How to be a spy

James Bond. Sam Fisher. The Black Widow. Yeah, I’m sure we could give even more names of fictional secret agents off the bat if asked. These are people with impressive talent, great charm, and a whole lot more talents than they have teeth. They are spies, and they have made being a spy glamorous.

True, they’re fictional, but there are quite a number of people like them out there, fighting the forces of evil, whatever that means, and secretly waging the war for freedom and justice. Except that non-fictional spies come in different shades of colors, personages, and, most importantly, skill sets.

I am a spy. And my two most important skill sets are somehow managing not to die (which is less of skill and more of reflex, or luck, or my old granny’s black cat because I was nice to it, whatever you wish to name the strange phenomenon), and being a complete klutz, capable of creating a SNAFU event in under three seconds. SNAFU, by the way, means “situation normal, all fouled up”, if you must know.

Okay, so how did I become a spy? It’s quite a lovely story, and I guess you need to know, since you asked. I was fresh out of university, and wondering what to do with my life (trust me, the options were very few, and even less palatable), when I got thrown into the spy business as if I’d trained for it my whole life. And I just think it was Fate getting its laughs from us that night.

I had just been rejected at my fourth job interview, the crime being that I was too unconventional, so I was walking home as dejected as I could be, when this middle-aged gentleman ran up to me and pushed a strange box into my hands.

“Keep it safe,” he said, “don’t give it to anyone.” He put his hand in my pocket and took my mobile phone, while he slipped another phone into my pocket. All this while, I was staring at him, my open mouth inviting flies to zoom in and make themselves comfortable. “I’ll contact you,” he said, and then was off, at a pace that, young as I was, I couldn’t hope to keep up with.

I was just telling myself why going to the gym was a good idea, when along came two guys, running. I was fortunate to spot them before they saw me, and so I threw myself behind a close wall, as they passed, unaware of my presence.

Scaredy-cat, you’ll say. What was so frightening about two running men? Oh nothing really. If by nothing you’re accustomed to people running around brandishing firearms as if they were popsicles.

And no, they were not cops. I can bet my non-existent life savings on it.

To be continued...

Thanks for coming!

That little boy,

@pearlumie