It’s a Wednesday, the second day of my second year at the fruit stand. It is also Earth Day. Last year fruit stand employees were given green t-shirts for Earth Day, this year, we aren’t getting anything it seems. I am fine with that.
Yancy just left. It was nerve-wracking as usual but most of that is built up in my head. Yancy sits on the couch doing things on his laptop. I sit at my desk, a few yards away from Yancy being busy or at least, looking busy. The two of us did have a chat and I did use the word ‘pass’ instead of ‘badge’ which threw him in a slight tizzy.
I backtracked and corrected myself after being badgered about badges and found that he does not take eye contact very well. It seemed to throw him off somewhat. I stuck with that; his unease was somewhat empowering. He’s not a bad boss as far as I can tell, but I do try to keep interactions to a minimum. And some bosses are not so bad at first (Bobby Risotto), then the abused becomes the abuser (Bob Isacco).
For some reason, I did trust him, but now it has been years since there was any connection and that was minimal due to the pandemic. Even Samantha Winter’s death could not restore any trust for him, Bathhouse Bobby. My initial encounter with Bob Isacco was 24 years ago and his power trip, now rendered impotent.
Bob did look out for me, then it all went pear-shaped. His boss, Harold would harass him and since shit rolls downhill, Bob would take his frustration and abuse me or the work that I had done. It was funny in an odd way, when Bob was leaving the Algerians behind, there was a going away dinner and I refused to go.
He was put off by this and asked me to attend. I told him I couldn’t. He had treated me so badly and it would seem hypocritical for me to attend. The dinner went on without me though my image was photoshopped in a photo taken afterward. It was tacky.
Yancy and Robert. Who else? Rafe Dais, but was he my boss? He was the guy who hired me, and I did have a modicum of respect for him. His kid, though, certainly fucked things up, and I knew I could not get between a father and his princess daughter. Shahabudeen Khan was closer by location than Rafe Dais, and he ate lots of beans and farted mere feet away from my desk while watching cricket matches on his computer. FOr some reason, he thought he was my ‘better’.
Alchemy. Richard Lloyd. Dispensary on West 18th Street. Each time I walk past the dispensary, Richard Lloyd’s song plays in my head. Brings me back to WPIX back in the day. I bought the record, and it was actually the first time I had seen Jim Mastro on an album cover.
Google Gemini rewrite as a spy thriller
## OPERATION: ORCHARD
**LOG ENTRY: 0800 HOURS / WEDNESDAY / EARTH DAY**
Day Two of Year Two. I am still embedded at the Fruit Stand.
It is officially Earth Day—a detail noted only by the absence of the “Green Asset” uniforms we were issued during the previous cycle. Last year, we were marked in neon cotton; this year, the agency has opted for total invisibility. I prefer it this way. A ghost in the orchard is harder to target.
### THE ENCOUNTER: CODE NAME YANCY
The extraction—or rather, the inspection—is over. Yancy has cleared the perimeter.
The tension was palpable, a low-frequency hum vibrating between the crates of Granny Smiths. He occupied the sofa, tethered to his workstation, while I maintained my post a few yards away. The mission: **Look busy. Maintain cover.**
I slipped up once. A verbal glitch. I used the term “pass” instead of the sanctioned “badge.” Yancy triggered immediately. He spiraled into a tactical tizzy, a semantic interrogation that lasted far too long. I course-corrected, recalibrated, and then I found his weakness: **Visual contact.**
Yancy cannot hold a gaze. When I locked eyes, his internal HUD scrambled. He faltered. In the shadow-world of middle management, unease is the only leverage one has. I pressed the advantage. He isn’t the worst handler I’ve had, but in this game, proximity is peril. I keep the interactions brief. I keep the files closed.
—
### DOSSIER: THE RISOTTO LEGACY
I’ve seen this trajectory before. The “Bobby Risotto” phase is always a ruse. A handler starts as a protector, then the rot sets in. Before you know it, you’re dealing with **Robert Isacco**, the abuser-turned-asset.
My history with Isacco goes back twenty-four years—a lifetime in the field. I once trusted the man, but the connection was severed by the Great Plague and the subsequent silence. Even the termination of Samantha Winter couldn’t bridge the trust gap. “Bathhouse Bobby” is a relic now, his once-formidable power trip rendered impotent by time and shifting borders.
The mechanics of his downfall were classic:
* **The Catalyst:** His superior, Harold, applied the pressure.
* **The Result:** Gravity. Harassment rolls downhill. Isacco took the heat from above and radiated it toward me.
When he finally burned his bridges with the Algerians, he attempted a sentimental extraction—a “Going Away Dinner.” I declined. Attendance would have been a breach of my personal protocol. He was insulted, but the dinner proceeded. Later, Intel showed they had photoshopped my likeness into the group surveillance photos. A tacky move. Amateur hour.
—
### THE PERSONNEL FILE
The roster of former handlers is a graveyard of egos:
* **Rafe Dais:** The recruiter. I held a modicum of respect for his tradecraft until he let his daughter—a rogue agent if there ever was one—compromise the operation. Rule One: Never get between a Father and his Princess.
* **Shahabudeen Khan:** A desk-jockey who spent his days watching Cricket broadcasts and weaponizing his own GI tract. He mistook proximity for rank. He was wrong.
### SONIC TRIGGERS
I crossed West 18th Street today. Passing the dispensary triggered a subconscious playback—**Richard Lloyd.** *Alchemy.* Every time I pass that coordinate, the frequency shifts. I’m back in the WPIX era, scanning the airwaves. I remember the weight of the vinyl, the first time I saw **Jim Mastro’s** face on a sleeve. It’s a rhythmic anchor in an unstable world.
The Fruit Stand remains quiet for now. But Yancy’s laptop is still warm. I remain vigilant.
**END LOG.**