Homeland House-call: Secure Secure
I got a visit from two plain-clothes detectives around 10 PM one night last April. They wanted to know if I was planning on getting assassinated, blowing stuff up, and other activities of the terrorist sort. Also, they wanted to know if I hate America. What could I say?
I'd just had that back/neck surgery a month ago and was trying to taper off the last of my oxycodones.
As usual when the bell rings, I looked out the window to see whether or not to go down and open the door, and if I did have to go down, whether a weapon – blunt instrument; I hate knives – would do more harm than good.
They were in plain clothes, but unmistakably cops, badges proudly extended.
I thought they were just guys from the local precinct, stopping by to pay tribute (or collect it – I could never figure out who worked for whom) from the FB biker gang, who run their heroin and automatic weapons dealership downstairs (only the best: real AK-47s and Uzis, none of that low-brow TEC-9 crap). Then I thought it might have been about an "incident" we had here last week, in which the cops were summoned, but I put on the "educated middle-class middle-age white guy" routine (“That is correct, sir. Why, no, of course not, officer...” etc.) and came off smelling like roses.
Also, it was only Tuesday. Usually, it would be "Lieutenant Garcia" calling on a Thursday evening asking if I (or one of my Coffin-mates) could come down to the station Friday morning "to talk," which is cop-lingo for "I'm going to arrest you and not let you get to court to see a judge before late-afternoon, after they've all gone home; hence, you're gonna have to wait it out in a cell all week-end with real bad-asses: gang-bangers, dope dealers, extremely violent, agitated psychopaths. See you tomorrow!"
"Adam? Are you Adam Engel?" asked Andy Mayberry, a gawky white Gumshoe, who wore a silly hat. Barney Fife, a bored black detective in a suit and sunglasses – though it was way past sundown – didn't say much.
Not unusual that they'd know my name. Everyone in this building has had at least a dozen "incidents" with the 88th precinct. But I didn't recognize these guys.
They started in with the happy-friendly crap: "What happened to your neck? How long you gotta wear that brace? What's that stick for, you got problems with your legs too?” etc. etc.
"Not at all, officer. Would you like to come upstairs so we can 'talk?'''
These guys either knew right away I was relatively harmless, or they were dumb as toast. Nobody was upstairs, I was alone, but the way they loped casually up the steps (both of them behind me, not one behind and slightly to the left and one in front and slightly to the right, like real cops), you'd think they'd never heard the term “set-up” before.
Anyway, they started up the small-talk again.
“You live here alone?"
"No. Just another dozen artist-musician-writer-type ne'er-do-wells. Also: the Forbidden Ones biker gang in the basement. But I'm sure you know all about them. “
"Geez, how old is this building?”
“About a hundred and twenty years. It was an old abandoned coffin factory; hence, it's colorful nick-name, The Coffin Factory.”
“You mean...you're squatters?”
“Legal residents. We used to be a bunch of fly-by-nighters. Then we got in under the Loft Law. Thanks to Bob the lawyer. Best tenant-side attorney in the state.”
“Oh. One of those Loft Law things,” Andy looked knowingly at Barney.
“Ninety-nine year lease. Rent-controlled. I have a copy of the Department of buildings OATH court decision – Judge Spooner: great guy – and our IMD number. Wanna see it?”
“Not our concern,” huffed Andy.
“Well. What is your concern? What's the occasion for this rather late-night visit?”
Sudden metamorphosis from dumb-shit detectives to ace interrogators.
"Do you hate the United States of America? Are you planning an action that will lead to your assassination within two years' time?”
“Assassinated? Me? I can see 'neutralized,' maybe. But assassinated? Me?”
“What were your responsibilities in your capacity as Director of Security for Walt Disney World in Orlando, Florida? Did you carry fire-arms?"
"What? Is this some kind of joke?"
"You tell us. You wrote this Bio, didn't you?"
