When some people wake up from a long night at the bar, they might attempt to solve their hangover with the following concoction: Gatorade, caffeine, spicy food, and Advil. The theory is that if you dilute, stimulate, and numb, you’ll have rid yourself of the toxins just in time for that Advil to wear off. That is, unless you’re still drunk, in which case you might want to postpone your treatment until later in the day.
It was this very theory that was being discussed between three college roommates, all on their way to a local coffee shop to fulfill at least one part of the proposed four-prong hangover solution: caffeine. A debate was in progress between two of the roommates: Roger and Randy. Roger, the most heavily afflicted from last night’s forays, contended that sleep was the only cure for a hangover. Probably the soberest of the three, Randy, was of a different impression: keep drinking, then slowly wean yourself off until its bed time again.¹ Roger was of the belief that he and Randy were actually in agreement, in a way, considering Randy’s solution led to Roger’s solution. Randy, the ever contrarian, disagreed, believing that sleep only slowed down the detox process.
They agreed to disagree. Everyone had their own remedy. Needless to say, Randy had had two beers before leaving the house and “felt spry.”
Joe, the fearless leader of the bunch, was content to listen to the goof balls debate as he thought about where he might have left his credit card last night: was it at the expensive, dress-code-requiring, dance club where we started the night or the almost-free, dress-optional dive bar where finished the evening? He figured it couldn’t have been any of the bars in between because he distinctly remembered others buying him drinks until getting to the dive bar. Also, he did not want to expand his inquiry at the moment; it only increased growing anxiety. Panic was starting to set in. Given his level of intoxication last night, he could have easily given it to a panhandler on the street and said “the credit limit is twelve-thousand dollars. Go nuts.” Who knows?
Roger looked over at Joe as they entered the hip, faux-rustic coffee/wine shop (Joe thought it smelled like hippy).
“Oh, Joe, I forgot to tell you,” Roger said, stopping mid-sentence in his continuing debate with Randy. “I have your credit card. You were trying to flush it down the toilet last night just after evacuating your taco pizza.” He handed Joe the card.
“Oh, thank God,” Joe said, knees nearly buckling from the relief. “I was really starting to freak out. Thanks, man. I guess coffee’s on me, Gents.”
Randy chimed in with a snarky comment. “And it’d be regurgitated Taco Bell on you if you hadn’t changed shirts.”
Both Randy and Roger snickered.
“Keep it up and you’re buying,” Joe said to Randy.
Randy, currently unemployed and up to his ears in student loan debt, went silent.
***
The line was short, so they were able to order quickly. Soon, they were all seated at a small table near the door. They decided to drink their coffee at the shop because their house was still a war zone from their reveling.
Stories from last night were swapped around the table: Randy saw a guy peeing in the sink at one bar, Roger left a bar with an entire pool cue without noticing (the Taco Bell cashier was confused, yet not remotely surprised when they walked in pretending the cue was a light saber), and Joe…well, Joe hit on a man by accident (the guy had long hair and was a bit on the Goth side). Everyone seemed to be in good spirits.
Once the stories were over, however, an almost-awkward hush fell over the table. Each was deep inside their own conscience trying to determine what they might have done wrong—that booze can make you feel guilty even when you don’t do anything wrong.
While they all sat silently sipping their coffee and dreaming up some nonexistent embarrassing moment, a man entered the coffee shop—but not just any man. This man was pushing a peculiar empty stroller. No one was with him. He had barely-visible graying hair, a green sweater, and jeans. The man was immediately spotted by Roger, Randy and Joe. Intrigued, they each looked at each other with upturned eye brows and slight smirks. They all leaned in. Joe spoke first.
“You guys thinking what I’m thinking?” Joe said.
“Yeah,” Roger said. “Why would someone be pushing an empty stroller? Do you see any kid?”
Randy, now feeling the effects of the coffee/bargain beer combo, had an idea. “It does seem a bit mysterious, don’t you think?” he said.
Roger and Joe saw the look in his eye and were immediately struck with curiosity. What could he possibly be thinking? Knowing Randy, it was nothing ordinary.
“What did you have in mind?” Joe said.
“Yeah, c’mon,” Roger said, feigning interest. “Did he kill JFK?”
Randy smiled for a moment, then his face hardened. He then proceeded to tell Joe and Roger his idea. The conviction in Randy’s telling made the other two think Randy had been waiting for this man to enter, so he could tell this very story. Randy began.
