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 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?