CHAPTER I

Dear God, I look down over this bridge, measuring my connection to life and the water below. I spit over the rail, losing sight of it before it reaches the rocks below. In my mind I can hear the sound of my body striking the water with a fearsome flop, an exclamation point on a failure. Why is that, God? Why do You allow us to see so clearly our own end, to imagine the feel of ten thousand knives stabbing at us and yet leave us in total blindness towards our future? To know the pain of the flower in the wind, just one more into the breach. Melting our bells and plates to fight your battles, Lord, free will? Bullshit!

If I jump, then you and I are through, the connection is severed between us, a cold watery eternity for me and You’ll just find someone else. All right then, it’s on me, damn it! I’ll drink from your cup, Thy will be done, but free will? Bullshit!

The shift had been uneventful, Bill Henderson thought to himself as he sat with the other Secret Service agents in the White House security office, until he noticed a man standing quietly outside the fence near the front gates, around 9:00 A.M. Bill was going to send one of the other agents out to speak with the man, but then decided since he was the senior man he would do it himself. The stranger, a middle-aged white man, was clean-shaven, average looking and soft-spoken. Bill approached and said, "Good morning."

The gentleman returned the greeting. Bill then asked, "What is your business here today?"

"I’m here to see the President," the gentleman answered.

Henderson smiled with that oh-boy-here-we-go-again smile. "As you can imagine, Sir," Bill explained, "the President is very busy today. Do you have an appointment?"

"No," he replied.

"Then what makes you think the President will see you?"

"He works for me," the gentleman answered calmly.

Bill’s patience was quickly wearing thin as he explained to him, "Sir, you need to make an appointment with the President’s staff to see the President."

"I’ve tried that and they’ve told me no; so I’ll wait here until the President changes his mind."

Henderson explained, "Provided you don’t block the entrance or impair traffic, you can stand here until kingdom come."

"If necessary, I will," the gentleman answered.

As the shifts changed in the security office, the story passed from shift to shift. Class one, harmless, low-level nut. The gentleman would disappear from time to time but always returned within a few minutes.

After twenty-four hours another agent was sent out to speak with the gentleman. "Sir, your presence here for more than twenty-four hours has changed your status from pedestrian to protester, and you are required to obtain a permit to protest at this site. Do you understand? Sir?"

"No, I don’t," he quietly responded.

"You don’t understand?" the agent asked.

"I don’t need a permit to stand here," the gentleman responded.

"Sir, if you do not move along immediately, I will have you removed by the police."

"Do whatever you think will solve your problem," he answered.

Several minutes later a D.C. police cruiser pulled up and two policemen went inside the security office. After several minutes more, the policemen came back out and approached the gentleman. "Okay, pal, if you don’t move along we're going to have to arrest you. Is that what you want?"

"I want to see the President," he quietly responded.

"What you are going to see is a sergeant, and then a judge! Now, what’s it going to be?" The gentleman placed his hands behind his back as the cop huffed, rolled his eyes, patted him down, and got out the handcuffs.

They placed him in the back of the squad car and left for the station. The cop driving advised, "I don’t know what you're trying to prove but you sure as hell ain’t gonna prove it in jail."

As the gentleman was booked, they emptied his pockets. He had nothing but a single one hundred-dollar bill. They asked his name, and after a pause, the gentleman exhaled and responded, "John, John Smith."

The cop booking him looked up and muttered, "Cute," in a low tone. "You realize your fingerprints will tell us who you are, don’t you? Where are you from, Mr. Smith?" he asked with a note of sarcasm.

"America," he said.

"Okay, fine," the cop answered and placed him in a holding cell.

Several hours later he was pointed out to another cop and a bailiff. The cop approached the cell and yelled, "Smith!" as if he wasn’t right there or just pointed out. He was handcuffed again and taken, by elevator, to a room adjacent to a courtroom and told to sit on the bench. After a few minutes the bailiff returned, and lifting him by the elbow said, "Come on."

Still in handcuffs, he was marched before a judge. The judge was an older black man with a no-nonsense look about him, a man with too much work to do, not enough to be haggard, just busy. His nameplate read: HONORABLE JULIAN GALLANT. The judge asked, without looking up, "John Smith?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Where are you from, Mr. Smith?" the judge asked, still not looking up.

John, staring straight ahead, responded, "America, Sir."

The judge’s hand stopped writing as he looked up over his glasses and asked, "Are you trying to be smart with me? I’m not playing with you. Do you have a street address or not?" he demanded.

