Frank

“I’ll have the strawberry waffles.” I say. The waiter scribbles down my order.

“And to drink?”

“Whole milk.” I order this, even when it’s not remotely close to what I want. Strawberry waffles are far too sweet for my preference, and whole milk gives me the runs. But that’s not important. What’s important is that my waiter transcribes the message.

“I’ll have that out in a moment.” he says politely, taking my menu. I unfold my newspaper and scan the headlines for anything out of the ordinary.

From a bystanders point of view, an old wrinkly man sitting at a diner at 7AM ordering waffles and milk is nothing to be concerned about. What a bystander doesn’t know, is that this wrinkly old man has passed on key information about an ongoing investigation for potential terrorism.

Yeah, I bet they wouldn’t see that coming.

I adjust my ballcap and scratch what little hair I have left on my head.

A plain waffle indicates a shopping mall, while a strawberry waffle indicates an airport. My whole milk told the FBI that the suspect is caucasian, while the size of the drink indicates the number of potential people involved. 12 ounces, 12 people. A sizable gathering in which I believe requires further investigation. The waiter, of course, is clueless. As far as he is concerned, I am a regular customer who orders something different and very specific. It’s the chef who receives my order and understands to some degree what it means. The chef saves all of my orders and passes them along in the chain of hierarchy.

My glasses rest on the tip of my nose as I scan the newspaper. Rain drizzles on the diners windows, the sky the color of my wife’s gray cat. The smell of hot syrup and eggs lingers from the kitchen.

A bell chimes. A lonesome looking middle-aged man sulks through the front door, his hackles raised in annoyance from the rain, hands buried deep into his coat pockets. He grumbles something low under his breath as he slides into a booth a few away from mine. I hold my newspaper up a little higher.

When people imagine a good agent, they picture someone kicking down doors, confronting criminals with a lit cigar in their mouth while landing punches like Floyd Mayweather. What people don’t imagine is a quiet unassuming setting, where families gather after Sunday church for a hot breakfast and coffee.

I believe the man before me is my target.

I lay down my newspaper gently and begin to etch out my thoughts in the sudoku puzzle. I dare a few glances in his direction. Mohawk. I jot an ‘M’ in box one. Piercing above the left eyebrow. I mark a ‘P’ in box two. A blurry tattoo poking out above his shirt color. I mark a ‘T’ in box three.

Three days ago I witnessed a strange interaction between a couple of fellas and this man. There have been numerous reports of gang violence in the south-side of the city, an area in which I frequent to keep my memory fresh. From a run-down gas station window, I watched what appeared to be an exchange of illegal weapons in a dingy alleyway. There was a white van and three men. I recited the license plate number a couple of times before I scribbled it down on the back of my receipt in private.

I am certain the mohawk man in this diner was among the crew.

The waiter returns with my order and my teeth hurt looking at it. At least the glass of milk will wash it down.

It’s for the greater good.

“You got the day off today, Frank?” The waiter asks.

I clear my throat and instinctively cover up my sudoku.

“Yes. The grandkids are with my daughter today.”

“Nice to have a day off?” he says rhetorically, eyes on his notepad.

I glance in the direction of the mohawk man. “Yep.”

“Well let me know if you need anything.”

“Will do.”

The mention of my grandkids prompts me to pull out my phone.

“Grandkids coming at noon.” A message from my wife.

Guiltily, I scowl. There’s never enough time in a day, and I can’t explain to my wife that I am currently tracking a potential terrorist. As an agent, I cannot dispose of confidential information to my family. Unless I want them to be in harm’s way.

I need to use the restroom. I push off the diner table and exit my booth, but the step to the floor catches me off guard. Not being twenty five anymore, I trip and fall to my hands and knees. A few gasps erupt from the surrounding tables. The waiter rushes to my side.

“Frank, are you okay? Let me help you up.”

I wave off his help. “I’m fine,” I growl. He insists on grabbing my elbow. “I’m fine, leave, you’re causing a scene.”

