Let's take a break from my true story of how the government asked me to find and identify members of a domestic terrorist gang for some reader mail. This comes from somebody we'll call Name Withheld Upon Request:
Dear Loui-,
I've heard about the Witness Protection Program, and it sounds like something I'd like to do. I'm in my second year of college, but I'm wondering if there are any schools that specialize in Witness Protection? Is witnessing a crime absolutely necessary? I am a bit of a tattle-tale, but up to now, not much has happened. Can you help me?
Yours,
Name Withheld Upon Request
It's hard to find the schools that offer Witness Protection as a major because, like all things surrounding the program, they are cloaked in secrecy. While it helps to have witnessed somebody doing something illegal, like littering or speeding, many of the everyday law-breaking citizens of this country don't have the inner need to kill the witness. What you need to do, if you really want to study Witness Protection, is to immerse yourself in the lifestyle - get yourself involved in organized crime, find out where the heroin in your neighborhood comes from and engage the ultimate source in a dialog. Let these people know you'd like to see them in action, actually breaking the law, so that you can testify against them. Then hide. I think you'll get the support you need if you make a game plan and stick to it.
Lord knows, there were days when I didn't want to gather evidence against the people who now want me dead (they used to be my friends - we watched football on Sundays together!), but I knew the Witness Protection Program was for me, and I let that passion fuel my actions.
Study hard, Name Withheld Upon Request, and let us know how everything turns out for you!
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
My Witness Protection Saga: The Continuing Story of Bungalow Julio Lugo
If you recall, my government had asked me to use my Witness Protection Program undercover skills and infiltrate a domestic gang with terrorist aspirations. This amazingly true and vivid encounter continues...
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am..."
We'd been doing this for hours, and I was exhausted. But Julio pushed me to keep going, to keep practicing his timbre, his nuances, his inflexions. He was a great teacher.
By now, my charm had completely won over Julio Lugo, then shortstop of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He suffered from a terrible case of Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. I was giddy with how my skills at causing this response were still in top form (a shout out to a certain bank manager and his staff in Paris, Texas should be included right about now). Julio Lugo proved his mettle by preparing French Toast for me one morning. It was over that meal that I told him I would be leaving for a while and he'd have to get along without me for a while. He wept as I chained his ankle to the steel radiator in the rear of the room at the back of the house. "Don't worry," I said, "I'll be fine. Keep an eye on your rations and pray the battery doesn't die on the TV remote." He said he'd be strong for me. I nodded and looked away. His breath smelled of rancid maple syrup.
My FBI fella had told me where I could find a member of the would-be terrorist gang, whom we'll dub the CHiPs (after my second favorite Erik Estrada soap opera). His name was X-Lax and he worked a corner over by the Potsdam section of Corning, NY.
"You X-Lax?" I said, coming upon him like a dog would upon a strange scent in the grass.
X-Lax looked at me like he knew me. He did, but only from TV. "You're Julio Lugo," he said, a little spit accidentally striking me under my right eye. I gently rubbed.
"Si," I said. "I'm Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays." My first test. I had the look. But could I do the sound?
"Sup?"
Yes, I could. "Is off season. Looking for an outlet for my energy. Ju guys have any openings?"
X-Lax smiled. He'd just had his lower molars removed and he liked to show off his orthodontist's work, so he smiled frequently. "Your timing's good. We just gonna put something up on Craig's List."
"Soy tu hombre," I said without making eye contact.
"You mean 'ombre. You tryin' to be funny, pronouncing the H?"
I obviously needed to concentrate harder. "Si."
"Come on with me," X-Lax said, smiling. "I'll take you to some people." I wiped some spittle off my forehead and followed.
We drove for more than two hours. X-Lax didn't say much, and I certainly wasn't going to stick my foot in my mouth again voluntarily. So our early-autumn journey was one mostly of silence, aside from the hum of the highway underneath the chains (a careful driver, X-Lax kept chains on his tires year round "just in case"). Occasionally, X-Lax would turn to me and pose an innocuous question like, "You know the Tampa Bay Devil Rays suck, right, Julio Lugo?" I'd nod my head and sigh, letting my body answer the question so my oration wouldn't have to. "You should be one a dose free agent guys. Go to a team dat's good." Nod, sigh, wipe spit off my chin. "Team sucks with you, they can suck without you." He never stopped smiling.
