Fine. I was going to kill Isaac anyway. But after he made me wait, I made him suffer.
I checked in with the receptionist at 11:58 for my 12:15 interview. “He’ll be ready for you shortly, Mr. Gordon,” she said with a smile. Moments later, she left her desk, stopped at a door in the corner of the room and turned toward me. “Rise to vote, sir.”
“I’m sorry?” I replied, but she disappeared through the doorway without another word.
Should I follow? I waited.
Nineteen minutes later, this waiting room feels like a holding cell, my button-down shirt a herringbone straitjacket. My eyes dart to the exit. I could scrap this whole plan and return to what I know best.
But what I know best isn’t what I want to do anymore. Not since Otto died.
Otto Sisemen never tired of hearing his own voice. He spoke in riddles when he wasn’t rambling through another exhausting monologue. He was arrogant, annoying, absurd.
But also brilliant.
I pursued Otto into every shady corner around the globe for nearly 15 years. He was Mockingbird’s finest agent, and I was his shadow. He bested me as often as I did him, but someday, in some lonely alleyway or smoky Taiwanese bar, I knew I’d prevail.
Instead, a plane crash over Acaiaca, Brazil took Otto out. Lomiel swore Ajax had nothing to do with his death but I still wonder. In the meantime, I’ve been sleepwalking through these last 18 months. Without Otto to challenge me, the work is lifeless. As am I.
I’ve found myself asking previously frivolous questions: Am I meant for more? Is there a plan for my life? If so, who created it? How far have I wandered from it? Have I caused too much pain to find my way back? Would I even want to?
I tried pushing through whatever this was, recommitting to routines and doubling down on my work ethic, hoping the rigors of the job would soothe the tremors in my soul. Otto had been my enemy but emotions are the real scourge, rendering even the best operatives inoperative.
Yet my mind continued wandering, my skills slipping. I made mistakes that should have gotten me killed. Lomiel had yet to notice, but once he did, I’d be out of options. So I did what every agent does in a crisis: I formulated an escape plan knowing Ajax wouldn’t let me just walk away.
Planning my death? Easy. The hard part is what comes next.
I’ve been Brennan Baines my whole life. Now I needed to get acquainted with Adam Gordon, a marketing whiz eager for the next step in his career. I met with Baptiste, the best eraser I know and one of the only people I trust, to give Adam Gordon life. A week later, Adam was on Indeed.com with every other schmuck looking for a new job. Only Adam was looking for a new life.
The next morning, I received an interview request from Aloud:Live, a startup streaming service specializing in concerts and other live events. Chief Marketing Officer has a certain ring to it.
My fabricated portfolio sits in my lap as I take inventory of the waiting room again. The slate blue couch to my left matches the armchair in which I’m sitting. The lone window in the room supplies sunlight to the lanky ficus sitting beside the door through which I entered. Another ficus guards the door the receptionist entered 22 minutes ago.
I shift uneasily in my chair and feel moisture collecting in the armpits of my undershirt. Is this what being nervous feels like?
It’s 12:21. I regret not wearing my garrote watch.
“Mr. Gordon?” The receptionist reappears in the doorway. “He’s ready.”
I’m embarrassed by how violently my stomach lurches. I grasp my portfolio with clammy hands and stand to follow the receptionist.
She smiles as I approach. “Apologies for the delay.”
“No problem,” I lie.
“Would you like a snack?” she asks as we walk down a narrow hallway. “We have a variety of fruit, but unfortunately, no lemons, no melon.”
Who asks for a lemon? “I’m good, thanks.”
She stops outside an open door and gestures for me to enter.
“Something to drink? Water? Pop?”
“Coffee?”
“Mmhmm,” she replies brightly as I pass her.
The six blue chairs and gray conference table complement the colors in the waiting area. The words “Aloud:Live” hang on the wall, the massive logo backlit to attract even more attention. The receptionist approaches a butcher-block countertop where a full carafe of coffee sits beside a collection of drinkware.
She grabs a mug and begins to pour. “Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, please.” She turns and hands me the coffee. “I’m sorry,” I say as I take the mug, “I missed your name.”
She shakes her head slightly and smiles. “It’s…it’s Hannah.” She hesitates, then leans closer, her smile dissolving. “Most days,” she says quietly, “it feels like I’m not even a blip on anyone’s radar here. So thank you for asking.”
“I know the feeling,” I chuckle, thinking that someone’s radar is typically the last place I want to be. “Thanks for the coffee, Hannah.”
Her smile returns. “He’ll be in shortly.” She heads for the door, pauses, and turns back toward me. “I hope to see you again,” she says before shuffling out.
