I ran into Louise, a friend I hadn’t seen in many years. While she and I caught up with each other in the supermarket’s produce aisle, I asked about her son, Jeffrey.

“Didn’t you know? Jeffrey’s in the CIA.”

Of course I didn’t know. Isn’t that supposed to be a secret? Should she really be telling me that? Is he even allowed to tell his own mother that he’s in the CIA? That seems very indiscreet.

I’ve known Louise for many years. She’s a sweetheart, but I wouldn’t tell her anything I wouldn’t want to hear on the 5 p.m. news. She’s a chatterbox. And Jeffrey, as I remember, was even worse.

Jeffrey couldn’t keep his mouth shut on a bet. He was always the life of the party, spilling the beans on everyone to everyone. If he’s in the CIA, trust me, we’re all in trouble. Why bother to send out wedding invitations when you could just tell Jeffrey the date and it’d be all over town the next day?

They wouldn’t have to torture Jeffrey or hire a beautiful female spy to pretend she was in love with him to get info out of him. All they’d have to do is buy him a nice meal and few beers and he’d spill his guts.

“Last week he was in Paris,” Louise said, “Next week he’ll be in Milan. He’s says he’s going to Spain in October.”