R2JR
I was going to meet my friend, Jesse, at a diner on Route 17 in the Catskill Mountains of New York State.
We were going to do a weekend of camping, chatting and conduct some close-up diagnostic tests on the dryness of German beers.
When I arrived at the diner—yes, the famous Roscoe Diner that you may have heard about—Jesse was not alone and I hoped he hadn’t invited a friend to share our weekend.
He hadn’t. The man sitting with him had stopped to pick Jesse up when he saw him thumbing a ride from NYC. They arrived earlier and were on their second cup of coffee.
I thanked the man for safely delivering him to the diner and asked: “What brings you to this part of the Mountains?”
“I just headed north when I left the city,” he replied. “I’m wandering around on my day off.”
“Have you been in this area before?” I inquired, trying to be friendly.
“I’m not normally in this part of the country.”
I pondered the “not normally” part of his statement and guessed that he was some of salesman scoping out a new territory.
Jesse remained silent during our conversation and I figured he had already discovered all that was necessary to know about this person.
“So what kind of work do you do?” I asked, hoping I could end all the polite necessities; find out what product he sold; hear about his family; thank him profusely about driving my friend to the to meet me; say adieu; pay for the coffee and pie; and proceed to the woods with Jesse.
“Actually I’m a trained accountant.”
Wow—did I miss the mark. But actually—he looked like an accountant. A little chubby, regular average kind of guy, a little boring, who usually has a briefcase hanging at the end of his arm.
“Do you work for a large firm or are you self-employed?”
With his eyes looking down at his half-empty cup he answered as if was confessing to something.
“Actually, I work for the government.”
Talk about boring, I thought.
I guessed that he worked for the City in a 9 to 5 position checking the tax deductions of the salaried personnel.
“So coming up from the City you must work in the Municipal office building,” I probed.
“Nope.”
“Than you must be in the Manhattan Borough offices.”
“Nope.”
“County? The State?”
“He looked me straight in the eye and said: “Actually, I work for the Federal Government.”
“Cool—what department?
“Treasury.”
I went through a list of possibilities like the budget, tax, money printing, asset management—on and on. He said no to all of my guesses. I looked at Jesse who had a smirk on his lips and a glow in his eye which indicated that I would never guess what this fellow did for a living.
I realized that this guy was playing a game and I got sucked into it up to my nose.
Time was wasting and I wasn’t in a game mood so I pleasantly requested that if he didn’t work in any of the divisions of the US Treasury Department I had mentioned, where was it that he worked ?
“Well, I’m with Treasury but I don’t do any accounting.”
The game went on—but BINGO—I saw the movie and I went for it… and as outrageous as it seems, I blurted out: “Are you with the Secret Service?”
“Yesss,” he responded with conviction that inside he had suckered another person into his cat and mouse play. Secret Service Agent!
He gave me his card. It had a gold shield on it and was obviously authentic. You just don’t go out and have these cards printed.
Jesse sat with his arms folded and said to me, “You ain’t heard nothing yet.”
I was intrigued—I thought of how brilliant a move for the government to put a Secret Service agent in the body of an accountant.
But I was still skeptical and needed proof. He must have sensed this and said, “Let me show you something—it’s in the diner parking lot.”
We paid the bill and walked to the front of the diner.
He stood next to a multi-colored sports car and unlocked the door.
He put his hand on the door and as if it was a trophy elk that he just bagged he said: “You would never believe that this car has a twin carb, 460 engine on and interceptor frame with a rear split differential.”
No—I would never believe that.
He gestured to the rear of the car and we watched as he opened the trunk.
I’ll repaint the scene:
We are standing in front of highway diner on a Friday night with people walking past us in all directions and here’s this guy, a U.S. Secret Service Agent, showing us the contents of the trunk of car. The contents, as far as I could see, were racks of shotguns, rifles, pistols and boxes of ammunition. There were many canvas bags stuffed with who knows what. Before I could react he reaches into one of the bags and pulls out a short rifle proclaiming for everyone to hear:
“This is an Ousi and it’s small enough to slid into my pant leg or into my sleeve.” He’s waving this thing around and telling me and everyone else to hear about the fire power of this weapon and all of its wonderful advantages.
I shouted, in a whisper, “Are you nuts—put that thing away and shut the trunk. Someone might call the cops.” I immediately realized how ludicrous that statement was.
He ignored what I said, led me to the front passenger door and said, “I’ll show you something really cool.”
He sat in the seat, reached underneath and rolled out what looked like a very large but yet compact radio.
I noticed that the car had no rear seat—that the space was an extension of the trunk which contained enough armament to defend a small country.
He said, “I just got this and I can reach every where in the world on this, with clear reception.”
I was exhausted.
He shut the trunk and the doors and we leaned up against the car.
