, and listening to whatever they say. I don’t think you’ll understand anything ‘cause they’ll more than likely be speaking in Arabic.”

“How will I know if I’m spotted?” Oops. Spoke again.

“They’ll kill you,” Sloane said, and smiled wide afterward. This guy is such an asshole.

“Listen hero,” he continued. “There is a Special Agent in the next room who speaks fluent Arabic. He’ll be listening to the entire conversation, and if there’s any trouble, we’ll pull you out.”

I wondered if this was true, and really wanted to meet this other agent. Instead, I had Special Agent Chunky pulling up my shirt and sticking wires and small black boxes to me. Up close, he smelled distinctly of coffee and Tic Tacs. And he had cold hands.

I thought back to my training, and felt severely unprepared. The butterflies were threatening to fly out of my stomach, up my throat, and onto Agent Chunky’s shirt along with the remnants of the generic-brand Cheerios I ate this morning.

“You walk in, pick a table closest to any suspicious-looking customers, order, and eat, staying as long as possible. That’s it. No need to engage anyone. Just sit and not be noticed. This job’s right up your alley.”

That sounded a little better. In my mind I started picturing a tourist trap or a place the hipster crowd has embraced as unique. Anything except me being the only extremely white (I was never able to hold a tan) guy in a room full of possibly hostile Muslims. Could even my power save me in that situation? Hopefully I wouldn’t get to find out.

Plus, if it was packed with homesick Middle Easterners, how would I tell the bad guys from the good?

Sloane must’ve read my mind, because he shoved some pictures in my face.

“Memorize these quickly and look for any one of them in there. These are they guys we know hang out there. Grab a seat right near them and try not to chew your food too loudly.”

I stared at each picture intently, wondering which one of them would be the one who kills me.

This should be fun.

To make matters worse, I really don’t care for exotic foods. It seems my above-average average-ness applies to my taste buds as well. I’ve tried all kinds of exotic cuisines, but I only stick with the basics. So, though I’m sure the food was authentic and pleasing to those who liked such things, the smells that accosted me as I walked into the restaurant were not welcoming.

That and the fear of death were really killing my appetite.

Fortunately, the restaurant was fairly empty. It was near 5 o’clock, but the working and hipster crowd wouldn’t be ready until a few more hours. So it was a good time for terrorists to get a quiet table where none of their countrymen (and women) could listen in on their wicked plans.

There was a young white couple having an early dinner along with their baby, who was sleeping in a car seat carrier next to the table. Good cover for terrorists, but I didn’t think that they were plotting anything other than how to pay for that kid’s college in 18 years.

On the other side of the restaurant, suspiciously sitting in a corner far from the windows, were three men who looked like some of the men in the pictures Sloane showed me. Of course, at this point, all the Middle Eastern men looked like that to me — the waiter, the cook. I was too nervous to really focus on the pictures, and now I was seeing evildoers everywhere. I figured I would take a table close to the men in the corner. Worse case scenario, they were regular Joes having a home cooked meal. Best case: I get them talking about their evil plans and save the world.

There was a hostess, but she wasn’t at the front when I walked in, which means she would never notice me. Normally this is a problem, but today it worked well as I simply — and what I hoped was nonchalantly — grabbed a menu and walked over to the table next to bad guys (at this point it helped me to think of them as evil so I focus on the mission — and also that I wasn’t violating the privacy of upright citizens) and sat down. If any of them saw me, they gave no indication.

As you can imagine, I hate eating in restaurants, but there is a way for forgettable people to still get served, and maybe even have a pleasant dining experience.

As I just mentioned, the first trick is to get seated. If the hostess is at the door when you walk in, this can usually be done painlessly. Otherwise you will have to get right in his or her face to get a table. Ideally, you can go out to eat with someone who’s noticeable, but it’s hard to get dining companionship when most people forget you immediately after meeting you.

Now you might think that a waiter or waitress will never come, but they will. The hostess usually tells them that someone has been seated in his or her section, and gives them the table number. Being a number is the best thing to happen to someone who is forgettable. They won’t remember you, but they will remember that something is occupying table 12 or whatever it is.

The key here is to order everything you need right up front, because they will forget to check up on you. I always get every condiment imaginable and several beverages. You may think such a strange order would make you memorable, but, sadly, it does not. The food is brought out to your table number, and, eventually, the waiter or waitress who wants to get paid will drop the check at the table number. And off you go, fully served and belly full.

