The Wager

I’m not sure how it came to be that we were having lunch together, just the two of us. Looking back, it should have been a tell-tale sign. Looking back, it would become the defining moment that made me question everything.

Long shadows were already stretching into the afternoon. The usual lunch peak had already ebbed, leaving the cafeteria in a hollow of emptiness. We chose a table by the window—away from the walkthrough, away from the echo of empty space.

True to form, The Old Man was entertaining me with one of his ‘back in the day’ stories. They were honestly quite amusing and always out of the ordinary. He had been a big deal once—running high-risk operations, setting the bar for new protocols and strategies. A ‘key asset to the Agency’ was a label he still wore to this day.

He held an endearing boyish charm when he told these stories. His eyes sparkled and a reminiscent grin pulled at his face as he embraced nostalgia. His stories always had an unexpected twist, which were told with firm enthusiasm. And usually ended with something just on the edge, something he narrowly had gotten away with, dancing along the lines of acceptable, or flat out clandestine.

He carried the weight of authority, even though it had been long since he had performed at any reputable height. He was in his final years before retirement, feeling entitled to the adoration he still received at odd moments from those who knew who he had once been. He felt he had earned it, deserved it. A slippery slope for one’s ego, as the events of that day would later prove.

He was in the middle of one of his stories, gesturing wildly for emphasis, when we were interrupted by one of the Senior Officers approaching our table. Both of them had started at the Agency during the same era, crossing paths frequently in their mutual dealings. Both comfortably suited in their longevity and speaking the same language of a soon to be forgotten era.

It was the way this S.O. moved that had caught my attention, even before I realized our table was his destination. It was the sleekness that distracted me just enough to lose attention of everything else.

He was quick to ignore me. It was in his character to look past those he considered lower in rank or unrelatable. I didn't mind— I’d rather be overlooked than forcefully have to interact. That was in my character. Something about him always felt... off. Not directly threatening, but unsettling enough to sense, even if I hadn’t been able to put a name to it yet. He was too fidgety, too eager. Like a teenager desperately wanting to share the latest juice, hoping to legitimize her position with the in-crowd. He clearly had something to tell.

Observing his over excited manner, as he continued to ignore my presence, my mind started to drift. Something had knocked on faint recognition, waiting for the door of recollection to open. What was it exactly that had caught my focus? It took a minute, but then it hit me. I held my breath to keep from bursting out laughing. Kaa! That was it! From Disney’s The Jungle Book. The rainbow-rolling eyes and that obsessed look. The resemblance was too striking. A tingle of both glee and shame for my childish interlude crept through my body. I already felt a smile pulling at my face and heard the brunette in braces giggle, thinking about the moment I would tell her the events of the day.

I kept a straight face and paid attention. Something was definitely up. I looked away to hide any expression that might have seeped through, and stared out the window, distracted and aloof. It was my go-to strategy for becoming unnoticeable. I felt blessed with my superpower of invisibility. It gave me the opportunity to observe, read, and assess in the privacy of my own thoughts, in the solitude and safety of my own space.

His insecurities were amplified by his miscalculated comfort and underestimated disregard—something he was apparently oblivious to. The result of being out of ‘the game’, having been released from field duties a long time ago. One might say for obvious reasons.

The Old Man saw what I was seeing. He turned on his charm, encouraging the impending disclosure and savoring the underlying worship. He was already calculating how far he could take it, determining the direction, and taking position. He thrived on situations like this—the approval-seeking behavior so blatantly offered in adoration fed his insatiable ego. He would play along for the sole purpose of getting someone to say or do something they usually wouldn't do. Calling on tactics, finding common ground, making one feel secure, before outsmarting, or worse, humiliating them. That was his ‘game’. A result of too much field service.

It wasn’t the first time The Old Man had shown this side of his personality. He was always ready to play, always ready to win. He would purposely demonstrate how superior he felt to anyone or anything. The rules did not apply to him. He had become the ultimate self-proclaimed champion in a class of his own. It was a prerogative he owned, self-evident to his status, his longevity, and his achievements. It was a necessity, more likely an addiction. 

This was more than character, it was who he chose to be, a cultivated second nature. A way to kill time and combat the boredom of those years before retirement where he was holding the stature, but lacking the thrill. He coveted his newly discovered pastime, challenging his art of manipulation. Or, as the Agency called it, ‘subjective persuasion’.