He was like a kid showing off his Xmas toys.
In an attempt to move out of the military phase of this encounter I asked again, “So what brings you up here?”
“I’m on a gig in the City and I have a couple of days off so I came into the country.”
“That’s nice,” I responded, “Lots of nice hotels and great food in the Catskills.”
"Oh, I never stay in hotels.”
“Where do you sleep, do you camp out?”
"I stay at State Trooper barracks. They have VIP quarters for special guests.”
I thought, It really is good that, on his time off, he’s contained in a place where he is out of reach of harming someone.
Jesse was looking at the sky with his arms folded waiting for this to end but not interfering as he saw that I was totally drawn into this unbelievable event.
I needed to know about his “gig”—just to tie all this up into a reasonable conclusion.
“Can I ask you about the gig that you have in the City?”
“It’s nothing—very boring. Three highly trained guys sitting in an apartment looking through binoculars into an apartment across the street.”
“”Wow” I replied, thinking that he couldn’t reveal who he was watching. Three Secret Service guys watching one apartment.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s a 24-hour watch and one of us looks, one sleeps and one goes out for food.”
“Do I know the neighborhood?”
“Sure—it’s in the Village—Greenwich Village. Best thing about this gig.”
“Why?”
“The food is really good and there’s always something going on down in the street that takes some of the boredom out of looking into binoculars for hours.”
Hoping he would just tell me, I realized that this was either a continuation of the tease or I needed to guess so it could be said that he never told me—it reminded me of a game we played in the 5th or 6th grade.
“This guy must be very important that you’re on a 24-hour duty watch. Is he alone? Is he dangerous? Do you follow him when he leaves the apartment?”
“When he leaves we radio another team and they pick him up.”
“Pick him up?” I questioned
He responded, “Just terminology—they trail him until he returns and they radio us and we pick him up. But he usually is with his wife.”
“His wife?” I felt I was making headway
“Yeah—they’re a couple. Boring, boring, boring.”
“How did you find an apartment directly across from theirs? Apartments in the Village are very difficult to get.”
He replied in his Federal Entitlement voice, “When we got the assignment and the address he went across the street to the same floor and asked the lady to move out.”
I was not totally surprised.
“You kicked out the lady whose apartment you wanted?”
“Don’t worry—she’s well taken care of and can move back in after we leave.”
“After you leave? Do you expect that will happen soon?” Feeling a little sorry for the woman who was dispossessed.
“Well, the guy is going on tour and his wife goes with him and we pick up and follow.”
The ice had cracked. “Going on tour?” I excitedly said. “Is he a famous actor or a musician?” My mind went to some star of Broadway or a musician whose case hadn’t been fully resolved by the McCarthy hearings of the 1950s.
“Nah—he’s a ----- dancer”
The ----- preceding the word dancer was a silent yet loud derogatory adjective that was jarring yet expected.
“Dancer!” I shot back and looked at Jesse.
LET’S STOP HERE A SECOND
I never felt that it was Jesse the Secret Service was watching. It just happens to be too coincidental. Besides, his apartment wasn’t in the Village.
My friend Jesse danced with the Erick Hawkins Dance Company. My wife managed the studio.
BACK TO THE STORY
I thought and thought and looked at Jesse for some clue.
“Do you know?” I asked Jesse
“Yes—I guessed correctly on the way up to meet you. We all know this guy was living in the Village. He was up to the studio saying hello to Erick who welcomed him and introduced him to the company.”
“Is it someone I would know? Is he in modern dance?”
“No” said Jesse. He’s in ballet—he’s with the Joffrey.”
OOOO—that hit home. Something I had heard about that had something to do with someone famous with the Joffrey Ballet. Jesse had given me a fat clue and the Secret Service Agent knew it.
I KNEW IT—it came to me after the thought process of reversing my thinking that the Secret Service was following someone who could be a threat—to the thinking that their job is to protect. They protect the President and HIS FAMILY.
“Are you watching the President’s son, Ronald Regan Junior?“ I proudly reported.
“Bingo,” the Secret Service agent said.
“You got it,” Jesse said.
‘”We don’t want him kidnapped,” the agent authoritatively responded, “That would make us look bad.”
“So, I take it that you figure he’s not a not a high profile subject,” I sarcastically replied. “Do you think of him as a Ballet dancer who is the President’s son or the President’s son who happens to be a Ballet dancer?”
He avoided the answer by saying, “At least our team doesn’t have to be at the performances.“
It was time to leave.
I thanked him for taking us through his career, telling him how grateful I was to meet someone so dedicated to protecting the family of our President.
“…and have a great time at the State Troopers barracks,” I goodbyed.
Jesse and I got into my car and proceeded to the woods with this unbelievable story.
Note: R2JR was the Secret Services code name for the project.