"Yo!" A tall, skinny, bespectacled man, who looked more Apache than Puerto Rican or African-American, looked at X-Lax with a menacing glare. Clearly, we had come at the wrong time. Steam filled the air. The mirror was fogged up. The man removed his shower cap and replaced it with a baseball cap - Montreal Expos. "You caught me with my pants down." X-Lax handed the man a towel. He dried off his glasses first. "I"m Sancho Panza. Sorry I don' have no Devil Rays hat."
I shrugged.
"Julio Lugo don' wanna talk too much," X-Lax said.
I laughed as Sancho wiped the spit off of his glasses. X-Lax looked at me. I silently wished for a large window pane to separate the two of us. "Know why they call him Sancho Panza?" I shrugged again, eager to find out but not wanted to give myself away, and brushed away the damp touch of moisture that had landed onto my lower lip.
"Don Quixote was crazy," Sancho said. "Sancho Panza wasn't." He pulled on a pair of MC Hammer-style big pants. They had splashes of yellow, black and red swirling about. Terrible. "Like my pants?"
"Si," I said, hoping to God I hadn't said "C" or "See."
"We cool," Sancho said.
X-Lax nodded, smiled, and said, "Sancho hook you up, Julio Lugo. He knows people in da CHiPs, you know?"
X and Sancho high-fived before X-Lax left. I felt a little uncomfortable alone with Sancho Panza. It was a small bathroom.
"What chu wanna do?" Sancho said to me. He'd begun to shave his armpits without any shaving cream.
"Get to da top," I said. I needed to find out where Sancho Panza stood in the CHiPs hierarchy, and I needed to do it quickly. I'd only given the real Julio Lugo enough packets of Instant Quaker Oats (apple & cinnamon flavor) and prune juice to last two days. In other words, I now had less than 48 hours to get back before his Depends (athletic fit) became uncomfortable.
Sancho pulled the razor horizontally, cutting himself. He was a dyslexic shaver. "I get you there. Now a good time?"
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting alone in the middle of an empty swimming pool, shallow end, when I met with the King Fish, the Grand Dragon, the Pizzeria Uno.
Only there was one problem - I already knew who he was. And he knew me. I was going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks to make this all work out.
You see, the man sitting down across from me was my brother.
Coming Soon: Hopefully, I get to the sex scene.
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays."
"Say it again."
"I am..."
We'd been doing this for hours, and I was exhausted. But Julio pushed me to keep going, to keep practicing his timbre, his nuances, his inflexions. He was a great teacher.
By now, my charm had completely won over Julio Lugo, then shortstop of the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. He suffered from a terrible case of Stockholm Syndrome, a psychological response sometimes seen in an abducted hostage, in which the hostage shows signs of loyalty to the hostage-taker, regardless of the danger (or at least risk) in which the hostage has been placed. I was giddy with how my skills at causing this response were still in top form (a shout out to a certain bank manager and his staff in Paris, Texas should be included right about now). Julio Lugo proved his mettle by preparing French Toast for me one morning. It was over that meal that I told him I would be leaving for a while and he'd have to get along without me for a while. He wept as I chained his ankle to the steel radiator in the rear of the room at the back of the house. "Don't worry," I said, "I'll be fine. Keep an eye on your rations and pray the battery doesn't die on the TV remote." He said he'd be strong for me. I nodded and looked away. His breath smelled of rancid maple syrup.
My FBI fella had told me where I could find a member of the would-be terrorist gang, whom we'll dub the CHiPs (after my second favorite Erik Estrada soap opera). His name was X-Lax and he worked a corner over by the Potsdam section of Corning, NY.
"You X-Lax?" I said, coming upon him like a dog would upon a strange scent in the grass.
X-Lax looked at me like he knew me. He did, but only from TV. "You're Julio Lugo," he said, a little spit accidentally striking me under my right eye. I gently rubbed.
"Si," I said. "I'm Julio Lugo, shortstop, Tampa Bay Devil Rays." My first test. I had the look. But could I do the sound?
"Sup?"
Yes, I could. "Is off season. Looking for an outlet for my energy. Ju guys have any openings?"
X-Lax smiled. He'd just had his lower molars removed and he liked to show off his orthodontist's work, so he smiled frequently. "Your timing's good. We just gonna put something up on Craig's List."
"Soy tu hombre," I said without making eye contact.
"You mean 'ombre. You tryin' to be funny, pronouncing the H?"
I obviously needed to concentrate harder. "Si."
"Come on with me," X-Lax said, smiling. "I'll take you to some people." I wiped some spittle off my forehead and followed.
