Just Another Day in Paradise

 

“Excuse me, ladies,” he said as he strode down the hallway toward our room. “I’m with the United States Secret Service.” I considered the dark-haired, average height, average-looking man and waited for him to state his business. The United States Secret Service? What could he possibly have to say to me? “This is embarrassing, but I need to talk with you about a rather delicate matter,” he said as he flashed his ID and put it quickly back in his jacket’s breast pocket.

A friend and I had gone to Washington, DC for a long weekend, and had the good fortune to stay at one of the city’s premiere hotels, the Hay-Adams. Built in 1920 as a residential hotel, the Hay-Adams is only two blocks away from the White House—rooms with that view rent for a premium rate. In fact, the hotel is only a couple of blocks from almost everything that we wanted to do and see—another reason to choose it. However, to be confronted by a Secret Service agent outside my room was something unexpected. I had seen a similarly outfitted fellow standing at the end of the hall opposite our room, but had thought little of it. The dark-haired man standing immediately in front of me had ridden in the elevator with me several times, but I paid no attention. Suspicion was only remotely tickling the farthest regions of my brain; the situation was too inconceivable to warrant concern. They couldn’t possibly have any interest in me; I don’t even have a speeding ticket.

My friend—as if compelled by the tension that was already beginning to mount—suddenly blurted out, “It’s about the gun in the car, isn’t it?”

Well, to say the least, I was surprised at her lack of discretion, but the agent nearly fell against the wall in shock. “Since you mentioned it, yes, it is, and I’m glad that you said it because I didn’t know exactly how to bring it up,” he said, quickly regaining his composure.

You see, nearly thirty years ago, when I was a young woman just beginning an independent life, my father insisted that I have my own “protection.” Toward that end, he accompanied me to purchase a handgun. I know this sounds peculiar—perhaps something more appropriate for a son than a daughter—but my dad was Southern and “old school” and never intended that his girl should ever fall victim to some criminal. We selected a .32 for its comfortable weight and adequate “stopping” power. Ever since, I have never embarked on any road trip without my weapon in the car, both for my own protection and to prevent its being taken by a burglar during my absence. The trip to Washington was no different. The weapon was neatly concealed in a shoe box, which I had left in the car.

Upon arriving in Washington, and finally locating the hotel after several trips around the traffic-packed DC blocks, we had pulled into the drive, grateful to be at our destination and looking forward to our sojourn. I gave the keys to the valet; the hotel bellman removed our luggage; we checked into the room, and went upstairs. I never gave the unassuming shoe box another thought. After about twenty minutes, the phone rang; it was the hotel manager. He wanted us to come down to the car and place some “personal property” in the trunk for everyone’s protection. Busted! I laughed to myself and went merrily downstairs to comply. A dark-haired man had stepped into the elevator with me, but it’s a hotel so I thought nothing of it. After the deed was done, I went back upstairs (the dark-haired man again rode along). My friend and I had collected ourselves and went down (for the third time, the dark-haired man rode along) to discuss dinner plans with the concierge, Jack, who made great recommendations and offered to get reservations for us. It was upon returning from this foray that the dark-haired man made his move.

“You see,” he began, “we have a protected person on this floor and we just can’t ignore the fact that you have a weapon inside the District. God forbid, if something should happen, we would be in serious trouble for shirking our duty.”

“But it’s in the car—it’s not in our room. Do you want to search the room?” my friend volunteered.

“Yes, actually we do. Please wait here while I get a female agent. And do you have any ID with you?”

I stood by as the surreal reality began to unfold, and fumbled for my driver’s license, which I handed over. I was trying not to tremble—my God, the Secret Service wanted to search my room and was going to run my ID! I’m fairly certain that unless one were an experienced criminal, or a fool, thoughts of resistance in a situation like this would vanish like puffs of smoke. Trust me—the shock sets in quickly. I vaguely considered my fourth amendment rights, and why they had been violated, but that idea seemed small in light of the possibilities unfolding.

Another agent joined us and asked about the situation; the dark-haired man explained his progress. The new agent looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t mean to lecture you, ma’am, but it’s your responsibility to know the laws of each state when you travel. Did you realize that possession of a firearm inside DC is a felony?”

A felony?? Suddenly I needed to sit down. Of course I was well aware that laws varied by state, but I certainly never intended to cause any problems for myself or anyone else. After all, in NC . . .but, then D.C is not a state.

