C.I.A. Dave

Day 2, Coffee: The CIA man in his 50’s style Panama hat and aviator sunglasses called himself, “Dave.” He called his coffee, “Doris” and asked the same barista for her each morning as a matter of course. The fan rotated and it seemed to scatter coffee grounds and raw sugar dust into the air. 0800 and I was already sweating. 

The CIA Dave stared quickly at me with beady steel eyes then quipped to the bar, “Make Doris strong today, Muchacho, I’m taking her to Portland.” For a moment I felt bad that Doris, or anyone for that matter, had to travel in someone’s bladder. Then again, maybe it was a first class bladder and Doris was a happily coupled woman. The more I thought about Doris, the more I wondered if my coffee wasn’t too sweet, too watery, too unfeminine. 

I lifted myself to the bar and said more boldly than I had said anything, in a voice reminicent of my puberty but amplified, “ I’ll have Doris too, please.” 

Blank stare from the server. I could feel CIA Dave’s eyes on my back, heard a sound like a hand reaching for a gun. The fan came to a stop.  I silently ‘sharted.’

My chin hit the bar and I broke a tooth or two.  Warm blood pooled in the front of my mouth. CIA Dave held my head to the bar by my hair. “Is that enough Doris for ya, punk? Maybe you want a shot?” He punched me in the kidney and it crippled me, that is to say, my legs buckled. I tried to keep myself up by holding onto the barstool but I hit the floor. The gun pointed at me. “Maybe that shot wasn’t strong enough? Maybe you want another?”