Time to go

“What does an out-to-pasture spy wear to a hotel and not be noticed?” Gregor asked himself as he lookes through the closet of his low-rent studio apartment.

He didn’t have much of a choice. He had exactly two blazers and an Aloha shirt hanging feebly by wire-hangers stolen from some “rooms by the hour” motel nine years ago.

The other jacket lay crumpled and stained on the floor with the rest of his clothes from last night. Gregor glances their way again.

“Help me…please.” The whispering scream rattles though him again, as he looks away from the pile.

Shaking his head, as if he can dislodge the memory, he begins to dress and prepare for the meeting scheduled by his director. A “Handler” is the old term for the head guy who would use him like a disposable razor…they didn’t like that term anymore. It brought up too many old memories of the “good old days”, when a spy was a spy, not some glorified hack of a business lawyer.

The chest of drawers, with its stained mirror, held most of the tools he would use today. Faded blue jeans, pocket knife, PDA, and clean socks.

“Just a meet’n greet. No need for the heavy artillery.” Gregor sarcastically chuckles to himself as he passes over his drawer of weapons. Mostly, these are the silent types: garrote wire, knives that look more like ice picks, and four small caliber handguns with silencers.

Grabbing his wallet and shades to block the eye stabbing pain that the sun will bring, once again, a puzzled look creases his forehead.

“Fucking keys.”

He begins to scan the apartment, muttering to himself and glancing at his watch.

“Dumbass.” He looks under the pillow. Nothing.

“First thing to go, you know.” He looks by the sink. Not there.

“Then it’s the eyes.” Opens the door and checks the keyhole.

Gregor’s one vice, outside of scotch, was that he talked to himself. Mostly because he needed to vocalize his thoughts, but also because he didn’t have anyone else worth talking to.

Looking at the ceiling, as if the answer is written in the watermarks, he remembers.

“Fuck.” He turns to his crumpled mess of clothes.

Slowly walking towards them, like child walking to a dentist’s chair, he says, “Gregor, a man of many seasoned years.” Step.

“Killed more men than heart disease.” Step.

“Survived not one, but two failed parachutes behind enemy lines.” Step.

“And he’s afraid of a suit.” Stopping, he stares at the clothes for a moment. Not fully understanding why, as sweat begins to roll down his brow.

“Shit.”

He reaches down for his slacks from the previous night. As he lifts them, he hears the familiar jingle of keys and allows himself to smile. Gregor quickly reaches into the pocket and grabs a handful of metal.

As he opens his hand and looks, he sees the lost keys and something else. A coin for the train.

“Help me.”

Gregor holds the coin out in front of him as if to chastise it. Anger and shame rising within him like a rushing tide. He throws the coin as hard as he can across the room, chipping the mirror. Before the coin bounces a fourth time, Gregor is already through the door.

Besides the sound of the coin slowly finishing it’s spin, the only other sound left in the ratty studio apartment are Gregor’s footsteps as the descends the buildings’ stairs.