As the jetway pulled up to the plane in Atlanta I saw a couple of guys waiting on the tarmac. They were well-built guys and wore dark suits and sunglasses with earbuds. They looked exactly like Secret Service agents; I figured this was not a good sign. I only had 45 minutes to get to my connecting flight at the other end of the airport and I hoped their presence did not mean I would miss my connection.
As the jetway made its slow way to the plane I reflected on my only encounter with the Secret Service. I was in New York for a meeting when the Obamas were at the Waldorf. Every corner in midtown was occupied by several tall, unsmiling men in dark suits and sunglasses; they all had earbuds and were talking into their wrist watches. They were pretty conspicuous, although not as conspicuous as the armed snipers on top of every building.
Now, the plane door opened and the two men ran up the external stairway to talk to the flight attendant. She consulted her passenger manifest and then I could swear the two agents looked at me, back at her and then they all looked at me again.
As I got the suitcase out of the overhead bin I laughed at my paranoia, but when I walked out of the plane I saw the two SS men in the jetway. They approached me, still unsmiling.
“Are you Guy Andrews?” said the older one and, wondering, I nodded.
He grabbed my upper arm. “Come with me,” he said.
His younger, better built associate took my suitcase. “I’ll take this,” he said.
Heart beating wildly, I tried to figure out why I was being whisked away to an undisclosed location for questioning. First I remembered that on the way to the airport in Fort Lauderdale I drove through a yellow light on State Road 84, but it turned red when I was in the intersection.
In the next microsecond I remembered that I had just filed my income taxes and I tried to remember if there were any questionable deductions. Then I remembered that I was late getting Ali her annual rabies shot and that I had put my bulk garbage on the street a couple days too early and that I had texted my brother some not complimentary opinions about certain elected officials.
Then I got real: I have been watching “Law and Order” for decades and I know my rights. “What’s going on?” I asked.
The SS Agents stopped. “We wanted to thank you for your Frequent Flyer status,” said the older one, still not smiling.
“WHAT?” I asked.
“You are one of our most loyal Frequent Flyers,” said the younger one, and now I saw the airline ID hanging from his belt. “We know you have a tight connection so we’re driving you to your next gate.”
“We have a brand new Porsche waiting for you on the tarmac,” said the older one. “Ready?”
First I was relieved. Then I was annoyed. “No thank,” I said. “I’ll walk. I need the exercise.”
“But we have a Porsche waiting for you,” said the younger one.
“We’re trying to say thank-you,” said the older one in a hurt tone of voice.
“If you want to say thank-you,” I said shortly, “maybe you should start by not scaring the snot out of your Frequent Flyers.” They both stared at me as I took my suitcase back.
“And try smiling,” I said.
“I gotta run. I have a fast connection.” And I walked quickly down the jetway.