Of course, since I had sat myself, the waiter didn’t notice me, and I sat in front of an empty table to what, to me, felt like an eternity. I felt like I stood out like someone with good looks and a dynamic personality. The next time he walked by to serve the killers, I grabbed his arm and asked to place an order.

I had planned to play it straight today and not order any extras — just to make sure no one noticed me — but I got nervous and ordered three drinks (spicy food!) and some chicken-thing I thought was safe for my stomach. The waiter raised an eyebrow after the drink order, but that was the only thing that seemed out of the ordinary. He left to fill table 12’s order.

I could hear the men talking behind me, which I hoped meant that the mysterious Arab-speaking agent in the next room could hear them as well. Their tones sounded angry and intense, but, to me, the nature of the language’s speaking patterns always sounded angry. The could’ve been saying, “Kill all Americans,” or “This chicken is spicy.” I was actually preferring the former, because I wanted to stop bad guys, and I had already ordered the chicken.

I wanted to see their faces better, but was too frightened to turn around. I looked for reflective surfaces in the restaurant that I could use to look behind me. The answer was right in front of me — literally, as the silver napkin dispenser was pretty shiny. I angled it just so that I could see the back of one man and the face of the other, albeit slightly distorted. I convinced myself that I had seen his face in the pictures Sloane gave me.

I was hoping that the food here was good, because I really enjoyed the service. It came quickly and directly to me. I think the waiter even smiled as he dropped it. If the food was good, I could see myself coming here more often.

The first bite was all right — just spicy enough to keep it interesting, but not bad enough to make me down one of my beverages. A nasty aftertaste soon followed, though, which kind of ruined it for me. Still, I didn’t want to raise suspicion, so I kept eating.

By the forth or fifth forkful, the spiciness had intensified so that I was taking sips of soda after each bite. This may have been regular behavior for a patron, as no one gave me any notice. Or maybe everybody has just forgotten about me. I was careful not to clang my plate or chew too loudly — nothing to ruin the audio feed going to the agents across the street.

I was feeling good about the whole thing as I neared the end of my meal. The terrorists looked like they were wrapping up too, draining the cups of coffee that sat in front of them. Hopefully, they’d leave soon and I could wrap it up and get out of there. That was the only way I’d know I was done. Sloane had never given me an exit plan, and I didn’t want to leave them because they could have been talking about something good, so I was determined to outlast them at the table no matter what I had to order.

The waiter took the mostly-full, but well-picked-through plate from table 12, and I was able to order a cup of coffee myself. That wouldn’t be spicy, and I could milk it for a while — at least until my friends at the next table left.

Against my better judgment, I thought to myself that everything is going fine.

Right on cue, my stomach started acting up severely. Real severely. My nerves and the ethnic food had joined forces to create a perfect gastrointestinal storm. My stomach started making gurgling sounds that I had no doubt were making their way across the street. I began to sweat, which aggravated the skin beneath the tape holding the wires to me, and I began to itch.

It would have been nice if the itching were enough to take my mind off my stomach problems, but it was just an added nuisance. I reached beneath the table and undid the button at the top of my pants with a single hand, hoping to alleviate the pressure on my stomach. It worked. For about a minute, then the cramps returned with a vengeance.

I noticed there was a steaming cup of coffee set on the table before me. I hadn’t even noticed the waiter had come by. Had he noticed anything weird about me? I scanned the room for him, and saw him talking to hostess near the front door. Maybe they were talking about me, but no one was looking or gesturing, so I got over it.

I had bigger problems.

Now, of course, this is not the first time this has happened to me, and I knew what had to be done. This was, however, the first bout of diarrhea I ever had while wired up in a CIA op. It presented all sorts of challenges.

For starters, if I excused myself to the men’s room, I could be costing the CIA vital information, endangering lives, and not saving the world. Not to mention that I was wired, and anything I did in the bathroom would make it’s way onto the evidence tape. It’d be awesome to hear that during the trial.

My face was soaked in sweat, and I dried it with my napkin. Perhaps if I carefully released some gas while sitting at the table, I could ease my pain and not miss a word. Two problems with that — first, if it wasn’t silent, it would surely call attention to me, and, second, even if it was silent, when people smell fart, they look to pin the blame, and I’m an easy target.

