So yesterday, I was sitting at home in Hell's Kitchen when the door buzzer went 'bzzzzz
' and I said "hello?
" into the intercom, and a man's voice said:
"Good Afternoon. This is the FBI. May I speak to Stephen McKinley? Can you come downstairs now, sir?
So I stepped backwards and said to myself "what the #*&%$@^#%$*&@#^???!?!?!?!!"
I imagined a crowd of New York onlookers on Ninth Avenue outside watching heavily armed men unwrapping leg irons and a Gitmo suit.
"Dude! They're totally dragging off some white guy... yeah, I'm filming it with my new iPhone, so anyway, I was soooooooo wasted last night and this chick wanted to...
I invited the FBI instead to come upstairs to the landing, where they could simply execute me or whatever.
The slow, heavy tread on the stairs -- footsteps undoubtedly weighed down by leg irons and a Glock 9 mm -- revealed itself to be a twinkly-eyed agent who looked like a friendly uncle.
It turns out he was doing a background check and wondered if I had known someone who used to live in the building. I did not. I managed to squeak: "I see by your last name you're an Irish man like myself," and he stared into the middle distance briefly while remembering how his forefathers escaped the Famine. He could have used another wee Famine around his middle. Then he was off. I had locked myself out of the apartment. If he had stayed around to chat, he would have seen me jemmying the lock with my library card...
The experience reminded me of some wise words of the eminent philosopher, Random Someone:
"First they came for the Trekkies, and I did not speak out.Then they came for the Star Wars nerds and I did not speak out.Then they came for the Stargate morons, and I did not speak out.Then they came for the Babylon 5 freaks, and I did not speak out.Finally, they came for me... but I was off down the pub getting pissed and so they went home empty-handed.