Smith, without moving his head, answered, "I do not have a street address, Sir."

The judge then asked him, "What state are you from?"

John, without pause, answered, "Sir, no offense, Sir, but if I don’t have a street address then my state address would be whatever state I’m in, and likewise my zip code and area code, Sir."

The area-code crack put him over the line. The judge, now visibly irritated, asked, "What’s your Social Security number then?"

"I don’t remember," John answered, adding, " and even if I did, I’ve always been told not to give that number out, except to an employer."

Judge Gallant cut him off. "I don’t have time for this foolishness! Do you know why you’re here?"

"No, Sir, Your Honor, I don’t," he replied, smiling. "Do any of us really know why we're here?"

"All right, Smith!" The judge thundered. "One more word, just one more word from you will buy you thirty days, Smith! What do you say to that? Do you still feel the need to be colorful? You’re here to be arraigned on the following charges: protesting without a permit, interfering with a policeman, and blocking the entrance to a federal facility, to which I’m going to add a charge of vagrancy. Do you remember if you have legal counsel, Smith, or do I need to appoint one for you?"

"No, Sir, I don’t need an attorney. I’m not guilty."

"Smith, this is an arraignment; we are here to decide whether there are grounds to prosecute you on the charges I’ve just named. This isn’t a trial. If I feel the charges are justified, I will bind you over for trial in approximately thirty days. Do you understand that, Mr. Smith?"

John looked up at the Judge. "Your Honor," he said in a low, firm voice, "I would just as soon we have the trial today, for thirty days will make no difference. I will be no more or less guilty in thirty days."

"Smith, the time is to allow you to prepare a defense," Judge Gallant explained.

"How might I prepare?" John implored. "How could I prepare to defend myself from the charge of standing on the sidewalk?"

Judge Gallant retorted, "You are being charged with protesting without a permit, interfering with a policeman, and blocking the entrance to a federal facility."

"I wasn’t protesting Sir, I was waiting. I wasn’t interfering with a policeman, a policeman was interfering with me. And I wasn’t blocking a federal facility any more than anyone else on that sidewalk. So, if I’m guilty of that charge, then everyone on the sidewalk, including the policeman, is guilty as well."

Judge Gallant looked down at him. "Smith" he said, " I’m starting to believe that either you're incompetent or you have a bet with the bailiffs over there to see if you can make me blow my top. I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and hold you for a seventy-two-hour psychological evaluation."

As he was led away, John remarked, "Have a nice day, Your Honor." He was returned to the bench, then to the holding cell, then downstairs, then back to the holding cell. By the time he had been returned to the holding cell, lunch was over and supper wouldn’t be served until around six o’clock: a small cup of stew and a smaller cup of cole slaw with a pickle slice. He made small talk with several of the other men in the cell, drifting off to sleep, awaking occasionally, as they would add a new prisoner.

Waking in the early morning, he was surprised to see a dozen or more men in the twelve-by-twelve cell. Although there was no window it felt like early morning, so he closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep.

The next sound he heard was the jailer who was, again, staring straight ahead and calling his name. He was handcuffed and taken to a sally port, and from there to a waiting ambulance with two attendants. They instructed him to lie on a stretcher, and as he complied, he was strapped down and taken away for evaluation. The attendants, trying to make small talk with him as they looked at his chart, asked, "Where you from, John?"

He smiled and answered, "America."

"No, what part?"

"All of me," he answered.

"You know what I mean, North, South, East, West? Where?"

John looked up. "Where I’m from is not where I am. Where I am has no relationship to where I’m going, so where I’m from has no relationship to anything."

"Hey, John, I’m not wearing a gun, just making small talk, Buddy. I don’t mean to offend you."

John smiled, saying, "No offense, I’ve just been asked that a lot lately and it has no more meaning to me than my shoe size. To just say America should be enough."

"It’s enough for me, John," the attendant answered.

He was admitted to the hospital, his paperwork processed, and he was placed in a bed with restraints on his wrists. A nurse came in and took his vital signs without saying a word to him. Later, an older gentleman with a lab coat entered. "John Smith?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"John, I’m Doctor Nuesbaum," he announced. "I’m here to evaluate you. What seems to be the problem? Why are you here with us today?"

John heaved a sigh, saying, "I wanted to see the President, that’s all."

"What did you want to see him about?" Doctor Nuesbaum inquired.

"I wanted to speak to him about the state of our nation."