I learned the hard way about the power of flatulence beating my power of forgetability, at least for the moment. It involved a crowded elevator and another stick of wood for the embarrassment pile I keep in my head, but enough of that — back to the gas at hand.

My new plan was to keep it together long enough for them to leave, and then use the facilities. It will still be caught on tape, unfortunately, but after all the important stuff, so the court would never have to hear it. The agents, on the other hand, would get an earful, which was mortifying, but far less so than soiling my pants.

After what seemed like an eternity, they stood and headed slowly for the door, talking amongst themselves and, seemingly, in good humor. As soon as the last one cleared the front door, I stood and walked — quickly — toward the bathroom.

I’ll spare you the details, but, suffice to say, I finally emerged from the men’s room, paid my bill, and headed out the door. The street looked just as it did when I entered the restaurant. I didn’t know what to expect: maybe helicopters or a battalion of black vans, with the terrorists being cuffed and tossed in the back. But there was nothing out of the ordinary.

I crossed the street to get the recording devices removed and mocked over my weak stomach.

I never found out what happened with the table of guys I was spying on. I asked Sloane about it, and he said that it was good intel, but I wasn’t sure what that meant. Did we stop some nefarious deed, or simply rule out any ties to terrorism?

I was helped out and escorted into the building. My hands were cuffed behind my back, and, even though my fingers were feeling tingly, I didn’t complain. One officer was dragging me along by my arm, which he had grabbed right above my elbow. He was a good looking guy. About six feet tall, thick dark hair that was cut close to his head. Big brown eyes with a dark unibrow above them.

He seemed to be well liked — everyone said hello to him and smiled as we passed. His name was Mike, as in “Hey Mike,” “S’up Mike,” and “Yo Mikey.”

This was someone I could be. As part of my regular invisible life, I often imagined myself as someone else. A few years back I took to envisioning select people that I saw, trying to imagine what it must be like to be right there in the moment I was watching them.

Me as Mike walked proudly, confidently. Flirtatious with the lady officers even with the unibrow, although Me as Mike would have taken care of that before leaving the house.

Mike dropped me in a bench and walked over to talk to someone in an office who was wearing a regular suit and not a uniform like Mike was. Me as Mike would never take any crap from the suits.

He came back for me, guided me off the bench, and brought me to a small room holding a small table and two chairs. A big mirror was the only thing that broke up the drab green of the walls. Of course, being the Law & Order fan that I am, knew that the mirror was two way, and I shouldn’t do anything embarrassing in this room.

Mike undid my cuffs and shoved me gently into one of the chairs. He cuffed my left hand to the table.

“The Feds are coming for you. Be here in a bit,” he said in a voice that should have been an octave or two lower. Me as Mike would deal with it. Mike left the room, leaving me alone — except for anyone watching me through the mirror.

I noticed there was a trashcan in the corner of the room, which is good because I still felt as though I would throw up any second now. I thought if I leaned over I could reach it with my foot and pull it over to me. I couldn’t, but it was a good distraction and, before I knew it, an hour had passed.

No Feds, no visitors, and, most important, no puke.

Officer Mike poked his head in the room and, in his sing-song voice, said, “The Feds’ll be here in ten more minutes.”

It turned out to be more like another hour.

I later found out that the reason it took so long was that the NYPD had called the FBI, who checked out the report and the interesting fact that no one could remember me despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing a mask. I was just happy to have my name and the word “interesting” used in a sentence together.

The FBI sent a few agents over to the bank, I presume to grill Vivian again and find out what the deal was. Just as they were piecing it together, the CIA came in and kicked the FBI off the case. It was the CIA who was now keeping me waiting.

My solitude was finally broken by a big man in a fancy suit. He introduced himself as Special Agent Daniel Sloane, and he took the seat opposite me at the table. He seemed confident and had an air of power around him, but I wouldn’t want to be him. His hairline was receding, and his ruddy face was filled with pockmarks. I also didn’t like his breath and his overall look screamed, “Don’t trust me.”

He was palming a Polaroid camera in his hand, and placed it on the table as he sat.

His voice would have better suited Officer Mike: “Terry Laine,” he growled, twisting the end of my name as a question.

I wanted to say yes, but my throat was so dry that I opened my mouth and nothing came out. I nodded instead.