We drove for more than two hours. X-Lax didn't say much, and I certainly wasn't going to stick my foot in my mouth again voluntarily. So our early-autumn journey was one mostly of silence, aside from the hum of the highway underneath the chains (a careful driver, X-Lax kept chains on his tires year round "just in case"). Occasionally, X-Lax would turn to me and pose an innocuous question like, "You know the Tampa Bay Devil Rays suck, right, Julio Lugo?" I'd nod my head and sigh, letting my body answer the question so my oration wouldn't have to. "You should be one a dose free agent guys. Go to a team dat's good." Nod, sigh, wipe spit off my chin. "Team sucks with you, they can suck without you." He never stopped smiling.
"Yo!" A tall, skinny, bespectacled man, who looked more Apache than Puerto Rican or African-American, looked at X-Lax with a menacing glare. Clearly, we had come at the wrong time. Steam filled the air. The mirror was fogged up. The man removed his shower cap and replaced it with a baseball cap - Montreal Expos. "You caught me with my pants down." X-Lax handed the man a towel. He dried off his glasses first. "I"m Sancho Panza. Sorry I don' have no Devil Rays hat."
I shrugged.
"Julio Lugo don' wanna talk too much," X-Lax said.
I laughed as Sancho wiped the spit off of his glasses. X-Lax looked at me. I silently wished for a large window pane to separate the two of us. "Know why they call him Sancho Panza?" I shrugged again, eager to find out but not wanted to give myself away, and brushed away the damp touch of moisture that had landed onto my lower lip.
"Don Quixote was crazy," Sancho said. "Sancho Panza wasn't." He pulled on a pair of MC Hammer-style big pants. They had splashes of yellow, black and red swirling about. Terrible. "Like my pants?"
"Si," I said, hoping to God I hadn't said "C" or "See."
"We cool," Sancho said.
X-Lax nodded, smiled, and said, "Sancho hook you up, Julio Lugo. He knows people in da CHiPs, you know?"
X and Sancho high-fived before X-Lax left. I felt a little uncomfortable alone with Sancho Panza. It was a small bathroom.
"What chu wanna do?" Sancho said to me. He'd begun to shave his armpits without any shaving cream.
"Get to da top," I said. I needed to find out where Sancho Panza stood in the CHiPs hierarchy, and I needed to do it quickly. I'd only given the real Julio Lugo enough packets of Instant Quaker Oats (apple & cinnamon flavor) and prune juice to last two days. In other words, I now had less than 48 hours to get back before his Depends (athletic fit) became uncomfortable.
Sancho pulled the razor horizontally, cutting himself. He was a dyslexic shaver. "I get you there. Now a good time?"
Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting alone in the middle of an empty swimming pool, shallow end, when I met with the King Fish, the Grand Dragon, the Pizzeria Uno.
Only there was one problem - I already knew who he was. And he knew me. I was going to have to dig deep into my bag of tricks to make this all work out.
You see, the man sitting down across from me was my brother.
Coming Soon: Hopefully, I get to the sex scene.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Elvis
It just hit me today. Elvis is really dead. I think. Yes, it happened 30 years ago, but we all know how the subconscious can sweep things like this under the rug to protect the conscious mind. He was an inspiration to me, especially how he tried to convince Nixon to let him become a "Federal Agent-at-Large" in the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs, how he changed his identity so well (from thin country sex symbol to Hollywood movie star to Vegas showman), and how he may or may not be dead. (I thought I saw him in a Carlisle, PA Sheets store back in '01, but I was running pretty fast from someone so didn't have time to go back and double-check. It was probably my mind playing a practical joke on me as I dodged a handful of .38 caliber slugs and sprinted into the stock room. )
Nah, he’s really gone, isn't he? I’m a mess. Thank God I still have John Lennon and his music to help me through this.
Nah, he’s really gone, isn't he? I’m a mess. Thank God I still have John Lennon and his music to help me through this.
Friday, October 26, 2007
My Witness Protection Saga: The Kidnapping of Julio Lugo
Those terrible California wildfires? They're an opportunity to a person like me. How better to evade pursuit than in an uncontrolled environment that promotes smoker's cough. Plus, it's the perfect place to fake your own death. All you need is a motive ("I think I left my lighter on the dining room table.") and a great big fireball. One witness and a well hidden escape map are good aides as well.
