So it wouldn’t surprise you when one day while watching television, I opened the door to a stranger.  He buzzed my apartment asking to use the bathroom, and I was glad to oblige.  Now that I think of it, he could have asked somebody on the first floor rather than on the third, but karma works oddly sometimes.  The man was dressed in a dark trench coat, black hat casting shadows on his eyes.  He was soaking wet even though there had been no rain all day.

            After I opened the door, the man took an appraisal of what greeted his eyes and took a step inside, past me. “Terrible storm, a knocker eh?  The name’s Smith,” he said, chomping on a cigar.

            “Hello, I’m Rodger Deforielli,”

            “Whatsa?” 

            I sounded my name out for the strange man, and he remarked, “Italian eh?”

            “Well, my wife is.  Aren’t you going to go to the bathroom?” I asked, curious to what the hell he was doing.

            “In due course,” he was quite inquisitive, “What did you say you do for a living, kid?”

            “I run the servers for a Wall Street Firm,”

            “Eureka!  I could use a kid like you,”

            “What for?” I asked.  The man suddenly laughed a great deal and made his way toward my bathroom.  I hadn’t told him where it was.  “That’s on a need-to-know basis, kid, but you’ll get paid well.  I promise you that,” he said, through his laughter.

            A thousand possibilities flashed through my head.  Was he a spy?  A notorious con man?  I had to find out.  However, as soon as the man had finished in the bathroom, he said, “I’ll be seeing you, kid.”

            He left, but not before pointing in the bathroom.  As soon as the door closed, I dashed in the room, and found an address written on a yellow stationary note.  It was to a quiet part of Manhattan.  The mysterious note also read, “Tomorrow – 6:00 PM”

            I spared no time memorizing the address and shredding the note.  When my wife returned home she could perceive my excitement, but I simply could not tell her the cause.  I remained awake that night, pondering Smith’s secrets.  My life had been a series of choices; I had made the easy ones and ended up fulfilling a merely boring existence.  Here was my chance to make up for all of that, and I was ready to go to Djibouti if they wanted me there.

            I sat at my work desk the next day, staring at the computer.  Meaningless numbers and symbols had comprised my life – now was my chance for escape.  It would surely be no surprise that I failed to complete anything of substance.  My most engaging task that day would surely have been the rapid tapping of my foot.

            Arriving at the address a half hour early, I was forced to pace in front of the position for some time.  The building was the perfect place for a safe house.  It was discreet, and almost rundown, but I only think it looked that way only because it was old.

            I furtively ascended the steps to the correct floor, and then tiptoed to the door.  I knew my future; my excitement was unbelievable.  Glancing at my watch, I slowly turned the doorknob and opened the door.  The room was dark and silent, but I entered.  My heart was beating like a percussionist slamming mallets on a bass drum.  Suddenly, the room was illuminated, and dozens of people appeared.  I jumped back, afraid that I had been caught.  “Happy Birthday, Rodger!” they all shouted, and I recognized all of these people.

            So I finally realized what my problem was; I had never really had enough motivation to get things done; the only people who could shake my stirring were actors.  What a curse!