He said nothing more. Just sat there, staring at me, studying me. Then he got up and left the room.

“Amazing,” he said a few minutes later as he re-entered the room. It was hard to tell with that face of his, but I think he was smiling. “I left the room, and couldn’t think of what you looked like. “

He paused and shook his head. “I’m lucky I remembered to come back in.”

He looked up, and now I could see that he definitely was smiling. He raised the camera and snapped a picture of me quickly. I’m pretty sure my eyes were open, but he didn’t give me time to smile.

He shook the picture and looked at it as it faded into focus. He nodded as if he were satisfied and stuck the photo in his inside jacket pocket. He stood up and took more photos — until the camera was empty. He laid them on the table and waited for them to develop, not saying a word — very intent on his mission.

As they finished developing, he shoved each photo into a different pocket — some in the jacket pockets and some in the pants pockets. The last one he kept in his hand. When he finished, he sat back down opposite, and dropped the smirk he had been wearing into a stern frown.

“You’re in deep shit — you know that, right?”

Still unable to speak, I nodded solemnly.

“You got two choices — jail,” he paused to let it sink in, “or come work for me in the CIA.” More pausing. I was sweating again.

“Here’s the deal — you will become an undercover operative answering directly — and only — to me. You’re perfect for undercover work — completely invisible. And if you do get noticed, no one will remember seeing you anyway.” He could no longer suppress his smile and shook his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“We will train you and even pay you, but you listen and do everything I say.” He scowled. “Everything.” He stared hard into my eyes. “Or, at any given time and any time I feel like it, I will lock you up and no one will ever know you even existed.”

I could hear my heartbeat getting louder inside my own head. It didn’t sound like a bad deal in all honesty, but it was just the way he said it. It seemed obvious the Sloane was a Class-A asshole, but he was the asshole holding my leash.

‘Sides, it would be cool to be a secret agent. Saving the world was definitely on my list of things to do. What better way to get noticed by a huge group of people than to save the world? I had thought about joining the army or the FBI, but settled into the comfortable confines of business-to-business publishing. This was the chance to live my dream.

Not that I wanted Sloane knowing any of that. I didn’t think he’d like to reward bank robbers with their life’s goal.

“Okay boss,” I croaked.

I was really sweating now, and it had nothing to do with the mouthful of hot foam and espresso I had just swallowed. My stomach churned no longer out of hunger, but out of fear of my imminent arrest. The Davey’s bag had been placed on the small counter that ran along the window. I hadn’t even looked inside it, and thought it was time.

I pulled out what was left of the #12 and placed it on the counter. The thought of eating was now repugnant. I did a quick once over to make sure no one was watching me, which, in hindsight was ridiculous because no one ever sees me. I opened the bag and peered in, sliding the money around slightly to get a good handle on how much I had.

It looked like it was around $2,000, which, I could be wrong, I think puts me in for a felony. When I was home on Long Island visiting my parents I would watch a lot of cable, trying to absorb what I could because I couldn’t afford it in my place. Now, thanks to that, the theme song from the HBO series Oz blared in my head.

I would not do well in prison.

Although, maybe my power would keep me safe in my cell, the yard, and, most important, the showers. Still, I was not anxious to find out.

Right now they were probably looking at the surveillance tape and going through back records. Within the hour there would be a massive manhunt for me. By tonight, I’d be in a holding cell, unable to make bail.

Beads of sweat dripped down my neck, and I felt I would throw up into my Davey’s/stolen loot bag. That’d be perfect — even if I got away with it I couldn’t touch the money.

I needed fresh air, so I tossed the #12 back into the bag — didn’t want to leave evidence behind — and walked away from my cappuccino and back into the street.

I couldn’t take not knowing. If my power had worked, I could waltz right in there and no one would bat an eyelash at me. If my power failed, then they were already after me and it was only a matter of time. I had to know.

So, as calmly as I could, I walked back into the bank.

It was surprisingly quiet in there. The other tellers were still helping customers. Vivian was out in front, sitting at one of the loan officers’ desks, telling her tale to two policemen. Another policeman was behind the counter, looking at Vivian’s work area. I assumed there was a fourth officer, believing that they traveled in pairs, but I didn’t see him. I didn’t see the bank guard either, so perhaps they were scanning the security tapes.