“You see, I’ll bet his name is Sergeant Ryan Braddock—“
“Jesus, that’s rather specific, wouldn’t you say?” Joe said, Chuckling.
“Let him finish,” an already captivated Roger said to Joe. “C’mon, out with it,” he said, urging on the buzzed Randy.
“Well, as I was saying, his name is Sergeant Braddock. You see, he wasn’t always Sergeant Braddock. Before the marines he was just Ryan to his heartless father and drug addict mother.”
The other two were chuckling, but Randy remained deadpan.
Randy continued as the man with the stroller began ordering his coffee. “Ryan, Sergeant Braddock, was a three sport athlete in high school—anything to delay his having to go home to the bayou-shed he called home. Did I mention he’s Cajun? Anyway, he did real well in school and sports and ended up being offered a full scholarship at the University of Arkansas to play football—I think he was slated to play outside linebacker.”
At this point, the other two guys were putting their hands over their mouths, trying not to laugh too hard. Randy just kept pouring it on.
“But Ryan, as he was called before the service, feeling as if Arkansas was too close to home, enrolled in the marines. Given his fitness and intelligence, boot camp was easy. He ended up doing one tour in Afghanistan—no doubt taking sniper fire in the Korengal Valley–, and another taking down Saddam. He was on the fast track toward becoming career military.
“At this point, you might be wondering ‘what does this have to do with the damn stroller?’ Very good question, gentlemen. I’ll get there is due time.
“Well, everything was looking good for Sergeant Braddock…until the incident.”
The other two guys had stopped laughing and were now captivated by the story. The man with empty stroller had now received his coffee and was moving toward a table that was across the wide expanse of the shop floor. Randy, Roger, and Joe all had a view of the man as Randy continued his story.
Randy leaned in closer and continued. “Well, it was awful. Really tugs at your heart strings. Fast forward six months and Sergeant Braddock was leading a secret recon mission south of Baghdad. He was told by the higher-ups that intelligence had found a high priority target—probably Saddam himself for all he knew.
“I hate to say this, fellas, but it didn’t end well. Braddock’s team ended up infiltrating the wrong house based on bad intelligence. What made matters worse, was that Sergeant Braddock, gun drawn, came upon a boy toting a toy gun—he was no older than six. In the heat of battle and in the thick of darkness, tragedy struck. He shot the boy, killing him instantly.”
“That is some heavy shit, man,” Joe said. “But you still haven’t explained the stroller.”
Randy anticipated the question. “That’s the thing, guys. He was never able to recover from seeing that dead kid. Since then, he was honorably discharged and thereafter became a Mattress Salesman. He figured he wouldn’t be able to hurt any more children in a mattress store. I tend to agree with him on that point.”
“The stroller?” a chuckling Roger said, urging Randy to get to the point.
“Ah, yes,” Randy said. “Every year, he has a private memorial service for the kid that he killed. What he does is he buys a stroller, loads it with C4 and rolls it down a hill and blows it up. A solitary tear drops from his eye as he whispers the boys name: Ibrahim.” Randy paused for a moment to reflect. “Sad, right? I’ll bet he’s on his way to blow that mother right now.”
Joe was impressed. “And how did you come to know all this? I mean, do you even know about his—“
Joe was cut off by Roger. “You’ve got it all wrong. I mean, you were right that he’s ex-military, but he’s no kid-killer.”
Curious, Randy urged Roger to elaborate. “Well, out with it then. I stand by my story, until otherwise persuaded.”
“Well, although you may have told the story more eloquently and with greater detail than I will, I think the reason for the stroller is simple,” Roger said. His voice was gravelly, due to his current state of dehydration.
“What’s that?” Joe said.
“He’s totally a spy.” The statement caused both Randy and Joe to roll their eyes.
Roger shrugged his shoulders and continued. “Hold on, hold on. Hear me out. Although Randy’s story is plausible”—he rolled his eyes—“it seems more likely that that stroller is used for espionage.
“After his retirement from the military, Sergeant Braddock started working for the NSA—you know, real James Bond stuff.”
“Oh, yeah?” Joe said. “That’s kind of cool.”
Randy remained silent and skeptical.
“Call me dumb, but I think that stroller is some sort of high powered device used for surveillance,” Roger said. “The trouble is that it requires a lot of power. That’s the way I see it.”
“Wait, why does it need so much power?” Randy asked, now slightly curious where Roger was going.
“What do you think an Airwave Lie Detector runs on, double A’s?”