He gives a concerned nod and backs away. I hurry to the restroom, daring a glimpse at the mohawk man again. He’s undisturbed, nose deep into his cup of joe.

According to my wife, I arrive home late, even though the cuckoo clock in our living room strikes noon the moment I walk in the door. She’s rocking our baby granddaughter in front of the television, watching her insipid soap operas. Our grandson plays with building blocks on the carpet.

“Hey bub,” I say to him, giving him a playful nudge on his shoulder. He smiles, then insists I observe the structure he built. I grab a few blocks myself and add it to his towering palace.

“Frank, did you forget the keys to the church again?” my wife asks, observing the key holder by the front door.

“Ah no - no I didn’t.” I stammer. I shakily push myself onto my feet. “Cheryl, actually arrived before I was about to lock up, and she said she would lock up for me.” I’ve used this lie before. Mentally I remind myself to start coming up with something more unique.

“Ah.” my wife says dubiously.

I flash her an uneasy grin. What’s a guy supposed to do? Between my time after the diner and coming home, I used it to track more information on my suspects. I am a volunteer at our church, however, I don’t go as often as my wife thinks. But I can’t risk telling her my actual whereabouts - strict rules of being an FBI agent.

“It looks like the clouds are going away, it would be a lovely day to take the kiddos to the park. And I told Cassie she could meet us there to pick them up at four.”

I nod absently. If we go to the park near the airport, I could get a quick scan of the area and report it back for my investigation. Plus, I get to play with my grandchildren and appease my wife. I call that a win.

Wooosh. I spin my grandson on the merry-go-round, the triangle sections the color of my heart medicine pills. He squeals with laughter, clinging onto one of the poles.

As he spins with contentment, I do a 360 scan of my surroundings. My wife holds our granddaughter on a park bench, her backside exposed to passerbys on the sidewalk. There is a cluster of trees and bushes over by the basketball courts with low visibility. A group of young teenagers are gathered around a trashcan at the far end of the park.

My wife breaks my train of thought.

“Frank, honey, let’s switch.” I walk over to her by the bench. She hands me our granddaughter, who coos with excitement.

“I think grandad needs a break,” she gives me an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “Being the best grandfather in the world takes a lot of work. I’ll play with Dylan now, you should sit.”

I smile at the gesture, but internally I’m squeamish. If only they knew the things I’m really working on - I think I would win best grandfather in the galaxy award. Plus, anyone who thinks being a grandfather is hard seriously needs to reconsider their work ethic. I’ve endured ventures far harder than play time for an afternoon.

My granddaughter grabs my beard with her chubby baby fingers. I stick out my tongue and she erupts with giggles. As she tinkers with the buttons on my shirt, I notice movement from my peripheral vision. The waffles and milk from this morning dare to make a reappearance.

It’s him. The mohawk man.

And he’s gesturing for me to come.

There’s a million thoughts racing through my head, but I force myself to not allow them to show in my facial expression. The worst case-scenario would be that mohawk man knows my real identity, and therefore, by holding my granddaughter and being with my wife in public, he would know the first people to threaten me with. Okay, calm down. Slow deep breaths.

He motions to a gun in his waistbelt, then puts a gentle finger to his lips.

Damn it.

Slowly, I ease myself off the park bench and follow him into the trees and bushes behind the basketball court.

Up close, I notice the tattoo crawling up his neck is a tree branch. I adjust my granddaughter so she is on my opposite hip.

In a low guttural voice he whispers fast, “I know exactly who you are and where you live. I know you have a wife and two grandchildren, so let’s cut the bullshit and get straight to business.” He wets his lips like a reptile. “If you so much as breathe a word about my crew and I, you’ll have to worry for your family’s safety everyday.” He pauses to read my face.

My granddaughter wines.

“How?” I ask.

His face contorts with mental gymnastics. “How what?!”

“How do you know it’s me?” I’ve been doing this long enough to know when someone is trying to call your bluff. Mohawk man is the real deal.

“I saw you staring out that gas station window, dumbass!” his voice raises an octave. “You witnessed the whole thing!”