An escape plan was exactly what I needed when I agreed to help my government stop a localized gang with international ambitions. Suppose, at any point, I was on the verge of being discovered? How would I get the hell out of there without, oh, losing my life's ambition to not die? There was only one way: Kidnap then Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo and assume his identity.
Lugo, while a well-paid shortstop, wasn't a very good one. I figured nobody would miss him. And since I would assume his identity for a little while, in effect, he wouldn't really be missing. If anyone asked why I - Julio Lugo - was messing around in a gang, I could always say it was a well deserved vacation with friends after a long and hard fought baseball season. And once I acquired the information the government needed, I could relocate the real Julio Lugo back into society, change my identity again, and revel in the win/win/win situation I'd created.
Gangs around the world love and admire Julio Lugo. It's a known fact. Read any gang member's blog or bridge graffiti. They respect the man and want his autograph. If I was Julio Lugo, I could give one gang in particular "his" autograph, while simultaneously learning all about the gang's hierarchy and possibly even obtaining its mission statement. Hell, while I was at it, I could probably even get their email addresses and a pamphlet on their health care providers. All on the strength of international Julio Lugomania.
My opportunity to get to Lugo came after a drubbing in Tampa by the New York Yankees. After the game, I followed a downtrodden Lugo to his favorite nightclub, Yo! There, I, dressed like Mercedes Ruhl, was to lure him into a toilet stall, drug him, and wait for the club to close. Then I'd haul him to my car and start my transformation. Only, I mistakenly lured Derek Jeter into the stall. It was days later, when I removed the duct tape to feed him some solid food, that he announced, "No one does this to the Derek Jeter." Uh oh. I knocked him unconscious with my alligator purse and dragged him back to the stall. The papers later reported he'd taken a few days off before the playoffs to "recharge his batteries," but I knew it was his fondness for a certain Oscar-winning actress.
I still had to abduct Lugo, and time was running out. Luckily for me, I literally bumped into him at Disney's new Everglades Theme Park. It was at the Alligator vs. Man exhibit that we bumped. He was laughing at the futile attempt of an unlucky Sarosota man to run faster than alligator mississippiensis. In his jovial state, he didn't realize that I'd just injected a combination insecticide/bromicide into his bum. Minutes later, he was in the trunk of my car and I was pulling out of a very crowded parking lot.
Once in captivity, I could copy Julio Lugo's every feature: the space between his eyes, the curl in his jet black hair, the difference in skin tint between the palm of his hand and his thick .242-hitting forearms. I had to be perfect, and I knew there was only one way to test that I was right - infiltrate my original life.
Diko's Tattoo Parlor (not its real name) sits at a busy intersection of Stuyvesant and Jay streets in a little town called Main Street, USA. Diko used to know me pretty well. Mine was the first stomach onto which he drew his now infamous Kathy Lee Gifford (not her maiden name) tattoo. Long since removed, I was curious if he'd recognize my once-familiar abdomen. For his sake, I hoped he wouldn't. He'd be a dead man if he did.
My fears were quickly allayed. "Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo! It's really you!"
I had to use my best Lugo voice to make this work. "Mmm hmm."
"Oh my gosh!"
It worked. Almost. Next was the stomach.
"Do you want a tat?"
"Mmm."
"On your stomach?"
"Mmm."
"Let's see."
Here goes, I thought. I lifted my Van Huesen (not his real name).
"Perfect," Diko said, cigarette dangling from his lower lip like a man hanging onto a suspension bridge with one hand (been there, done that). "You want a Venezuela or a Costa Rica?" He looked up and made eye contact. I winked as only Julio Lugo can. "Ahh," he said, "Costa Rica."
I was elated. "Si."
His smile disappeared. My God, I thought, he knew it was me. But how? Did he think I said "C," the third letter of the American alphabet, and not "Si," the Spanish affirmative? Or was it Costa Rica, with its third world, low wage children who were famous for mending the hems of Kathy Lee's Wal Mart skirts?
"You're not Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo," Diko said. His scalding hot ink pen was aimed straight for my belly.
I didn't answer.
"You're -"
I didn't let him finish.
Diko's Tattoo Parlor closed early that day. I've heard that most of his former customers now go to Jaime's House of Body Piercings & Skin Colorings, but that's all hearsay. I didn't have time to find out more. My government needed me. And I needed those 500 big ones.
Coming Soon: The story continues... And more reader mail!