“Airwave Lie Detector?” Joe asked.
“Yeah, think about it. Instead of needing to hook people up to a machine, this guy can park himself in a coffee shop and listen to some dudes from the Taliban speaking code about their next terrorist plot. It’s simple. He’s an operative. He might even be listening to us now.”
Each of them simultaneously looked over at the man, who was now reading a newspaper and sipping at his coffee.
“I’m telling you, he’s got an ear piece in right now. He’s listening for truths and lies from someone,” Roger said with conviction.
“Hold on,” Joe said. “Why would someone need a lie detector that can tell truths and lies anyway? Wouldn’t the terrorists just tell each other the truth?”
“Ah, good question,” Roger said, anticipating the question. “That’s all part of the code, fellas. For the most part, the Taliban code consists of falsities about themselves. But whenever they tell the truth—and only they would know that each is telling the truth—therein lies an indication that a code will be dispensed. So, for example, if each of them knew somehow that one of their daughter’s names is Rhonda or something, then they know to listen after hearing someone say ‘My daughter’s name is Rhonda.’ And once they tell another truth about themselves they know that the coded message is over. But, for the most part, the rest of the conversations are complete nonsense that are used for distraction. Luckily, that machine can tell when our friend, the spy, should start paying attention. Because it will show whether or not they are lying.”
“So, your saying that that machine helps that guy figure out a code that consists rambling nonsense interlaced with bursts of truthful coded information?” Randy said.
“Precisely,” Roger said. “Whaddya think Al Qaeda just sends an email? That guy over there is protecting our country from attack as we speak. I just wonder who he’s listening to.”
Each of the three guys looked around in all directions. None of them saw any suspicious characters.
“You don’t think he’s –“ Randy said.
“Observing us?” Roger asked. “I guess that all depends on what you’ve got to hide, Randy? You have been ‘going back home’ a lot. What’s that all about? Something you want to tell us?”
“I’m not a terrorist, dude!” Randy pleaded, now convinced by Roger’s unbelievable story.
“Maybe not,” Roger said, shooting Randy a suspicious glance. “But we are the only ones that know his secret, now. I’m just saying, we gotta be careful we don’t get poisoned or something. That’s what spies do to people that find out their secrets.”
Each of the guys looked down at their coffee cups and slowly pushed them toward the center of the table.
Joe’s head remained staring down into the table, deep in thought. Then he spoke.
“Maybe he’s not a human at all,” Joe said, raising his eyes to meet Randy and Roger’s. At the start of this conversation, this statement would have drawn incredulous faces, but now they all felt like anything was possible. Who was this mysterious man with an empty stroller? “I know this may sound a bit outlandish, but—“
“No, no,” a still-concerned Randy said. “I think I know where you’re going with this and I think you’re right. Keep going.”
“Alright, have you guys ever seen that movie where this ventriloquist is charged with a murder, but it turns out his demonic puppet is alive and is doing the killing, using the ventriloquist’s body as a host for its sadistic deeds?”
“I think I saw that one,” Roger said. “Pretty freaky. The doll had total control of the guy’s body when they were connected to one another.”
“Yeah, well, how about this guy?” Each of them looked over at the man wearing the green sweater. His right hand sat lightly gripping the stroller handle. “Have you noticed that he doesn’t remove his grip from the stroller?”
“Holy shit!” Randy said, turning with wide eyes to face Joe. “I didn’t notice that before.”
“Yeah, exactly,” a concerned Joe said. “How do we know that that stroller’s not some Alien life-form or demon that has taken control of that poor man? How do we know it’s not some parasite, moving from host to host, sucking the life out of each one; that poor man is that damn stroller’s protein shake. I’m telling you, you guys may have been right about the military and government stuff, but I think there is something more going on here, beyond military or even NSA. Maybe this guy is part of an extraterrestrial or paranormal program. I’m telling you, that stroller is a secret that the government does not want us to know about.”
As Joe finished his explanation, the man took one final sip of coffee (with only his left hand) and stood up.
“Uh, here he comes,” Randy said, nervously. “Don’t make any eye contact.” They all turned to face each other and put their heads down.
The man began pushing the stroller toward the door. In his peripheral vision, Joe noticed that the man had a piece of paper in his hands. As the man walked by he put the piece of paper on their table. Randy, Roger, and Joe all flinched slightly when his left hand passed into view. Moments later, the man pushed the stroller out the door. Then, the door closed and he was gone.