“There are two ways to handle this,” the new agent continued. “You can leave the hotel and find accommodations in Virginia where your firearm is perfectly legal, or we can contact Metro police, which will imound your car, and the gun andissue a warrant for your arrest. How long will you be in DC?”

“Through Sunday,” I answered. I couldn’t quite get my mind wrapped around what was happening.

The agents looked at each other. “It might take Metro three days to get a warrant and find you.”

“We don’t want to have these ladies arrested,” responded the dark-haired man. “They’ve been cooperative and have clean records, so there’s no reason to involve Metro. Let’s keep this between the agents in this detail and see if we can solve the problem quietly.”

Leave the hotel? And go where? I saw my entire weekend unraveling, especially the concert that would begin in only four hours that night. Of all the stupid things to happen! Imagine—if I had just packed everything in my luggage, no one would have known that the “protected person” down the hall was in potentially imminent danger, but in trying to be safe, I had unwittingly created a problem fit for Law & Order.

“Do you have friends in Virginia that could keep the weapon for you?” the agent asked. “Or Maryland—it wouldn’t be a problem there, either.”

“No,” I answered, “we don’t know anyone up here.” Except you guys, I thought.

“Couldn’t we just FedEx it home to North Carolina?” my friend asked.

“No, that wouldn’t work,” they quickly replied and resumed their internal debate of what to do.

Meanwhile, they left us standing under close observation in the hallway. Nothing suspicious about this, right? The female agent who had searched the room was my current “companion” and commented with some hint of admiration, “You sure are calm. I’d need a whole bottle of wine if this were happening to me.” Was that meant to reassure me? I don’t know if I was calm at that point because I was innocent of any true wrongdoing or if I were simply too dumb to realize the severity of my situation. I ventured a question: “Since we’re all friends, now, may I ask who is down the hall?”

“Oh, sure. It’s the President of Latvia. And our ambassador in Pakistan was attacked this morning, so everybody’s on high alert,” she answered.

Wow, I sure have timing! Why couldn’t I have this kind of luck with a lottery ticket?

After what seemed like an eternity, the agents let us back into the room so that we could pack. After all, they were going to make us leave the hotel. We called the front desk and asked the receptionist to find us a comparable room in Virginia and began to return our things to our respective bags. The count of the Secret Service agents inside the room with us was now at four. Obviously, we needed to be watched closely. Unbelievably, the phone rang. It was the hotel’s general manager, Gerard.

“I understand that you’re having a bit of a problem with the Secret Service. Would you like for me to come up and be a part of that conversation?” he asked. After agreeing that it would be a good idea (I presumed that he had experience with these guys), I returned to packing my bags. By the time I had everything stowed, the dark-haired agent came in and informed the other agents that the hotel manager had just come up and suggested that he could probably solve the problem for us by finding a sister hotel in Virginia that would let him store our property in a safe deposit box. The agents agreed to this, but they declared that they would follow us to the new hotel and make sure that we actually stored the weapon outside of DC. We were not sufficiently confident with this solution to relax, but we were beginning to feel hopeful that our weekend would not be totally ruined after all.

The agents further agreed that we could go downstairs provided we did not try to leave the hotel. When we reached the lobby, Gerard greeted us, apologized for all of the trouble, and assured us that he would see that all was resolved. He then invited us to wait in their grill, “Off the Record,” and to have some refreshments as his guest while he made some inquiries. The cute assistant manager, Mark, a Brit, escorted us there. When the waiter came over, the best we could think of to order was a glass of cranberry juice and a cappuccino—some desperados! Cheap dates. However, we were still convinced that we would soon be driving to Virginia; wisdom in some things seemed the better course of action.

We sat and sipped and watched the time slip away. Dinner was becoming a thing of imagination as the clock hands swept past 5:00pm, and then 5:30pm. The agent who seemed to think that calling Metro police was the better idea came over to our table and asked about our progress. We had nothing to report except that the manager was “working on it.” The agent reminded us that we would need to show them some proof that the weapon had left the district and he left us to our misery. We had been suffering under this ordeal for nearly two hours. The concert that night was to begin at 7:30. If we still had to drive to Virginia and drive back, we might very well miss the show. Not content to sit and continue waiting, I went upstairs and asked Mark about the possibility of a courier to take the offending package home. “No, that won’t work, but we should have an answer for you very soon,” he quickly answered. It was too late for “very soon,” I thought, as I returned to the grill to wait some more. The time approached 6:00, and unable to think of anything else to consume on the hotel’s tab, we went back to our room where we could be depressed in greater comfort. The phone rang—it was Mark again.