I settle into one of the chairs and take a sip of coffee. A speaker crackles overhead a moment later and a familiar voice echoes throughout the room: “Are we not drawn onward to new era?”
A grating laugh follows, one I know well.
Sisemen.
My vision swims and my eyelids droop.
++++
“Hello, Brennan.” Otto’s lilting voice rouses me, his narrow frame shimmering into view. How long have I been out? “I must admit, I’ve missed your rather ordinary face.”
“I wish –” Slurred words. Shake my head. Try again. “I wish I could say the same.” I try to move my arms; restrained. Legs too.
My vision begins to clear. I’m in the same chair in the same room. My coffee mug, having served its purpose, has been removed from the table. Across from me sits Otto Sisemen, his villainous grin taunting me from beneath a thin, graying mustache.
“Can I be transparent for a moment? This name you’ve chosen? Quite disagreeable. ‘Brennan Baines’ rolls off the tongue with ambrosial alliteration. ‘Adam Gordon?’” he sneers. “It possesses all the elegance of a pair of senile felines.”
“I would have run it past you, Otto,” I say, my tongue still lolling around in my mouth, “but you kind of died.”
His shrill laughter fills the room as he stretches his slender arms out wide. “I did, did I?”
I snicker. “What’s with the snot mop?”
Otto sighs and clucks his tongue, bringing his hands to rest on the table. “‘Snot mop’? You’re better than that.” He’s right. I’m rusty. Too rusty for whatever’s happening here. “Besides, you should consider your manners if you want to become my Chief Marketing Officer.”
“What is this, Sisemen?”
“I’m sorry for –” he gestures toward the restraints – “all of this. I needed to ensure I had your undivided attention for my pitch.”
I try to veil my curiosity. “I’d be on the edge of my seat if I could move.”
“I don’t doubt it, Brennan – let’s just agree that I’ll stick with Brennan, shall we?”
I shrug in response.
“For years, you and I matched wits, a maddening cat-and-mouse game that, candidly, stood as the highlight of my conspicuous career. And yet, sadly, my scheming and your thwarting amounted to,” he stares at me over tented fingers and raises one eyebrow, “to what, exactly?”
“I’m guessing you’ll tell me.”
“To nothing. No cultivation, no progress, no expansion. And why?” he asks.
I shrug again and shake my head. “Listen, Otto – you’ll need to drive this conversation because I’m still groggy and I have no idea where you’re headed.”
He sighs. “Because we negated each other, like a beautifully balanced algebraic equation. All the while making our employers wildly wealthy. And so, to them I said: No! It is opposition. Draw, o coward!”
I pause, replaying his words. “So, wait, you’re planning to take on Ajax and Mockingbird,” I nod toward the logo on the wall, “with a streaming company?”
Otto stands and faces the logo. “I love words. They’re so versatile, so trustworthy, so indispensable.” He turns toward me, his tone deliberate. “Sadly, they’re also endangered.”
“Words?”
He scoffs. “Yes, words! We were once blessed with the talents of superb scribes, profound poets and witty wordsmiths. Today?” His cadence quickens, his voice venomous. “We’re fed Twitter dimwits, blundering bloggers and nincompoop novelists who are utterly incapable of stringing two plot points together, who are far more likely to misspell ‘grammar’ than to actually abide by its principles.”
“Why am I here, Otto?” I ask.
Otto sits back down and responds calmly, “Your patience has waned since last we met. But fine,” he continues, leaning back in his chair. “You know what a palindrome is, I presume?” He stares expectantly and sighs when I remain silent. “My first name is a palindrome. As is Hannah’s, whom you met earlier.”
Understanding dawns. “The same backward and forward.”
“And rotator, racecar, tenet, kayak….”
“Yep.”
His jaw slackens, his gaze wandering somewhere over my shoulder. “Civic, radar, madam, deed….”
“Got it.”
“Pep. Pop. Poop.”
“Otto!”
He shakes his head and refocuses on me. “Yes, that was the first one I mentioned. Please pay attention, Brennan.” He clears his throat. “Phrases and sentences can be palindromes as well, such as, ‘draw, o coward.’”
I remember Hannah. “Or, ‘no lemons, no melon.’”
“Precisely,” he says, grinning. “Now, consider my last name: Sisemen. What happens when you read it backwards?”
The letters align in my mind. “Nemesis.”
Otto gently claps his hands together and giggles. “Yes. Wonderful, isn’t it? Some call that an anadrome but I find semiordnilap much more fun – palindrome backwards. And I’ve had you unwittingly calling me your nemesis for years. My own little inside joke.”
I examine the Aloud:Live logo on the wall. “Evil Duo…LA?”