My senses remained focused on what I was seeing. Their words reduced to a low murmur. Secluded by their ignorance and full of fascination, I remained still as not to attract attention to my covert observation. They were like little boys who had done something mischievous, snickering to one another about it. A youthful display of pulling up skirts or pinching behinds, came to mind. A display that would be answered with the shocked snap of a head as if in search of the offense, followed by a look filled with annoyance and anger, then helplessness and misplaced shame once the actual offender was located.

I never understood the irresistibility of it, or the humor of it. The motivation was questionable, but even more so the reward: a mixed reaction of anger and shame. Was it the scorned look that in some twisted way endearingly reminded them of their mothers? Was it a desire to feel seen, even when achieved in such a negative fashion? Or did the perceived helplessness ignite a sense of power and control, dangerously defining their characters as they moved into manhood?

With that familiar shock, I abruptly snapped out of my thoughts. The murmur had transformed into hard words—sharp, articulate, as if received directly through an earpiece.

"A bottle of wine?!" The Old Man shouted with a grin, feigning disbelief, pushing all the right buttons.

"That’s right. I’ll bet you a bottle of wine I’ll get rid of her." The S.O. countered, slightly twitching, his voice pitching higher.

I remained still, frozen. Sound took over, visualization started dissolving. Whatever I had been staring at was now a blur. My ears were ringing. I was still staring out the window, but wasn't seeing, trying to piece together what it exactly was that I was hearing. I felt a low hum coming from somewhere, tuning onto my nerves, making me alert of something, but I located neither the source nor the threat. The snickering and the gestures continued—louder, rhythmic, reaching their own crescendo.

I continued to stare at nothingness, racing to connect the dots, wired to not draw attention. Captured in this stillness, I absorbed what had been said and their conversation came together in complete clarity. They had just wagered a bottle of wine. Matter-of-factly. Over a fellow Officer. A female Officer. Of color. Like me.

Simultaneously, I heard a sharp "Shh!" hissed in my ear, as if breathed through that same earpiece. The unsung message that had been traveling through my nerves had finally formed into a single sound. A simple, but loaded warning demanding my full attention and keeping me frozen in stillness and silence.

The laughter died down, in a winded manner, yet still floating on an exhale of collective savor and smug. It was perceptible, like toxic fallout drizzling down around us. Around me. It made the hairs on my arms and neck stand up. And in that very moment, The Old Man leaned back in his chair, draped one leg over the other, turned and looked straight at me. Still cloaked in smug, with a crooked smile and a taunting look. He knew I had heard. And had understood. He relished my frozen state, thrilled with himself, savoring his latest twist, eyeing me as his next prey. Waiting patiently for movement, for sudden flight—waiting to strike.

He would be gone soon, I consoled myself. And with him the psychopathy.

Little did I know…

Work, travel, and everything in between once again took over, consuming time and energy, taking hold of the present, rapidly shifting away from the past. Routine came back and things were back to normal. Or at least that’s what I told myself. Repeatedly, for some unexplainable reason. The days rolled by, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing was happening. Each day merging into the next, dissolving distinction, and further disillusioning me into believing that everything was actually back to normal. I soothed myself, told myself I had read more into it than there was—‘Boys will be boys.’ Or at least, that’s what I desperately wanted to believe. Even with my rationalization in a headlock, something still kept me cautious, prepared, pre-occupied. The dust had settled for now, but it would prove to be the quiet before the storm.

I hadn’t seen him coming, but there he was again, once again so full of excitement that spit had collected in the corners of his mouth. He had moved in from a blind spot—typically. I immediately equaled his disregard and retreated into my familiar state, staring blankly at the center of the table, avoiding yet another scene playing out in front of me. The words literally spat out of his mouth: ‘I did it, she’s gone’, followed by what sounded like a desperate climactic gulp of air.

He couldn't contain his movements, twitching and fidgeting with exhilaration. Instantly I understood. The targeted female Officer had left on her own account. Details of her departure were spared, but his involvement was clear and victoriously claimed in the recollection of the bargained bottle of wine. Again I froze, dumbfounded by what I knew, viciously refusing belief. The whole scene felt suffocating, and was once again cloaked in smug and snickers, erratic movements and toxic fallout. But now, it was topped off with an alarming manic lolling back of heads and knee slapping in triumph.

My nerves tensed, my breathing shallowed. I entered a new level of heightened alertness, a new state of being that would not fade away any time soon. This was no longer just a joke. This was no longer locker room banter. This was real. 

About the Author

After 2020 rewrote my life when medical challenges brought my professional career to a close, I shifted focus to a purpose-driven life. Now dedicated to personal development and reflective expression, I believe that while we don't always choose our opening lines, we always hold the pen for the chapters that follow.