An escape plan was exactly what I needed when I agreed to help my government stop a localized gang with international ambitions. Suppose, at any point, I was on the verge of being discovered? How would I get the hell out of there without, oh, losing my life's ambition to not die? There was only one way: Kidnap then Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo and assume his identity.
Lugo, while a well-paid shortstop, wasn't a very good one. I figured nobody would miss him. And since I would assume his identity for a little while, in effect, he wouldn't really be missing. If anyone asked why I - Julio Lugo - was messing around in a gang, I could always say it was a well deserved vacation with friends after a long and hard fought baseball season. And once I acquired the information the government needed, I could relocate the real Julio Lugo back into society, change my identity again, and revel in the win/win/win situation I'd created.
Gangs around the world love and admire Julio Lugo. It's a known fact. Read any gang member's blog or bridge graffiti. They respect the man and want his autograph. If I was Julio Lugo, I could give one gang in particular "his" autograph, while simultaneously learning all about the gang's hierarchy and possibly even obtaining its mission statement. Hell, while I was at it, I could probably even get their email addresses and a pamphlet on their health care providers. All on the strength of international Julio Lugomania.
My opportunity to get to Lugo came after a drubbing in Tampa by the New York Yankees. After the game, I followed a downtrodden Lugo to his favorite nightclub, Yo! There, I, dressed like Mercedes Ruhl, was to lure him into a toilet stall, drug him, and wait for the club to close. Then I'd haul him to my car and start my transformation. Only, I mistakenly lured Derek Jeter into the stall. It was days later, when I removed the duct tape to feed him some solid food, that he announced, "No one does this to the Derek Jeter." Uh oh. I knocked him unconscious with my alligator purse and dragged him back to the stall. The papers later reported he'd taken a few days off before the playoffs to "recharge his batteries," but I knew it was his fondness for a certain Oscar-winning actress.
I still had to abduct Lugo, and time was running out. Luckily for me, I literally bumped into him at Disney's new Everglades Theme Park. It was at the Alligator vs. Man exhibit that we bumped. He was laughing at the futile attempt of an unlucky Sarosota man to run faster than alligator mississippiensis. In his jovial state, he didn't realize that I'd just injected a combination insecticide/bromicide into his bum. Minutes later, he was in the trunk of my car and I was pulling out of a very crowded parking lot.
Once in captivity, I could copy Julio Lugo's every feature: the space between his eyes, the curl in his jet black hair, the difference in skin tint between the palm of his hand and his thick .242-hitting forearms. I had to be perfect, and I knew there was only one way to test that I was right - infiltrate my original life.
Diko's Tattoo Parlor (not its real name) sits at a busy intersection of Stuyvesant and Jay streets in a little town called Main Street, USA. Diko used to know me pretty well. Mine was the first stomach onto which he drew his now infamous Kathy Lee Gifford (not her maiden name) tattoo. Long since removed, I was curious if he'd recognize my once-familiar abdomen. For his sake, I hoped he wouldn't. He'd be a dead man if he did.
My fears were quickly allayed. "Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo! It's really you!"
I had to use my best Lugo voice to make this work. "Mmm hmm."
"Oh my gosh!"
It worked. Almost. Next was the stomach.
"Do you want a tat?"
"Mmm."
"On your stomach?"
"Mmm."
"Let's see."
Here goes, I thought. I lifted my Van Huesen (not his real name).
"Perfect," Diko said, cigarette dangling from his lower lip like a man hanging onto a suspension bridge with one hand (been there, done that). "You want a Venezuela or a Costa Rica?" He looked up and made eye contact. I winked as only Julio Lugo can. "Ahh," he said, "Costa Rica."
I was elated. "Si."
His smile disappeared. My God, I thought, he knew it was me. But how? Did he think I said "C," the third letter of the American alphabet, and not "Si," the Spanish affirmative? Or was it Costa Rica, with its third world, low wage children who were famous for mending the hems of Kathy Lee's Wal Mart skirts?
"You're not Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo," Diko said. His scalding hot ink pen was aimed straight for my belly.
I didn't answer.
"You're -"
I didn't let him finish.
Diko's Tattoo Parlor closed early that day. I've heard that most of his former customers now go to Jaime's House of Body Piercings & Skin Colorings, but that's all hearsay. I didn't have time to find out more. My government needed me. And I needed those 500 big ones.
Coming Soon: The story continues... And more reader mail!