"What would you have told him if you had been able to see him, John?"

"To leave," he answered. "And the Vice President, too."

"Is that a reasonable expectation, John? Do you think that if you could have gotten in to see the President he would have listened to you?"

"Probably not."

"Then what would be the point? Why should the President listen to you?"

"Because he works for me," John replied.

"Well, he works for me as well, and I would like for him to stay," the doctor explained.

"Doctor," John replied, almost bemused, "I’m in your hospital because I was arrested. A Secret Service agent told a city policeman to take me away to a city jail so that a city judge could send me to this state hospital, so you could come in here and tell me the President works for you as well? Your paycheck, the judge’s paycheck, the cop’s paycheck, the jailer’s paycheck, and Secret Service agent’s paycheck all come from the same government coffers. Yet, you are trying to convince me that you and I are on the same team. Isn’t that kind of like the center of a football team trying to convince the linemen on the other team how they should let the running back through, because they are on the same team as well? Here you’re trying to evaluate my sanity, and now I’m questioning yours! My chances for a sane verdict appear slim, for it appears one of us is truly crazy, but you, Doctor, are holding the pen."

Dr. Nuesbuam asked, "Do you feel like the government is out to get you?"

"No," he replied.

"Do you feel that anyone is out to get you?"

"No, Sir," he replied.

"Then why should the President and Vice President step down?"

John looked up toward the ceiling and asked, "Doctor, have you ever driven a bus?"

"No, I haven’t, John."

"But you’ve ridden on buses, right?"

"Sure," he answered.

"So, if you were on a bus, and it started to swerve into oncoming traffic, you’d have two choices, to get off or to stop the driver. Would the explanation that you had never driven a bus disqualify you from judging his driving?"

"No, it wouldn’t, John."

"So, if you stopped that bus, could you just get off and let the bus go on its way?"

The doctor interrupted, "I understand, John, that you don’t like the President’s performance but why should he step down on your say-so?"

"Because," John sighed, "I can’t just get off. And I can’t just let it go on this way without yelling, 'Stop!'"

"But, John, don’t you see you're not changing anything, you're just creating a disturbance?"

"So, you think that’s the answer, Doctor, to just be quiet and go away?" he asked. Adding, "That would be the sane response? Tell me again how we are on the same side, Doc."

"John," Doctor Nuesbaum said, "we will speak again later." But they never did. As the doctor opened the door to leave, an orderly brought in a tray with John’s lunch and left it at the foot of the bed. The doctor said, "Enjoy your lunch," as he and the orderly left, not noticing John was still in wrist restraints. Several hours later a nurse came in to check on him.

"Are you not hungry?" she asked.

John tried to raise his hands, showing the restraints on his wrists. As she untied them she asked, "Why didn’t you just pull the cord over your bed?"

John smiled, "I guess I didn’t think of that."

After another forty-eight hours passed, he was removed from the hospital, again strapped down on the stretcher, to the ambulance, to the sally port, then back to the jail cell. First thing the next morning he was taken from the cell directly back into Judge Gallant’s courtroom. Looking down from the bench, the judge peered at John and asked, "Are you feeling any better today, Mr. Smith?"

"Mr. Smith, the hospital advises me that you’re not crazy, but you’re not right, either. They think you have delusions of grandeur, probably brought on by a post-traumatic stress disorder of some sort. They think you are some sort of Don Quixote, tilting at windmills. What do you think, Mr. Smith? Is it windmills you're after?""I feel fine, Sir," he answered.

John remained silent. "Smith, here’s what I know; your fingerprints came back with nothing so you’ve never been arrested before now. The doctor’s report says they think you are sincere in your desire to want to make the world a better place, and that you’re not violent. You are just confused as to how to go about doing that. Are you confused, Mr. Smith?"

John stared directly back into Judge Gallant’s eyes, saying, "No, Sir, not a bit confused."

"Okay, Smith, here’s the deal, I’ll let you saddle up for your quest and I’ll drop all the charges if you agree to stay away from the White House and not bother them again, or at least seek a parade permit before doing so. Have we got a deal, Smith?"

"No, Sir, no deal!" he replied without hesitation.

"In that case, Mr. Smith, I find you guilty of disturbing the peace and vagrancy. You will pay a five hundred-dollar fine or spend the next thirty days tilting at windmills in the district jail. Which will it be, Mr. Smith?"

He pondered for a minute, and then looked back at the judge. "I’ve got the time, and I don’t have the five hundred dollars."

