Fifth Column pt. 1

"You have to admit, it's a little thin," she said from the brim of her coffee.

How do you explain a gut feeling to someone, especially without using the words, "gut feeling"? Moreover, now that you've given actual voice to the feeling it seems all the more implausible.

"Yes, I admit it's a little thin," he replied, reaching up and rubbing his forehead.

"Stop doing that, you're making it all red. Is that why it's all red?" She winced.

He steepled his fingers over his own coffee and sighed. He had asked her here to lay out everything that had been bothering him and now it all seemed ludicrous to his own ears.

"Ok, I'm sorry," she said, "so you think there's a...-"

"Conspiracy," he supplied.

"Conspiracy at your work because of this little note?" she nodded to the small purple post-it note on the table.

"I believe there is- ok 'conspiracy' might be a little heavy-handed, but, I believe there may be something afoot, yes."

"'Afoot'? Ok, please continue, Nancy Drew," she smiled.

He folded his arms across his chest and took a breath, "I don't think I was supposed to see it, for one. I don't think the person who put it there ever thought people looked at that stuff."

"So, was the note meant for someone else? You said it was on legal documents?"

Ignoring her, he went on, "The person who put the note there is new. I don't think she's involved, but I'm not ruling her out. I could tell the file came from her in the first place because of the way it was tabulated, all these post-it notes sticking out everywhere. It made the file look like a weird bird."

Instead of rubbing his forehead again he started moving the salt and pepper shakers around on the table.

Now she was just drinking her coffee and resisting the urge to look at her watch.

"It threw me off at first, it was just so strange. I was trying to correlate the note to the page it was stuck to but I couldn't make any sense of it. In the end it wasn't important that this particular note was stuck to that particular page, it was just...random. Because I found out she recycles these things, she was just re-using it."

"Then where did it come from?" she asked, picking up the purple square, mouthing the words written on it.

"I know that it was written by someone else, another woman on that floor," he said.

"The stables?" she leaned back.

"I'm the only one that calls them that, but yes."

"So is this mystery woman in on the whole, um, plot to subvert the government?"

"I don't think that's the goal, and no, I don't think she is. She's just very close to the source."

"How close?" she leaned in, conspiratorially.

"I didn't ask you here to make fun of me," he leveled.

"Why did you ask me here?" she asks, looking around at the contemporary coffee shop with its metal finishes and bug heads hanging from hunting mounts.

"Because he comes here all the time."

"Oh," she breathed, mocking him, "The Source."

He nodded, "The woman who wrote this? She's married to him, the Source. But, I don't think she's even aware of just how deep the spiral goes."

"So, you wanted to come here to what? Order the same coffee as him? Get into his head?"

"No," he said, irritably, "I wanted to see...to see. Whenever he comes here there's always this guy here, too. He has a weird name, like...Banksy or something. I think he has something to do with it."

"With what?" she clawed her fingers into the table, "I swear to god you dream up this elaborate shit because you think everyone's 'up to something'! You are basing all of this on a note! Something that was supposed to have been thrown out and you dug it up and for what?"

"If you would just listen. Just the other day he, the Source, told me his conspiracy theory on mattresses! I think he was talking to me in code. Like, asking if I was a Red or something. And then, this! So he thinks (and I really think he believes this) that there's a conspiracy going on with mattresses, about how you don't need to flip them anymore and it's really just a trick for you to wear your mattresses out faster so you'll have to buy them more often. Well, it doesn't end there. He thinks the personal hygiene companies are part of some scheme to keep the proletariat down!  His wife makes their own soap! Don't you see? He's going for the establishment! He is trying to buck the trend in some fashion and this note, right here, is proof positive," he was whispering so furiously that other tables started to look in their direction and he was very uncomfortable.

She slammed her hand down on top of the note and crumpled it into a ball, standing up and composing herself, "Please, just don't," and tossed the paper into a metallic receptacle before she walked out.

He waited for the door to whisk shut before he walked over and pulled the wadded paper out of the trash, smoothing it out until he could read the words, "Finally, soap!" again. He folded the note into his wallet and patted it in his pocket, giving the coffee shop one last look before he stepped out as well.

He knew it was thin, that he was grasping. But there was something going on that she was either unwilling to accept or too dim to see. Or she was in on it.

He smiled, knowing he'd get to the bottom of it eventually, he just needed time.

"Finally soap, indeed, " he smiled and started walking back.