His face lights up. “Exactly! That’s you and me! The Evil Duo. Of course, the name necessitates a move to Los Angeles. Or Louisiana, perhaps.”
“To do what, exactly?”
“First, eradicate Mockingbird and Ajax.”
“Why?”
“For failing to utilize our brilliance, of course. I know that Lomiel has watched you wither on the vine since my departure. That you’re bored and considering domestication.”
My breathing stills. “How…?”
He smirks. “You really are out of practice if you’ve forgotten that even the most trustworthy eraser is untrustworthy.”
Baptiste.
“Life offers no redemption for men like us, Brennan. You’re frustrated now? Imagine having a wife to placate and children to wrangle. No, sir – prefer prison.”
“And Mockingbird?” I ask, eager to change the subject.
“They had the audacity to request I either minimize my menacing monologues or,” he places a hand on his chest, his eyes ablaze, “eliminate them altogether.”
“You faked your own death so you could keep talking?”
Otto takes to his feet again, running his hands through his hair. “Of course! I shall never be censored!”
“Isn’t that a lot of work for a few words?”
“Not really,” he answers simply. “The worst part was losing all the frequent flier miles I’d collected on work trips.”
Shoot. I hadn’t thought of that. Brennan Baines is silly with SkyMiles.
“But,” he shouts, regaining his train of thought, “language is our most powerful weapon! Lest we forget,” he extends his arm toward me and slices the air with his finger, “there are no swords without words. Mockingbird expected me to execute their simplistic stratagems with no flair, no panache, no syntactical splendor. And to that, I said, ‘No sir – away! A papaya war is on!’ Freedom’s song beckoned and I acquiesced.” He pauses and briefly collects himself. “And now, Brennan Baines, it beckons…for you.”
“Me?”
“You can cage a swallow, can’t you, but you can’t swallow a cage, can you?” Someone knocks at the door and Otto smiles. “A tattarrattat. Enter!”
Hannah walks in, sets a stack of paperwork on the table in front of Otto and lays a pen on top before stepping back, her eyes on the floor.
“What’s this?” I ask.
He slides the paperwork toward me. “Please me by standing by me, please.”
“So,” I begin hesitantly, “I help take down Mockingbird and Ajax so we can, what, spend our days speaking in palindromes and…what’d you call them, semro…?”
He smiles again. “Semordnilap. And word-unit palindromes, and alliteration, homophones, homonyms, anagrams, onomatopoeia – a word that will forever be delightful to say. Naturally, you’ll focus on the espionage initially while we refine your repartee.”
I roll my eyes. “I have a headache.”
“Would you like a lonely Tylenol?”
“You’re a kook.”
“See!” he yelps, “you’re already getting the hang of it.” He begins pacing, eyes wide and words running together. “Hannah, we’ll need to connect Brennan with Chet Guy, our tech guy.” He turns back toward me, his breath short. “I pilfered Chet from Mockingbird so he’s classically trained – exploding this and laser-mounted that – but he’s also into all the cutting-edge gadgetry.”
He starts pacing again, more quickly now. “We’ll clearly have to do something about this new name of yours.” He considers a moment, then giggles. “What do you think about the surname ‘Nialliv’?”
I cringe. “Why not Jacques Strap or Poppy Cox?”
He stiffens. “We don’t deal in dad jokes and we don’t peddle puns, Brennan.”
“Roger, Roger.”
His eyes narrow. “Clearly,” he says slowly, “decision time is upon you. With whom would you rather work than me? Name now one man.”
Hannah is a blur, grabbing the pen from the table, spinning around, jabbing it into Otto’s neck and wrapping her arms around his chest. Dazed, he turns his head toward her, his eyelids wilting and his legs giving out. “My daughter,” he whispers. “You know, I did little for you, for little did I know you.”
Hannah gently lays Otto on the ground and pushes a button under the table to release my restraints. I stand as she holds her hand toward me. “Poison pen,” she says. “Like Dad said, Chet is classically trained.”
“Why?” I ask, taking the pen.
She glances at Otto, then back at me. “Because you noticed me. And because his blathering can be so burdensome. But you need to leave – he won’t be out long.”
“Come with me. Apparently I have a bunch of frequent flier miles to burn through.”
She hesitates, then turns back to Otto. “I can’t. He’s a kook – you’re right – but he’s my dad.”
I nod and step toward the door before pausing and scribbling a note on the back of one of the pieces of paper from the table:
Now, sir, a war is won. Thanks for the pen, Sisemen.
Submitted during round 1 of NYC Midnight’s 2022 Short Story Challenge.
Prompts:
Genre – Spy
Theme – Recruitment
Character – Frequent flyer
Photo by David Werbrouck on Unsplash