Thursday, October 25, 2007
My Witness Protection Saga: It Keeps You Running
You don’t get to where I’ve gotten in life without having to bend the truth once in a while. Like the time I called Rush Limbaugh’s show and identified myself as Audry from Kansas City (the Missouri one). See, I’ve never been to Missouri. So that’s one lie I can’t take back. There’re more. There always re. If I wasn’t who I am, if I was somebody else – which I have experience with too, well, maybe I’d just run for office. I could do it. I spend every day of my life now running from this shadow, that familiar haircut, the dreams… I could win an election, I bet, since I’m so good at hiding my past.
And that’s what got me recognized. Funny, huh? I’ve changed my face, my hair color, my walk, my taste in wardrobe, and I still got the call.
The first one took place a few years ago. Fella in the FBI was sitting in my car one morning. Of course, I saw him there before I got in. This isn’t a life where you can ever let your guard down. I’m not the person to see somebody in my backseat for the first time through my rearview mirror. I have a system and it works. This FBI fella learned part of my system real fast. When he awoke, he rubbed the knot on his skull and identified himself as a fella from the FBI, which I’d already known from plunging my hand into his wallet and seeing his ID badge and ribbed (unused) prophylactic. He was there to ask me, well, tell me, our government had requested my services. I told him no. Last time I’d helped the government, I had to get a nose job three hours later. He told me I was one of the few in this country (the rest termed as “in an overseas capacity”) who was qualified. So I said ask the other two. He had. They weren’t available. Something about loose stool. I was the only one left.
It’s hard to be the best at something. A-Rod has the pressure of $250 million expectations. Hanks has to win an Oscar every time. As for me, I have to live with the fact that I’m only alive because I’m good – no, the best – at hiding my identity, eluding my adversaries, and covering my tracks.
So how did this FBI fella find me if I’m so good? I keep in touch with my sponsor, who today we’ll call Sting. As independent as I’ve become, I hate to admit that I still have to trust someone other than myself. Sting knows how and where to pay me. (Part of my original deal is I get a monthly stipend, handed to me, by Sting, once a quarter.) It took some time for Sting to gain my trust (hours of therapy and one unforgettable team-building exercise in the wilds of Detroit), but it’s worked out so far. Seeing my breath every October morning is proof enough for me.
I couldn’t believe my ears while hearing the request from the FBI fella: Infiltrate a drug-peddling, violence-prone gang that was creeping westward (suburban sprawl was to blame) and determine the gang’s leaders. There was reason to believe they were becoming more organized and setting their sights on gaining more power and expanding from small-time drug thuggery into arms smuggling and, eventually, domestic terrorist activity.
I lifted my jaw off of the ground and reattached it to my upper mandible. Then I reminded the man that I was, and probably still am, a glorified tattle tale who’s spent the last X number of years running away every time I heard someone clear their throat in a crowded movie theater.
Plus, that there was just too much to do – grow my hair long and dye it, diet, brush up on my 2nd generation Americanized Spanish, learn how to play soccer and care about the World Cup, become a cocaine addict, experience the fun of going cold turkey, and get a few skull and crossbones tattoos from a large man named Diko who currently thinks I’m dead. I was the wrong guy for the job.
“It pays $500,000,” the FBI fella said.
In my next post, I’ll describe how I tricked Diko into thinking I was former Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo.
And that’s what got me recognized. Funny, huh? I’ve changed my face, my hair color, my walk, my taste in wardrobe, and I still got the call.
The first one took place a few years ago. Fella in the FBI was sitting in my car one morning. Of course, I saw him there before I got in. This isn’t a life where you can ever let your guard down. I’m not the person to see somebody in my backseat for the first time through my rearview mirror. I have a system and it works. This FBI fella learned part of my system real fast. When he awoke, he rubbed the knot on his skull and identified himself as a fella from the FBI, which I’d already known from plunging my hand into his wallet and seeing his ID badge and ribbed (unused) prophylactic. He was there to ask me, well, tell me, our government had requested my services. I told him no. Last time I’d helped the government, I had to get a nose job three hours later. He told me I was one of the few in this country (the rest termed as “in an overseas capacity”) who was qualified. So I said ask the other two. He had. They weren’t available. Something about loose stool. I was the only one left.
It’s hard to be the best at something. A-Rod has the pressure of $250 million expectations. Hanks has to win an Oscar every time. As for me, I have to live with the fact that I’m only alive because I’m good – no, the best – at hiding my identity, eluding my adversaries, and covering my tracks.