"All right then, Smith, it’s your decision," Gallant answered.

"Yeah, sure," John said. "My decision."

The bailiff took him back to the jail, this time to a regular lock-up cell. Much smaller and dirtier, it was dark and he was alone. He lay on the bunk, contemplating his situation for about thirty minutes when the jailer returned, again looking straight ahead as he called out, "Smith!"

John smiled and looked around as if there was someone else in the cell with him. "Well," he said, "since I’m the only one here, you must mean me." He wondered what was up but didn’t think that asking the automaton would do much good. The jailer handcuffed him and marched him back through the cellblock, past the heavy, iron door that led into the offices. The bright, fluorescent light hurt his eyes for a moment as they walked to the end of the room. He noticed windows with a view of the outside world. They stopped at a desk and the jailer removed his handcuffs.

An overweight, balding officer asked, "You John Smith?"

"Yes, Sir," he answered, as his hopes rose.

"Sign here," he ordered, pushing a clipboard towards him. As he signed, the cop placed a manila folder on the desk, and holding it by its end, dumped it out.

"One hundred dollars, U.S. currency," he read aloud off the folder as the crumpled bill fell on the desk. Whistling, the cop asked, mocking him, "What you gonna do with all that money?"

John didn’t respond, he only asked, "What about the fine?"

"It’s paid," the desk cop answered.

"Who paid it?" he asked.

"I don’t know," the cop explained as he leaned back in his chair. "Maybe you ought to head for the high country before they figure out they’ve paid the fine for the wrong Smith," he smirked. "One more thing, Smith, I was told to give you this card."

John turned and headed towards the door as the overcast sky started to drizzle. John read the card: Sacred Heart of Jesus Homeless Shelter, Father David McGrath, Pastor. As he put the card in his pocket, a cop passed him on the sidewalk and John asked, "Which way to the White House?" The cop, saying nothing, pointed in the general direction, and John walked off through the rain.

Once again, they had taken him to court so he had missed lunch and was released before supper. The five o’clock exodus of fleeing government workers had begun in the city, leaving him alone on the sidewalk, with only his hunger and the rain to accompany him. He walked for several miles, through the maze of tenements and boarded-up shops, until he saw some men milling about a storefront, as the shadows began to touch the other side of the street. The sign in the window read: Sacred Heart of Jesus Homeless Shelter. Underneath the title was a graphic image of the Virgin Mary holding a human heart. He shuddered as he remembered how images such as those had frightened him as a child, and then smiled at himself for being such a pussy.

He stepped in the door and shook off the rain, as a fresh-faced, young black man greeted him. "Hi, how are you?"

"Wet," he replied.

"Come on in and dry off. We're glad you’re here," the young man offered.

"I kind of found you by accident," he explained.

"I’m Michael," the young man said. "Maybe it was an accident and maybe God sent you here to us."

"Well, someone sent me here," John answered. "I was given this card."

Michael looked at the card, somewhat puzzled by it, and said, "Let me get Father Dave. I’m sorry," he asked, "what was your name?"

"John, John Smith."

Father McGrath was a small-framed, thin man in his late thirties with straight, black hair and a receding hairline, but his haircut made him look more like a yuppie than a priest, in his open-collared shirt. As he approached he stuck out his hand saying, "Welcome, John, come on in. Let’s talk."

John, somewhat puzzled asked, "How do you know me, Father?"

"Well, I don’t, John, but a mutual friend of ours told me you needed some help. They told me you had some trouble with the law, but that you were a good sort who needed a job and maybe some help getting back on your feet."

"What mutual friend is that?"

"John, I was told you were a private man and that I would do well to respect your privacy, and I’m going to have to ask the same from you."

"I’m not off my feet, Father, and I have a job, an important job, but it doesn’t pay anything, in money that is."

"I understand that; we have many here, John, who are underemployed. But please, you must excuse me now; we can talk some more later. I must prepare for Mass; after that we eat. You are always welcome to attend," the priest explained. "I will ask Michael to help you to get settled in

As the priest held Mass, John sat silently in the back of the room. Listening, but not participating in the ritual, like the other half dozen or so men in the room. As soon as the priest had finished the Mass, almost on cue, the crowd of the hungry swelled. John was surprised to find the food was quite good! Of course, he reasoned, after a week of jail and hospital food, he shouldn’t be all that surprised. As he was finishing, Michael sat down across from him, and still smiling, asked, "What do you think of the food?"