Sure as shit, he reached into his cheap vinyl brief-case, which was literally stuffed with papers marked "Adam Engel," and pulled out a printed copy (marked with underlines, exclamation points and comments) of that bullshit bio I wrote in about fifteen minutes when I was stupid enough to join that fucking 'Linked In' site. After receiving an 'invite' from my aunt Florence, who'd been dead for three weeks. Same thing happened with Facebook a few weeks after my father died. “Hey, Kiddo, wanna be my friend?” Maybe it really is the (Other) World Wide Web...
"But...that was just a joke,” I said. “A total joke. Meant to amuse or confuse. Thats why those Linkers are always bothering me to 'Link up' with them. I've got over 3000 such 'connections,' none of whom I've ever actually communicated with beyond the first 'link.'"
"Yeah, well you got another 3000 folks on Linked In scared shit-less making panicked phone-calls to the FBI. You're creating quite a name for yourself."
"But anyone could look at that 'personal bio' and see that it's over-the-top. It says I patented a pest control device – "Guaranteed to kill" – in Bulgaria. A hammer and a block. Catch the roach, order it to stand on the block, then whack it on the head. In Bulgaria?"
So of course I got the rigmarole about the U.S. being under attack and terrorists and mass panic and how they have to check out all 'suspicious' writings in case one of 'em comes from a genuine terrorist, etc.
Andy Mayberry whipped out an iPhone and snapped a photo.
“What's that, my 'mug-shot?' You take mug-shots with an iPhone?”
“It's portable,” Andy shrugged. “This is not a 'mug-shot.' Just a photograph. For our records.”
A fucking iPhone. How humiliating.
"I have a big photo of the CIA logo on that Linked-In thing. You don't think I pissed off the CIA, do you?"
"Well, I don't know, they might not take that kind of stuff lightly..." said Andy, ominously.
Again: Barney Fife was black, wore a suit – as opposed to Andy Mayberry's goofy-plaid, Canadian logger get-up – and seemed uncomfortable, a bit embarrassed, keeping his eye on Andy. Not unlike many black detectives on the NYPD, who know what certain of their white fellow officers do to black civilians when there isn't a black guy with a badge nearby to “bear witness.”
We bull-shitted around for about half an hour. Then they searched my room. As if I gave a fuck: the oxy's were prescription (yeah yeah I know: what about a warrant? Unless you're hiding something you gotta get rid of – fast, demanding a warrant will only piss them the fuck off and you can be damned shit-sure they'll be looking for something – and find it – when they return with requested warrant).
Barney finally said, "I think this guy's okay."
"Yeah," agreed Andy, obviously disappointed. He looked at me sternly. "You gotta watch what you write and who you write it for. Have you ever written for radical websites or magazines?"
"Radical? Me? Why, of course not."
So they left. But shit. It's not like the 'old days' when I was writing deliberately mean-ass, 'provocative' satires for CP. This was just a top-of-the-head answer to Linked In's ridiculous 'tell us about yourself' questionnaire. Fuck the Internet.
What I really believe triggered the “incident” was the CIA logo I put up as cover-image for my “Personal Bio page.” Some spook must have gotten pissed-off that I was desecrating “the flag” and made a call. They probably sent Andy and Barney just to put the fear of der Homeland into me – and give those two obviously inept brown-shirts with badges something safe and easy to do on the tax-payer's dime. But still. If a patently obvious joke warrants a visit by Andy Mayberry and Barney Fife, those defenders of der Homeland must see all 'radical' sites, from CP to RT as nothing but that: a joke, a kind of group-therapy where folks can 'vent' their disgust with fascism while posing zero threat to the fascists and their multi-trillion dollar military-intelligence-surveillance machine...
Hard to frighten someone like me who's already spent four decades scared shit-less.
They did surprise me though, by coming two or three years early. I didn't think this kind of stuff would start happening -- to white people, who tend to be unfamiliar with a 'knock on the door' by authorities -- for at least another couple of years or so.
It's gonna be Show Time, I suppose. But how soon? Are we living in the Germany of 1936, or are we living in the Germany of 1940?