One of the Boys

I suppose most of us, in our own minds, think we lead pretty unexciting lives. Barak Obama, in his secret life, wishes he were an NBA star—hell, even James Bond probably fantasizes life as a NASCAR driver. I’m no different, except no one I know has ever been called in to an FBI interrogation.

It was in the carefree spring of 1973. You remember; peace, love, equal rights for vegetables. A newly minted college graduate, I was in grad school, part-time at night, and working construction to make ends meet. Not only was I the only college graduate on the laborer crew, I was the only one without a prison record. Lunch conversations were embarrassing—one fellow had done five years for grand-theft auto, another had shot a man five times in a bar fight. Me? I got a ticket once for passing a school bus. I tried to fit in; smoked Camels, the pack rolled up in the sleeve of my t-shirt, shot craps behind the foreman’s trailer on Fridays after work. I even used the “f word” as an all-purpose modifier in my speech. Nothing seemed to work; I would always be the college kid, the misfit, the nerd.

One Tuesday evening after class, my friend Freddy talked me into attending the circus. No, not the Ringling Brothers variety, a small, one ring, European, family circus was touring colleges around the East Coast. They were performing one night only on campus and admission was free. I said OK and we went. Acrobats, aerialists, a trained bear, great fun. I noticed that all the performers with the possible exception of the bear, all seemed related—family circus indeed.

I was giving Freddy a ride back to his place when my car was nearly blown off the road by a passing fire engine headed someplace in a big hurry. “Cool!” Freddy said, “Let’s see where they’re going.” Sure, I thought, why not. I followed the truck to the parking lot of the campus armory, where it joined other pieces of equipment already there. The firemen, all volunteers, and all woefully undertrained, leapt from the engine, and began running around, tripping over hoses running into each other, and acting like act II, the comedy part, of the circus we had just left. The only thing missing from the whole fiasco was the fire. No flames, no smoke, not brave firemen rescuing fainting maidens from upper story windows. “Huh,” Freddy shrugged, “I thought it would be better than this. Let’s go.”

Next day, I was digging a hole when the foreman emerged from his trailer. “Al,” he shouted, “call your mother.” My stomach turned, nobody ever got a message from the foreman to call home unless it was something dire. Did my dad have a heart attack? Brother in a car wreck? Heart pounding, I made the call from a pay phone. “The FBI called” my mom said, “I didn’t tell them anything.” My mom was a war bride, having grown up in Nazi occupied Europe. When the authorities came calling, you didn’t say anything. She gave me the number and I made the call.

“Agent Van Dorn speaking.” Came the reply. I identified myself and asked what was the problem. “The armory at the University was firebombed last night and someone saw your car leaving the scene. We would like to talk with you.” “Okay…” I said, “I can take off from work and meet you at your office.” “No no,” Agent Van Dorn replied, “I don’t want to make you miss too much time. Let’s meet off Route 29; there’s a parking lot by the Giant.” This was beginning to sound like a bad cop show. I had visions of large, heavily armed men in flack jackets with instructions to take no prisoners surrounding my car. “It’s ok,” I said, “I can come to your office to discuss this. No problem.” I got the directions from a disappointed sounding Agent Van Dorn and told the foreman I was going to an FBI interrogation.
A half-hour later, I was walking into the FBI field office in Silver Spring. I was dirty, my jeans and work boots encrusted in mud, and leaving muddy footprints on the polished tile floor. I was escorted to an interrogation room and left to wait. I began to wonder just what I had gotten myself into. One wall was covered by a large mirror, doubtless two-way, and a photo of the J. Edgar Hoover Marksmanship Trophy, presented to Agent Van Dorn, adorned the other wall. Two large men came in. Agent Van Dorn, almost certainly, along with another agent. Both men were in dark suits, dark ties, and pocket handkerchiefs. Standard FBI garb. Agent Van Dorn read me my Miranda rights and repeated what he had told me over the phone. He asked what I had been doing at the scene of the crime. I told him all about the circus and the fire engine. I ended by saying “It was like when you’re a kid, and a fire engine goes by—you just want to see where it’s going.” Agent Van Dorn smiled and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, “you don’t have to be a kid to enjoy a good fire.” A phrase that would resonate in my head for probably the rest of my life. He thanked me for my time, took the names of corroborating witnesses, and told me if anything further came up, he would contact me. I was free to go.

When I arrived at the job site the next day, Jack, the biggest baddest dude on the laborer crew came up to me and said “I hear you were questioned by the FBI.” Apparently the foreman had passed the word. “Yeah,” I said, “No big deal.” I noticed the other guys on the crew began to talk to me more, joking and offering smokes. It dawned on me…I finally fit in; I had street cred.