John returned his smile. "It’s good. All food is good; the less you’ve had, the better it is."

"You know, John, the Lord calls on us to feed His sheep."

John nodded in agreement, "That’s what we all should try and do." He then asked, "I’m sure you’ll need help in the kitchen? I’m sure the Lord calls on us to clean up after His sheep, as well."

As they washed dishes, Michael explained, "John, you can stay here up to thirty days without being in any of the shelter's programs, such as job training. And if you are working," Michael asked, "please consider a donation." But adding, "Don’t short yourself, just what you can afford." After finishing the dishes, Michael showed John a bed in the dormitory upstairs.

He lay in bed and tried to relax; it had been five days since he had slept on a real bed that didn’t have bars in front of it or restraints on the sides of it. He tossed and turned, fluffed and re-fluffed the pillow, finally lying on his side with his eyes wide open. He found himself staring at a poorly stenciled sign on the door that read "No Exit" in running, red paint. He tossed and turned as he wondered about what he felt he must do; not about what he thought would happen to himself, for he had already steeled himself for those prospects, but for those around him, for those he hadn’t even met yet. The battle raged between his conscience and unconsciousness, his fearlessness versus his fear for innocents. The battle ended with the thunderous crash of a dumpster in the alley below, and he woke with a start.

The purple hues of dawn had already started giving birth to new shadows, crawling across the floor of the room. As he got up to watch the dawn he paused, staring out the window for, in his mind, the night was over and the new day already begun. He watched out the window towards the expectant sky as the dark purple started paling into blue and the streetlights winked out, one by one. He savored the quiet of dawn as a place of rest and refuge and perhaps his last solitude.

"John?" A voice whispered, as he slowly turned and saw Father McGrath motion him to the landing. He stepped lightly over to McGrath. "Good morning, John. How are you, did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you, Father," he replied.

"John, maybe now is a good time for us to continue our talk, shall we?"

As they walked down the stairs, the priest spoke. "As you can imagine, John, I meet all kinds of people and I try to help them if I can. Some I can, some I can’t, but I must try to help everyone. But in order for me to do that I have to know why they are here and what their problems are. Now, if you’re a Catholic, John, we can hold the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Or, if you’re not Catholic but still a Christian, I can advise you as a minister of God. If you’re not a Christian I can still listen to you, just man-to-man."

They retired to the priest’s tiny office in the storefront, a room originally designed for counting money, which required little space, but for unburdening a soul was far too cramped. After being seated Father McGrath began again, " Would you like me to hear your confession, John?"

"Yes, Father, but not today."

"Well then, John, tell me, why are you here?"

He pondered the question, unsure of where to start. "Father McGrath" he began, but the priest interrupted.

"Please, Father Dave or just Dave."

He began again, "Father Dave, were you called to the priesthood or did you just join, hoping a calling would find you?"

"I was called, John."

"Did you feel that you had been asleep your whole life and then suddenly you were startled awake?"

"Yes, John, to some degree."

"But you were certain, from that moment on you were doing the right thing and all fear of failure was gone? That your path was laid out before you, your goal was clear and your path certain? The only mystery was to be in the number of steps."

"Steps? John," Father Dave inquired, "do you feel called to do something?"

"Yes, Father, I do," he answered.

"May I ask what it is?"

"To overthrow the government, Father."

Father Dave McGrath had been doing this work at the shelter for over six years but it was all he could do not to lose his composure. He had heard the confessions of murderers and rapists, confessing to the most heinous of crimes, but this was something new to him. Shifting in his chair to belie his discomfort he asked, "John, don’t you think that’s somewhat of an unreasonable goal? To think you can bring down the government? By yourself?"

"No more than you and this shelter," John answered. "Father, can you feed all the hungry? Can you save all the poor?"

"But we're not alone here, John. There are other churches and other groups, hundreds of volunteers and thousands who donate money, all to fill a basic human need."

"Then, Father," he responded, "we are in the same business. You see, I seek to fulfill a basic need, as well. To return this nation back to freedom, back to the people as it was promised to them, so we may go where we wish, and read what we wish, and say what we wish, and live how we wish. And the government may tax us and we will pay. The government may say that we must serve and we will serve.

