Chapter 2
The Edward Kennedy Clandestine National Monument was a small but sturdy
park bench made from a slab of smooth, white marble, engraved with twelve
enumerated things I hadn't ever bothered to read, in a hidden glen overlooking
the Potomac. Although the Federal Government denies its existence, it was
erected, or built, rather, to honor Senator Kennedy's heroic and highly
classified achievement of thwarting the mission of a superbly trained and
potentially deadly Polish infiltrator, all the while knowing there might
be great danger to his own life and great damage to his career and '62 Oldsmobile.
I come here to think. I come here for the solitude. I come here to think
about my solitude.
"Let's get this over with," I soberly suggested. Then I winced,
realizing the disrespect I might have just displayed to the spirit of this
shrine by suggesting anything in such a manner.
We walked down the seldom used path towards a remarkably nondescript black
car marked "Secret Service." As she drove us away, my mind was
whirring like a perfectly greased bicycle pedal that had been spun around
quickly on purpose in order to test spinfullness, as if that proved anything,
while the bicycle was upside down in order to make it easier to make greasier.
I had to plan a course of action. I needed some answers.
"Who were the five other people that where with you?" I asked,
off-handedly. I stir things and write with my right, and I'm just a bit
less deft with my left, but I am ambidextrous while off-handed.
"Five? There was only one guy, and I'm not even going to let you know
that. Please don't mistake me for an unprofessional. I've been trained by
the best," she said, right before drawing her lips in tightly.
Aha. One question answered. I smiled at her with that smile of mine that
no one on the outside can see but I can still feel on the inside. I learned
to do that when I worked the help desk at an Incontinence Anonymous convention.
I had suspected that we were being watched back at the Monument. I secretly
considered myself a considerable expert on the Secret Service, based on
the extensive and intensive research I had done while writing my third book,
"Service Secrets of the Secret Service." Now I knew I was correct
about that thing about us being watched. This also explained the darkly
clad figure I had seen darting to that other remarkably nondescript black
car marked "Secret Service" back in the parking lot. Normal, everyday
people don't dart, and are more likely to be dressed than clad. I tell you
this only because they don't want you to know this. They don't even want
you to know that they don't want you to know.
We drove down the Oppressed People of America freeway, and turned sharply
to the left. I knew that no good could come from this. Acting purely on
instinct, I did the only thing I could; I waited for the next chapter.