One of my Secret Service agents is a sour looking Men in Black type. Dark suit. Dark glasses. He never smiles. He’s always in the way. When I tell him to relax and sit down somewhere away from me, he says, ‘I’m just doing my job, boy.’ Then he changes it to, ‘Sir.’ The subtlety is not lost on me.
Michelle and I have dubbed him ‘Hillary.’ That’s our code name for any Secret Service agent who fails to act like a human being instead of a spy who failed to come in from the cold war.
Hillary was on my tail last week and I just had to do something. The tension was getting to me. I had just lost Pennsylvania and needed some time to myself, so I stepped into a hotel rest room. The standard routine is that Hillary and his crew close off the rest room, inspect it, then let me use it. All that takes time and I was pissing while I was pissed about it.
As I was standing there at the urinal I looked up and saw a sliding window that was open. All I had to do was grab the pipe above the urinal, pull myself up, slide open the window, and climb out to the parking lot. So I did.
I didn’t tell Hillary where I was going. Man, was he freaked out. I stood outside the window for a few minutes until I heard someone come into the rest room. I figured it was Hillary. I could hear the toilet stall doors bang open, one by one. Then Hillary was on his two-way radio squawking that the ‘Senator has been kidnapped.’
I laughed so hard I almost wet myself. Then I walked around to the front of the hotel and into the lobby. When Hillary finally caught up to me, all out of breath and sweating up a storm, I accused him of leaving his post.
That’s what Michelle and I call pulling Hillary’s chain.
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