Mrs. Winters, the bank manager and the person undoubtedly responsible for keeping things running, stood next to the line of customers and answered their questions. Mrs. Winters was a big woman — I had her at 6-foot 4 inches and about 260 pounds. I didn’t she where she was during my heist, but I probably should have taken note because if she had tried to stop me, I would’ve been stopped.

But here I was, at the scene of the crime, and no one even glanced my way.

I made my over toward Vivian and the officers. A brazen move to be sure, but I was feeling better since walking into the bank, and now wanted to be absolutely sure. The conversation I heard made my day:

Policeman: “So you can’t recall anything? How about his height? Was he tall? Short?

Vivian: “Average.”

Policeman: “Was he black or white?”

Vivian (trying really hard to remember): “I’m not sure. White?”

Policeman: “You tell me.”

Vivian (trying to sell it, but not succeeding): “Yeah, most likely white.”

Policeman: “Was he wearing a mask?”

Vivian (quickly and confidently): “No! (softer) I don’t think he was.”

Policeman (after emitting a long sight): “Skin tone?”

Vivian: “Average.”

Policeman: “Hair color?”

Vivian: “Maybe brown? It’s hard to remember.”

Policeman (not expecting much): “Fat or thin?”

Vivian: “Average.”

Now, in Vivian’s defense, she’s right. I’m average. Amazingly average. Almost preternaturally so. That’s what fuels my power, so she’s not wrong.

I caught the second policeman staring at her lazy eye.

I had heard all I needed to hear. I decided to get back on line and cash my checks, but not complain about the bank fees. I was feeling cocky, but still didn’t want to push it. Unfortunately, as I headed toward the back of the line I heard Vivian’s phlegmy voice shriek:

“That’s my lunch! That’s the guy!”

I turned slowly, so hoping that she was pointing at some other poor slob who just happened to walk in with a lunch from Davey’s, but no such luck — she was pointing at me and the second policeman had pulled himself away from Vivian’s eye and was walking toward me.

So I was still completely forgettable, but the lunch had given me away. I told you the #12 was good.

The next bit is a little vague to me. I remember being grabbed and cuffed. The policeman was speaking to me, but the only sound in my ears was my heart pounding. I think I may even have blacked out for a few minutes.

I’ll pick it up at where I came to at the police station.

It was a Saturday afternoon, around noon. I wanted to deposit a birthday check I had received from my parents, and try — once again — to discuss what I had to do to stop them from hitting me with all those bank fees every month. When you live in New York City, every penny counts. After rent, utilities, and MetroCards, I was using whatever leftover pennies to eat.

Speaking of eating, I overslept and, after quickly putting myself together, ran right to the bank. It may seem liberating being invisible and all that — not having to worry about your appearance, but the opposite is actually true. I work hard to keep up my appearance because I keep hoping to get noticed. And noticed for something good — getting noticed for being dirty and poorly dressed doesn’t count.

Back to eating — I was starving, but the bank closes at 1 pm on Saturdays, and I didn’t want to take the chance of not getting there. So me and my grumbling belly were standing on line about four people back from the front.

Working that day, behind the bulletproof glass, from right to left, were Doris, Kathy, Denise, and Vivian. Doris and Denise were both in their mid-thirties and married. Doris had two kids, Denise has one and one on the way. Kathy is in her early thirties (best guess) and single. She is constantly looking for the right guy, but hasn’t had much luck. She seems to choose losers. She’s slightly overweight, and kind of cute. She’s got a great smile that she uses a lot, and, if she ever seemed to notice me I probably would’ve stammered out an easy-to-refuse offer of a date, but she never noticed me so it wasn’t a problem.

The reason I know so much about the ladies is that I cash my weekly check here, well, weekly. I look at the pictures at their stations and listen as they discuss the weekend with one another. Still, despite me coming in at least once a week for three years, not one of them could pick me out of a police line-up, but more on that later.

I’ve left Vivian for last, and for good reason. Vivian is obnoxious, slow, and, in my opinion, not terribly bright. And has a lazy eye, which doesn’t make her a bad person, but I do find it distracting. She had a lot of years working at the bank, and could pretty much do as she pleased — including ruining your life if it struck her fancy (assuming she even had a fancy).

On this day Vivian started tormenting me long before I made it to the counter. Despite the fact that the bank was closing in less than an hour, Vivian was sitting there at her station eating her lunch. She was still helping customers, but it was slowing down an already slow worker.