So how did this FBI fella find me if I’m so good? I keep in touch with my sponsor, who today we’ll call Sting. As independent as I’ve become, I hate to admit that I still have to trust someone other than myself. Sting knows how and where to pay me. (Part of my original deal is I get a monthly stipend, handed to me, by Sting, once a quarter.) It took some time for Sting to gain my trust (hours of therapy and one unforgettable team-building exercise in the wilds of Detroit), but it’s worked out so far. Seeing my breath every October morning is proof enough for me.
I couldn’t believe my ears while hearing the request from the FBI fella: Infiltrate a drug-peddling, violence-prone gang that was creeping westward (suburban sprawl was to blame) and determine the gang’s leaders. There was reason to believe they were becoming more organized and setting their sights on gaining more power and expanding from small-time drug thuggery into arms smuggling and, eventually, domestic terrorist activity.
I lifted my jaw off of the ground and reattached it to my upper mandible. Then I reminded the man that I was, and probably still am, a glorified tattle tale who’s spent the last X number of years running away every time I heard someone clear their throat in a crowded movie theater.
Plus, that there was just too much to do – grow my hair long and dye it, diet, brush up on my 2nd generation Americanized Spanish, learn how to play soccer and care about the World Cup, become a cocaine addict, experience the fun of going cold turkey, and get a few skull and crossbones tattoos from a large man named Diko who currently thinks I’m dead. I was the wrong guy for the job.
“It pays $500,000,” the FBI fella said.
In my next post, I’ll describe how I tricked Diko into thinking I was former Tampa Bay Devil Rays shortstop Julio Lugo.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Birthday Boys
I will never be caught by the bad people. I’m too good. Not at doing bad things. No, if I was good at that, I’d still be doing them (except in self defense, which I still get to do every so often). I’m good at not being found, at being “dead on arrival,” at being “missing at sea,” at being one of the “there were no survivors.” I won’t apologize for my abilities. They’re what I’m best at. It’s genetic, I think, like good abs on actors or being able to memorize the manual 4-digit code on your garage door opener. Call me Slick. Call me Invisible. But you better hurry, because I’ll be gone before you dial 411 for my number.
So why do I boast today? It’s my birthday. When you turn a certain age and you’re alive while doing so, it’s only human to look back on your accomplishments.
Some of my former associates in the trade used to become upset at turning this certain age. I’ve heard lots of “I’ve accomplished so little outside of prison” and “If I hadn’t taken that duffle bag full of hundreds I’d still be with my friends today.” Today is just a milestone. There’s still time to catch up, I tell them.
But that’s me, Mr. (or Mrs.) Optometrist. The wine glass isn’t half full, it’s overflowing with Cabernet.
It’s been difficult to keep up with therapy. There’s so little consistency when you need to change therapists as often as I do; when they keep dying by accident or disappearing again or I have to move for the third time in a month because the custodian’s eyebrows look remarkably similar to those of someone who wants to drag my armless carcass behind an RV near the Grant Tee tons. So instead of therapy, I meditate, do yoga, or stare at the sun until my eyes water.
It’s overrated. Therapy, I mean. But maybe just for me. I like to think that’s why I’m so hotly pursued. Not for retribution. Out of jealousy. I’m totally content with my life right now. They aren’t, so they try to off me. Hey, when Jesus was born, that king guy had all the baby boys killed so he (the king) could keep hold of his power. Same thing with me. I’m the baby Jesus and my antagonists, out of fear for their standing in their communities, want me dead. Hey, I can live with that. I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. But what about them?
Happy birthday to me.
So why do I boast today? It’s my birthday. When you turn a certain age and you’re alive while doing so, it’s only human to look back on your accomplishments.
Some of my former associates in the trade used to become upset at turning this certain age. I’ve heard lots of “I’ve accomplished so little outside of prison” and “If I hadn’t taken that duffle bag full of hundreds I’d still be with my friends today.” Today is just a milestone. There’s still time to catch up, I tell them.
But that’s me, Mr. (or Mrs.) Optometrist. The wine glass isn’t half full, it’s overflowing with Cabernet.
It’s been difficult to keep up with therapy. There’s so little consistency when you need to change therapists as often as I do; when they keep dying by accident or disappearing again or I have to move for the third time in a month because the custodian’s eyebrows look remarkably similar to those of someone who wants to drag my armless carcass behind an RV near the Grant Tee tons. So instead of therapy, I meditate, do yoga, or stare at the sun until my eyes water.