They each stared down at the paper and saw that something was written on the other side. Timidly, Joe flipped it. Written on the paper were three lines of text. Randy, Roger, and Joe were shocked by the words on the page:
His name was not Ibrahim.
Don’t fly to Chicago this weekend.
It only lets me drink coffee. I’m so hungry. Please help!
They all looked up in amazement. The man had just confirmed not one but all of their wild speculations. Could it be true? Was the man really an ex-marine-spy-alien-host body? Each of them was speechless.
After a minute and as they were still dazed by the strange message, one of the coffee shop workers walked by—a cute blond, wearing mostly black that was covered by a white apron. Joe had to ask her if she knew the man. If he drinks coffee a lot, maybe he comes here often.
“Excuse me,” Joe said in the direction of the Blond woman.
She stopped and came over to their table. “Hi, how can I help you?”
“Well, see…we had this…kind of a bet going,” Joe said, dumbly.
“Now’s not the time, guys,” the girl said, implying that she was not in the mood to be hit on.
“No. No. No. It’s not that,” Joe said. “It’s just that…well, we were wondering if you knew that guy that just left–the one in the green sweater with the empty stroller? One of us thought we knew him, but we weren’t sure.”
She thought for a moment then her eyes lit up. “You mean, Mr. Anderson? He’s such a nice guy. Yeah, I know him.”
“You do know him?” Joe said.
“Of course, he comes in here every day,” The girl said. “I’ve talked to him a few times. Apparently, he sells furniture or something. I don’t know. Seems to do pretty good for himself.”
Randy, Roger, and Joe exchanged glances. Randy lipped the words “mattress salesman.”
“That’s not it,” Joe said. “You know anything else?
The girl nodded. “I know that he used to be in the military…but he doesn’t really like to talk about that. I just noticed because he came in wearing his uniform one time. Might have been at a funeral or something. Not quite sure.”
The guys looked at each other again, growing more nervous. Randy balled his hands together then quickly brought them apart, making a small explosion sound in the process.
“Sorry about all the questions,” Joe said. “One more: does he always have that stroller with him? Is it always empty?”
The girl smiled, then chuckled. “Kind of weird, right? I asked him about that one day.”
“Really?” Randy said, unable to contain his interest. “What did he say?”
“Yeah, what’s the deal?” Roger said. They all sat eagerly awaiting her response. In a way, girl knew what they wanted to know and purposefully paused for a moment to build the tension. It was as if she too had thought up some crazy theory as to why a man would be pushing an empty stroller.
“Turns out,” she said. “His son is deaf and every day he takes him to this specialist that teaches him how to speak and use sign language.”
The guys were confused.
“Deaf son?” Joe said.
“Yeah,” the girl said. “The specialist is next door. He and his wife swap break times, so Mr. Anderson comes over to either grab coffee or to briefly sit here and practice what his son is learning. You know, to be supportive. I guess the office is small, so, when he can, he brings the stroller with to clear up room.”
“Wait, practice?” Roger said. “I thought his son was learning speech and sign language? Is he deaf too?”
The girl smirked, then leaned in. “No, in addition to sign language, Mr. Anderson has taken it upon himself to learn something else his son is being taught: lip reading. What a great Dad, huh?”
Randy, Roger, and Joe were speechless. The girl, knowing that her job was done, walked away with a pleasant smile on her face.
“So he—“ Randy said, but couldn’t get the words out. He was still flabbergasted as to what just happened.
“He was watching us this whole time,” Roger said.
“He was fucking with us,” Joe said.
A smile sprouted on each of their faces and they began laughing. They had been duped.
“What a cool dad,” Randy said.
***
They each finished their un-poisoned coffee and departed the shop. On the way back to their house, Joe pulled out his cell phone and noticed he had a new text message; it was from his mom.
Remember to call your father, the message said.
“Do you guys have any idea why my mom would want me to call my dad?” Joe said to Randy and Roger. They were both back to debating hangover cures.
They both thought for a moment. Randy, Roger, and Joe each gasped simultaneously and said “Father’s day.”
-End-
¹He called this the “Cash Treatment,” appropriately inspired by the first few lines of Johnny Cash’s Sunday Morning Comedown. The lyrics are as follows:
Well I woke up Sunday morning
With no way to hold my head, that didn’t hurt
And the beer I had for breakfast wasn’t bad,
So I had one more for dessert.
Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes
And found my cleanest dirty shirt.
Then I washed my face and combed my hair
And stumbled down the stairs to meet the day.
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