Plus, she had gotten it from Davey’s — an awesome deli two store fronts down from the bank — and it smelled amazing. My stomach gurgled in agreement. I could see the bag from where I stood. Davey uses those smaller versions of supermarket paper bags with a convenient handle on top. I could smell roast beef. And onions. She must’ve gotten the #12. I love the #12.

The person at the front of the line went to Vivian. Good. She’d never finish in time to help me. The next person went off to Kathy, which I would’ve liked, but no big deal.

But Kathy’s customer had a problem, and Denise, after finishing up with her customer, went over to help. Uh oh. Doris called the next customer over; I was now second in line. If Vivian would move her ass and help this guy in front of me, I’d be set. Hopefully, Doris’s customer would be a while.

Shit! Doris called over the guy in front of me. Kathy and Denise were still helping that other nuisance. C’mon Doris work quickly. I started to sweat and drum my foot up and down, watching the customers at the windows like they were horseraces. C’mon Doris!

The customer at Vivian’s station turned and walked away. Doris’s customer was still there.

Vivian yelled, “Next,” with a mouth full of roast beef.

I slowly began walking over to her station and, somewhere between the dark purple plastic rope and the slotted plexiglass in front of Vivian, I snapped. Let’s do the math:

Intense hunger + No money + Immediate forgetability superpower + Incompetent bank teller = Crazy action

I walked up to the window and, instead of handing over my check and asking to stop charging me all those fucking bank fees, I stuck my hands in my jacket pockets and said:

“This is a robbery. Put all of the money in your till into the Davey’s bag along with the rest of your sandwich.” I love the #12.

To be perfectly honest, I had thought about doing this before. Pretty much every week as I stood in line. It seemed to be the perfect use of my powers. Rob the teller, then get back in line as she tried in vain to describe to the police what the culprit looked like. Even if they got me on camera, no one would remember ever seeing me before, and wouldn’t raise an eyebrow the next time I walked through the door.

As I mentioned, I’m not a dishonest person, and I really tried to think of ways my power could be used to help society, but, as far as super powers go, mine sucks. The bank robbery is all I could come up with.

So I did it. Vivian stared at me for a second after I gave my order, a chewed ball of roast beef jutting in from her cheek. Then she slowly opened her till and proceeded to fill the Davey’s bag with money.

“The sandwich,” I reminded her. She looked more upset about that than the money, but she did as I said. The she pushed the bag toward me, shoving it through the narrow gap under the bulletproof glass.

I pulled it toward me and managed to wiggle it free. I held it close to my side using the handy carrying handle. My other hand never left my jacket pocket.

“Now don’t say a word until I’m gone, right.” Vivian nodded in agreement. I was careful not to mention anything about shooting anyone, because, if I got caught, I hear you get in more trouble if you have a gun or said you had a gun. No need to take any unnecessary chances, as the witless Vivian didn’t take much prodding.

I think Doris would have given me some shit, so it turned out to be a good thing that I got stuck with Vivian after all.

I turned and walked only slightly quicker than normal toward the door. I didn’t hear Vivian say anything and I looked over my shoulder to double-check. She was watching me leave, mouth still agape.

I walked out the door and jogged down to the corner. Across the street was a Starbucks (isn’t there always) with big windows that faced both sides of the street. I figured I’d go grab a cappuccino and a seat by the window and watch what happens.

I was surprised at how calm I was considering I had just committed my first felony. Maybe it was confidence in my powers. Or maybe it just needed a second to settle in and I would be a basket case in a minute or so.

Wouldn’t you know it turned out to be the latter.

We’ve met before. Several times actually. We’ve worked together for several years.

Really.

No, I’m not kidding.

Listen, it’s not your fault. I have super powers. Well, more like a single super power. I have the ability to slip completely from people’s minds the instant they look away from me.

Yes. I am serious.

I can prove it to you. Look at my eyes, paying particular attention to the color. Got it? They’re blue — very basic blue. Got it? Good. Blue, right?

Now turn away from me. Picture my eyes in your head and tell me what color they are.

Go ahead — I’ll give you a few minutes. Let me know when you realize you can’t do it.

