You need to have read my previous post in order to fully understand this one. (Go ahead, I’ll wait … OK, you’re back? Good. Where were we?)
This evening, after dinner. I’m sitting on the sofa, pajama pants on, The Dean’s upstairs doing baths. I’m reading the comments on my previous post when the doorbell rings. I decide whether or not to answer it, since we’ve been getting a spate of door-to-door salesmen lately, usually folks wanting to scam us for a new deck and handing us a poorly photocopied flyer with an 800 number.
I look through the side windows and see a woman with a clipboard. I open the door.
“Good evening,” she says, politely. And flashes a badge.
“I’m with the United States Federal Bureau of Investigations.”
So this is what it’s like in real life when the FBI is at your front door. As opposed to an episode of The Sopranos when Carmela finds Agent Harris on the stoop to haul Tony away – again.
Thankfully, I don’t say something stupid to my real-life FBI agent like, “Oh, I think I know what this is about,” or “I thought you might be stopping by.” Believe me, it would be typical of me to say something (many things) stupid out of nervousness. Because with the FBI on the steps and given what I just wrote about (remember, I was reading the comments to that very post when the Feds knocked) this was just a tad surreal. And nerve-wracking, which is not how one wants to appear when discussing matters with the FBI.
Fortunately the reason for the FBI’s appearance was not regarding the situation I wrote about earlier but something else altogether. (It doesn’t really matter … we’re all fine and, last I checked, still have our freedoms intact.) Still, I asked the agent to give me her contact information – “just in case I had questions” about our very brief conversation. Or any other matters requiring the FBI’s assistance.
Like getting The Sopranos’ theme song out of my head, for starters.