"But when the government uses that tax money to spy on us, or torture us, or uses policemen as soldiers, or soldiers as policemen, or uses our children as tools of aggrandizement, then when those children have given their all, to the last measure, to ship them home in cardboard boxes like so many pieces of damaged freight with only the dark of night as their honor guard. Abandoned and spit out by the country they once claimed they were honored to serve so that their parents must pick up their dearest personal tragedy at the airport like a secondhand, lost suitcase. Or, return them wounded, with shattered lives and limbs with an invoice tucked under their arm, or what’s left of their arm, for what they owe! They owe, Father, to the government for their service!"

"John, I can see how passionate this is for you. Have you lost someone in this war?"

"Yes, Father, I’ve lost every last one of them. Today it’s my son, tomorrow it’s someone else’s and it doesn’t make any damn difference whose because it galls me. They serve because they love their country. You love your country, I love my country, but to those that send them, they think they’re chumps, they're suckers for loving their country. They play on their patriotism like a con man relies on greed. They want to send them on the cheap; there’s no corner we can’t cut when it comes to our boys!

"And finally, Father, it came to me, there was only one word left in my mind: enough. Enough already! I asked myself, why in God’s name doesn’t somebody stop this? Why doesn’t someone do something? How many calamities, disasters, and lies will it take? How big must the pile grow? How many dead are enough? How much blood is enough?" As John looked up from the floor with tears welling in his eyes, he looked at the priest and calmly said, "Then it came to me, Father, it’s on me. I have to do it."

Father Dave leaned back in his chair and asked, "John, you don’t intend on using violence, do you?"

"No, Father, I don’t intend on violence. But I will stop this, so as is the will of Heaven, so be it."

"John," the priest asked, more to inquire about tactics than mission, "what are your plans?"

"My plan is to stand at the front gate of the White House until they let me see the President, and then, when I do, I will demand that this administration resign."

"But, John, that’s nonsense, it’s been tried before. I’m sure you heard of Cindy Sheehan, didn’t you? They just ignored her."

"But she quit, Father, she quit her post. She tried to use her fame and the media to do the job for her. Her cause was just, she had the attention and sympathies of the people, but for some reason she thought it could be done from a distance. I intend on closing in on them, eye to eye."

"John," father Dave explained, showing signs of weariness that shouldn’t appear at such an early hour, "I admire your passion but I fear for your future. I pray that you will remain peaceful in a world which is not. But I think that you will just be a petty annoyance to them and they will make you disappear, either by jail or by death."

"If my choices are death or a jail cell or to do nothing, Father, then what value does my life have? If not to serve God and man? We will all die, and it won’t be remembered if we won or lost the fight, only that we were willing to be in the fight and die trying. Father, what value does old age hold if I must crawl to it?"

As he stood to leave, Father Dave advised him, "Keep the peace of Christ in your heart and take care that those around you don’t get hurt."

As John left the shelter he thought about how the priest's last comments mirrored his own thoughts. As he approached the exit he saw a barrel that was marked "donations please." Dropping in the hundred-dollar bill he walked out into the clear morning air. Walking again the blocks to the White House, he felt a nervous excitement of returning to the spot of his earlier arrest. He stood tall and erect and awaited his fate.

He went unnoticed for less than a minute, when one of the guards noticed and nudged Bill Henderson, saying, "Your buddy's back!"

As the agent bolted from the security office he called out to John, before the door had fully closed, "Mr. Smith, what makes you think coming back here is going to be any different this time than last time?"

"That would depend on you, Sir," John replied. "You can arrest me this time, and next time, and the time after that, but it will only delay the issue of dealing with me, because I will just keep coming back again and again."

"All right, Smith, how about you just wait across the street in the park?" Henderson asked.

"No, Sir, I’m waiting for the President at the White House. If I move across the street, I’m waiting across the street. I’m not trying to be difficult with you, but if I’m going to wait across the street, I might as well wait in Omaha or Malibu."

"Smith," the agent asked, "work with me here. It's not a problem to have you removed you know, just a phone call."

"If that’s all," he answered, "make the call. You know I’ll just be back tomorrow, or next week, or next month. How about this?" John asked. "You pick a spot on this sidewalk, out of your way, and that’s where I’ll stay. I’ll make myself known when I arrive and you put me on the list of those wishing to see the President."

The agent huffed, "I think you’re a used-car salesman. You promise, no signs, no shouting or waving, just stand there silently?"

"Yes, Sir, scouts honor," he answered.

The agent looked at his watch and said, "Let’s see how it goes; no promises, we'll see."

John snapped, "Don’t call me a wussy."

"What!" The agent spun back around. "What did you say?"

"Nothing," John grinned. "I just couldn’t resist." The agent turned back again and marched toward the security building.