On the Way Home
After getting off the elevator and exiting the building, there were two suited up distinguished looking gentlemen standing outside. One was ruddy looking and spoke with a British accent that sounded like the Geico lizard—the gecko. I overheard him say, “Where’s that bloody yellow (cab)?” I freaked out, since I thought he might have been an English bloke from MI5—Britain’s military intelligence agents—the ones in Jimmy Bond’s league.
On the way back to my trailer in San Lorenzo, I focused so much on my rear view mirror that I almost had an accident. Mostly I was glad they didn’t decide to water-board me. Being that I can’t swim, I would’ve sung like a canary.
Once back home, I expelled a sigh of relief. I had never been so paranoid—even when high on marijuana.
As I exited my vehicle, my neighbor came up and greeted me. I gave him a brief rundown on what happened and how I was interrogated by the FBI and CIA. He said the CIA doesn’t normally get involved domestically; unless it’s an international incident. I told him it was an incident with international repercussions. Then he began joking.
He asked, “How many CIA spooks does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“Watch it!” I replied.
“I don’t mean black spies. I’m asking about clandestine, undercover subversives, commonly known as CIA spooks—no matter what their race.”
“Oh, well I don’t know man. How many?” I replied.
“They’ll never accept the assignment; because like most other spooks, they’d rather work in the dark”
After grinning and showing some teeth, his answer seemed to relieve some stress and lift my spirit.