Amazing, isn’t it. It’s my super power — the power of immediate forgetability.  I know what you’re thinking — not much of a super power. That’s what I used to think, too. I was constantly wracking my brain trying to find some use for it. Then I figured it out, but so did the government, and it turned into a very…messy…situation.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Would you like to hear the whole story? I think it’s pretty good. And if you don’t like it, it doesn’t really matter because it’ll leave your head within five minutes of you getting up from this table.

Let me start at the beginning.

—————————————————————

The signs were there early on, but I didn’t see it coming. Home life was fine — I was the apple of my mother’s eye. She thought I could do anything I sent my mind to, and, foolishly, I bought into it.

Then I went to elementary school where I was mixed in with other children. I held my own in those early years, being somewhat smart and quick to grasp on to basic concepts. By fifth grade I was known as one of the top five “smart kids” in school, which, socially anyway, was good for some bullying and not much else.

Mind you I wasn’t the smartest in the school — even then I couldn’t hit the top of the list. I had a few talents that singled me out in grammar school. I was fairly smart, could draw decently, and knew every plotline of all the major comic books. However, with each successive year I lost part of what set me apart.

Half of the elementary schools in the district combined when it came time for seventh grade and junior high school. Suddenly there were dozens of kids who were smarter and more talented than me. Knowledge of comic book plots now earned ridicule, and, even in this arena, there were plenty of kids more knowledgable than me.

I think this is the point where I started to disappear.

Like the X-Men comic books where the mutant’s powers manifest themselves in puberty, my forgetability kicked in around 13 years old, although it would take a little longer to become immediate.

These were the years where kids were finding what they were best at and doing it. I wasn’t as good as the other artists, didn’t fully envelope myself in pop culture like the geeks did, and wasn’t a full-fledged 12-hour a day gamer. I touched all the worlds, but not enough to fit in.

By high school people were walking into me in the hallways. A lot. If they said anything, it was usually a mumbled, “Sorry, didn’t see you there.” Most often it was an annoyed grunt followed by a shove.

I went to my prom with my 19-year-old cousin. My mother had set the whole thing up with her sister because she thought it was important that I go. It didn’t matter to me either way, and I did get noticed for an evening if only for being next to my really attractive cousin.

The night was memorable for me for another reason — Uber-jock Scott Burke was after my cousin all night and got her drunk on some beer he had smuggled in. He didn’t get anywhere, but got her to the point where she could barely stand. At the end of the night, I managed to get her into the passenger seat of my 6-year-old Nissan hatchback.

I drove her around for a while, not wanting to drop an inebriated daughter off at my aunt’s house. She babbled and dozed and, after two hours of driving around a shut down suburban town, I pulled up to her house.

I went around to the side to help her out. I helped her stand and threw her arm around my shoulder while I placed mine around her waist for support. Her face was close to mine and — despite the stench of beer breath — she still looked and felt good. The same thing must her been going through her mind because she opened her mouth and jammed it over mine.

People will say that you can’t be excited and repulsed at the same time, but I can without a doubt say that they’re wrong. After one passionate, hops-filled kiss, she pulled away, her eyes half shut.

I led her to the door and helped her get inside and lay down on the couch. Fortunately, no one else in the house was awake.

When I got home, I couldn’t sleep — what if my aunt found out. She’d tell my mom and all hell would bust loose. I’d be mortified beyond belief. As it turns out, my worry was for nothing — it was never brought up and, although we didn’t discuss it, I don’t think my cousin remembers anything.

I’m still not sure if it was from the beer or my powers.

Anyway, I began college with solid grades and an unsigned yearbook.

The college years sailed along like everything else in my life — uneventfully. Lots of people pass through college invisibly, so I didn’t feel that out of place. I took to writing, although didn’t excel at it, and got some stories published in the school paper. Since my words were more visible than me, I saw this as a good career choice.

Once out of college, I applied for and got a job as assistant editor for a trade publication for the farming community named Farm Technology Monthly, or FTM for short. We provide our 25,000 readers with information on the latest gadgets available to make their rural lives easier — new combine harvesters, milking machines, egg warmers, irrigation machines, that kind of stuff.

You should know that part because you work for the same publishing company but on a different magazine. You sit three desks away from me, and have for about two and a half years now.

Really.

Anyway, as you know, it’s not the most exciting gig, but it lets me write and edit and function in the real world despite my mutant ability. I’m actually pretty good at it, and now, after seven years, I’m editor of the mag.

So much for the backstory — now let me tell you how I learned how to use my powers.