I want to punch myself in the stomach. How was I so careless? I gather myself quickly and decide it’s time to deescalate the situation. I can come up with a better plan later.

“Look, I don’t want anything to do with you or your crew. ” I pause, and pull my granddaughter in closer to play my grandpa card. “As far as you know, I saw nothing.”

His body seems to decompress a little. His eyes flit from my shoes to my face like a snake, sizing me up, deciding whether or not I am a real threat. I can tell he has decided I am not when he takes a step back. He points a firm finger in my direction.

“You say anything, and you’re a dead man.” He jogs away.

The moment I sit down on the park bench, a crossroad appears before me. I could contact my agency and let them know about the situation, thus, prompting them to question why I was investigating without proper permission, or attempt to catch them myselves, knowing full well my family is at stake.

My granddaughter grabs the glasses off my face. She fumbles them, the lense cracking on the concrete. I sigh.

If there’s anyone I can trust with sensitive information, it’s my colleague Paulie.

Upon arriving at home, I close the door to the bathroom and lock it. I dial Paulie’s number and listen to the ring, butterflies humming in my stomach. Paulie’s been my partner in the FBI since I joined. He’s practically my brother. He would understand why I started investigating on my own.

He would never rat me out.

The ringing goes to voicemail, so I hang up. He’s probably busy with another case. I lean against the door and rub my eyes.

“Frank dear, are you coming to bed?” I hear my wife call.

“Just a minute, honey!”

I’m going to have to go rogue on this one.

The next morning, I arrive at the diner promptly at 6AM, and order a large plate of scrambled eggs with a pile of white toast, a side of hashbrowns and a black coffee. There’s no message behind this order. It’s simply my favorite. I check my phone again for any missed calls from Paulie, but there’s nothing.

My day unfolds with filing my evidence in my filing cabinets, calling Paulie a couple of more times to see if he will pick up, worrying about my family and their safety, and eventually making my way to the FBI agency office.

I stand in front of the agency's grand double doors, my pulse quickening in my veins. The thought of my grandchildren forces me through.

Everything is as familiar as the back of my hand. There’s the front desk, who greets me, there’s the water fountain around the bend in the hallway, a few security guards lingering in the break room, and the door to the final boss. When I reach to open the handle, a hand slaps mine away.

“Sir, you’re not authorized to be back here.” It’s a security guard.

“Sure I am, I have evidence on a case. This is time critical.”

“No, sir, you can’t be back here.”

“Of course I can be, here’s my badge.”

I reach for my agent badge, which sits tightly in my front breast pocket, where it always has for the last twenty years. Except when I reach for it, my hand comes away empty.

“Come with me,” the guard says, grabbing my wrists firmly.

I’m still trying to fumble for my badge as the security guard forces me to the front. “It’s here, it’s always here, I must have miss-placed it. Please, give me a second.” But the guard won’t listen. He’s pushing and shoving and I feel unsteady on my feet.

My wife is waiting for me in the front. She has a forlorn expression and I don’t understand. Did she track me here? This is dangerous. She shouldn’t be here.

She embraces me in a long hug. There’s tears in her eyes.

Did the mohawk man hurt her?

I try to ask her this, but she shakes her head ‘no’, urging me to be calm. She’s stroking my back like I’m a little child. Like I’m our grandchild. I want to slap her hand away, the repetitive motion is pissing me off.

When she finally seems ready to let me talk, I ask her the most important questions first.

“Are you hurt? Are the grandchildren okay?”

“Everyone’s okay Frank. It’s you I’m worried about. Are you okay honey?”

My breath catches in my throat. Me? I’m flabbergasted.

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I be?” I almost laugh. I point to the security guard behind me. “If anyone’s not okay, it’s this guard. I’ve been trying to do my job, but the guard won’t let me into the dang office…” I chuckle hysterically. “As if my job weren’t hard enough.”

Tears are streaming down my wife’s face. She holds my wrinkly hands in hers with such gentleness I feel like a melting popsicle.

“Oh Frank,” she whispers. “You never really left, did you?”

I’m speechless.

“You retired twenty years ago.”