A Source Meeting

The following is unedited, and written entirely during a source meeting:

The Atkins Diet would never survive in Iraq. This land is loaded with carbohydrates in all forms: rice eaten on bread eaten with chickpeas and lentils, this land is cursed to destroy my attempted anti-carb diet. This is day one of what I'm sure will end as a failed and foolish endeavor. Currently, a mid-ranking Iraqi Police officer sits across from me, behesting that I and two others devour the pot of traditional Iraqi food, a dish of rice with meat, chick peas, and seasoning. He sits and speaks of terrorists rocket attacks, murderers, and I wonder if I started drawing pictures would he be able to see? He is in no way able to read English, surely not my penmanship in an upside down scribbled mess of black ink. But if he could, what would he say? His language sounds of swallows and gulps. Of mumbles. He offers me a cigarette, some terrible brand I wouldn't smoke if I were blackout drunk, and to refuse would draw skepticism about my character. I take it, and hold the rancid poisoned air in my mouth for only a second, spitting it out with impunity. He steals a glance at me, and I have to inhale to keep the show going. This is my life as a source handler. It's always this way.

Snub the smoke out, start paying attention and get ready to spread more lies as cover. Who AM I anymore? He says something of interest, and I jump in with my questions, say my piece, smooth out the way I smooth in, fade to background again. Smoking, round two. My throat already feels scraped, rubbed dry and raw. I hate cigarettes and keep my head down to scribble words in hope I can dodge the offer. I do. Fucker opened a new pack, dragged one out, and put it in front of me. Round two after all. All I can think of is working out, how my drive to lift and run and strain and groan will be diminished from the smoking and eating. I had lunch before I came. Shit. Suddenly it becomes food round two. He eats, so we eat, or he berates us. I take a bite and taste the smooth warmth of fat, the flavor is lamb. If I could, I'd spit it out, focus on my diet and exercise. My stomach is tight from the volume of rice and bread we spoon out of a communal pot onto our plates, but the act of eating trumps the ability to smoke, and for this, I'm glad.