“We’ve found the solution. Would you please come down to the concierge desk?” he asked.

Once again, we rode the elevator downstairs, alone this time. Mark met us in the middle of the lobby. He was holding a FedEx box and a copy of the Washington Post. "Please come with me. You can pack up your property discretely—no one needs to know the contents,” he said. Wait a minute!! Didn’t we suggest that very solution in the beginning of this mess? Nevertheless, we briskly walked out the front door and down to the parking building. The hotel driver was instructed to bring my car around, which he promptly did. I quickly wrapped and packed the unloaded weapon, placed it inside the box, and sealed it, all the while apologizing to Mark for the trouble we’d unwittingly caused, while he apologized for all the trouble caused by the Secret Service: “We have to deal with them all the time. They’re not very customer oriented,” he declared. Once the deed was done, the driver returned the car to the garage, Mark took the box, and we walked back to the concierge desk where we filled out the air bill that would send the offending object back to its legal residence in North Carolina.

I suddenly felt as if a 100 pound weight had been rolled off my back. In fact, I was nearly giddy with relief. Gerard was once again there in the lobby to reassure us that everything was fine and to further apologize for the trouble we’d had. He affirmed that “Off the Record” could feed us efficiently and that the hotel would guarantee our timely arrival at the concert venue. Mark, the assistant-manager was sympathetic. He had seen Coldplay at the 960 Club in DC during their 2003 tour. He had never heard of them before, but became an instant fan. And this was in a not-full house. He had got to go backstage to meet them, too! "Did you touch Guy Berryman?" I asked. Eyes glittering, he nodded. "May I touch you?" As if he could have stopped me!

Giggling like school-girls, my friend and I returned to our room to collect our belongings for the evening. When we stepped off the elevator, we made the short turn to the room being used by the Secret Service detail (yes, they were next door to us for the weekend) and I knocked on the door. One of the agents whom I recognized responded, and I began to explain that we had taken care of everything at last and were once again plain, simple tourists in our nation’s capital. The dark-haired man came to the door and thanked us for our cooperation. “I don’t know why we didn’t think of that. We use FedEx all the time to ship our guns back and forth for repair and replacement. We just don’t tell them what’s in the box,” he added. I was flabbergasted: So why wasn’t that solution good enough when we suggested it in the first place? Then he laughed and said, “When you pass us in the hall, we hope you’ll be able to smile and wave. Besides, you’ve got a great story to tell when you get home.”

I scoffed. “We’re from North Carolina. Nobody at home will believe this story. I want some evidence.” I pointed at the small red star each agent was wearing on his jacket lapel. “I can’t give you that, but I do have something that you can have,” he said, reaching into his pocket and bringing out two small plastic packages. Inside one was an American flag; inside the other, the head of a jaguar. Both had the tiny symbol of the U.S. Secret Service.

My friend and I each took one of the lapel pins and hurried on to the pleasant part of our evening’s business: Coldplay was performing at the MCI arena in downtown DC and we still had to grab some dinner. The hotel made good on its promise to feed us and see that we made the concert on time. Of course, the show was terrific, and I only cried uncontrollably for a little while later that night, but whether that came from frustration, fatigue, or relief I couldn’t say.

The hotel staff more than made up for the inconvenience and demonstrated at every turn why they have a five-star rating. Moreover, I feel like I made a real friend in the assistant manager. I guess I must admit that everything worked out in the end: the President of Latvia never knew that certain peril was narrowly averted; we watched some of the filming of the final episode of “West Wing;” (Jimmy Smits' character wins the election.) I do have a great story to tell, and we generally had a wonderful time and fabulous meals. As for the Metro police—they never got a chance at us, which is probably a good thing: that very day, an off-duty officer hired as security for a local pancake house had shot and killed a teenager over walking out on the check. Those guys are a little gung-ho and I’m eternally grateful not to get the insider’s tour of the Metro jail.

For the balance of the weekend, we did smile and wave at the revolving retinue of agents dutifully guarding the President of Latvia, who caused quite a commotion every time he came and went, but nothing quite like the one we had caused. Some of the agents guarding the door knew why—others just nodded back as they whiled away their hours in paradise.

--Name withheld pending Secret Service clearance (Corricopatcat of "Ode to Deodorant")

This is really true and I have the pin to prove it!

Sorry but i'm not gonna read all that.

Sorry but i'm not gonna read all that.

 

No problem, i just thought, you know, it was funny, like, what some fans will endure to see Coldplay.:\