That was the start of my career as a spy, and pretty much how it continued. I’d go back to work at the magazine and every so often I’d get a call out of the blue from Sloane who needed me immediately. Sometimes it was around the corner, sometimes in another country, but the gigs were all pretty similar – I’d sit, wired up, near a group of suspects and get recorded evidence of what they were up to. And no matter how much I felt I stood out, no one noticed me. Ever. Crushing to the ego, but at least I was a hero. Plus I was getting two paychecks, so things were looking up. I began to crave the missions, and grew more disappointed each day I didn’t receive one.

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.