It’s overrated. Therapy, I mean. But maybe just for me. I like to think that’s why I’m so hotly pursued. Not for retribution. Out of jealousy. I’m totally content with my life right now. They aren’t, so they try to off me. Hey, when Jesus was born, that king guy had all the baby boys killed so he (the king) could keep hold of his power. Same thing with me. I’m the baby Jesus and my antagonists, out of fear for their standing in their communities, want me dead. Hey, I can live with that. I’m perfectly fine, thank you very much. But what about them?
Happy birthday to me.
Monday, October 22, 2007
Reader Mail
Sorry for the abrupt ending to my previous post. I’m afraid my position at the time had been compromised and it was best for me to leave the house I’d, uh, found.
Let me now reprint a letter that would have been published in Witness Protection Weekly, Issue 9, Vol 37, had I not run into an old “friend” accidentally in that godforsaken pit of a Pennsylvania town I may or may not have been living in.
Dear Dean,
Oops. I never should have been so honest on my Facebook and MySpace pages. I definitely shouldn’t have uploaded my picture. Now I’m on the run. What should I do?
Yours,
Larry Angelo
Boise, Idaho
Larry – Interesting pickle you’ve brined for yourself, and I think there are a few lessons here for all of us:
I. Nobody picks up girls on the web using their real name and picture.
II. If it’s best for you to keep kind of a low public profile, maybe social networking sites are something to avoid if you’re a member of the Witness Protection Program, kind of like how drug dealers should stay away from drug free school zones.
III. By now, Larry isn’t alive anymore.
Quick story. When I first enrolled in The Program, my U.S. Marshal “handler” Moesha (or was it Joel?), suggested I avoid the old “haunts” and, by all means, raise my hand when the teacher called my (new) name at attendance. Well, I got to wondering, what if I used my old name for things like internet porn or call-ahead restaurant reservations? I mean, I don’t exist anymore, so what harm could it do?
There’s a Chili’s on Route 46 in West Paterson, New Jersey that still hasn’t reopened since that Citris Fire Chicken & Shrimp fajita blew up.
Let me now reprint a letter that would have been published in Witness Protection Weekly, Issue 9, Vol 37, had I not run into an old “friend” accidentally in that godforsaken pit of a Pennsylvania town I may or may not have been living in.
Dear Dean,
Oops. I never should have been so honest on my Facebook and MySpace pages. I definitely shouldn’t have uploaded my picture. Now I’m on the run. What should I do?
Yours,
Larry Angelo
Boise, Idaho
Larry – Interesting pickle you’ve brined for yourself, and I think there are a few lessons here for all of us:
I. Nobody picks up girls on the web using their real name and picture.
II. If it’s best for you to keep kind of a low public profile, maybe social networking sites are something to avoid if you’re a member of the Witness Protection Program, kind of like how drug dealers should stay away from drug free school zones.
III. By now, Larry isn’t alive anymore.
Quick story. When I first enrolled in The Program, my U.S. Marshal “handler” Moesha (or was it Joel?), suggested I avoid the old “haunts” and, by all means, raise my hand when the teacher called my (new) name at attendance. Well, I got to wondering, what if I used my old name for things like internet porn or call-ahead restaurant reservations? I mean, I don’t exist anymore, so what harm could it do?
There’s a Chili’s on Route 46 in West Paterson, New Jersey that still hasn’t reopened since that Citris Fire Chicken & Shrimp fajita blew up.
Friday, October 19, 2007
U-Hauling Ass
Before we move forward together, let’s take a few steps back. This blog is taking the place of the former Witness Protection Weekly (WPW), a semi-annual magazine written, edited and published by myself for a period of time leading up to now. Needless to say, it was a lot of work, what with my moving from this place to that place as often as I need to. I’ve found that typing a blog and the instant gratification of one-click-publishing to be considerably easier than pulling a printing press around in a U-Haul (assuming I use a U-haul; maybe that was just a metaphor for something). I’m hoping some of you, my fellow members in The Program, will take care to translate this into the 128 languages I occasioned to print the WPW in (U-Haul rents out an 18—wheeler – you can look it up). If those in our shared predicaments don’t work with each other, who can we work with?
The format of this blog should be familiar to my loyal WPW readers. I’ll print and answer your questions when you need advice, I’ll share my own concerns and anecdotes, and –
The format of this blog should be familiar to my loyal WPW readers. I’ll print and answer your questions when you need advice, I’ll share my own concerns and anecdotes, and –
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