When does one know they have made the transition from middle age to old? Some folks might claim it occurs when a person decides to “call the guy” to perform a task that they would have tackled in the past. To me, that doesn’t work, for several reasons. I performed a variety of chores simply because I couldn’t afford to “call the guy.” At some point, I decided that the expense wasn’t as onerous when compared to the task. I go back to breakfast at my grandparent’s house. Their morning ritual seemed to be the benchmark for the crossing from middle to old age.

My grandfather would drive down to the corner store and pick up the morning Boston Record American. It was a tabloid style morning paper. When he returned home he would dismantle the paper and put it down on the breakfast table like a table cloth. He got the sports pages and box scores. Grandma got the obituaries. Grandma would provide a running commentary about the contents of the obituary pages.

Sixty years later I find myself scanning the obituary pages. There are one or two obits I’d like to see. One in particular would cause me to plan a road trip, just so I could go and piss on his grave. So far no luck.

At any rate I noticed the obituary for Markie Post. I have no particular feeling for Markie Post. Oh well, it comes to us all. Her obit did bring to mind a police war story from the the past. Without further ado….

Once Upon a Time or This is no shit!

It was the early 90’s we were assembled in the local ATF office killing time, prior to a raid briefing. It was a joint operation between ANTS and the ATF. We were milling around, drinking coffee and swapping lies. The was a Presidential election looming on the horizon. This meant that with the exception of the FBI all the other Federal agencies had to assign agents to the Secret Service to work on the candidate’s protection details. ATF maintained that the FBI wasn’t included because they were incompetent.

At any rate a young ATF agent was regaling the crowd with his experience on a Presidential candidate protective detail. He had just started when he was interrupted by an older agent. This agent came charging out of his office with a panic stricken look on his face, “You’re not gonna…” The younger agent overcame his objection saying, “No it’s about Markie Post.” The older agent calmed down and replied, “Oh, well that’s okay.”

According to the younger agent, he was posted in the elevator lobby on the floor where candidate Blow Job Bill Clinton, the Serial Rapist and future President had a room. There was only one elevator that could access that floor. The Secret Service checked all persons entering the elevator at the lobby. There were no stops in between. Normally the lobby agents would alert the floor agents that a cleared person was on the way up. It was about 2 am when the secured elevator arrived at Blow Job Bill’s floor. There was no warning. Out stepped a drunk Markie Post.

Our intrepid story teller stepped forward to intercept her when he caught a wave off from the Secret Service Agent supervising the detail. Markie stumbled down the corridor to Blow Job Bill’s room and was immediately admitted. About three hours later Markie Post reappeared. Our story teller rendered the opinion that she had dressed rather quickly, as she was more disheveled than when she went in to BJ Bill’s room. She stumbled down the hallway and entered the elevator. All without a word.

To this day I have always wondered. The story of Markie Post drunk, arriving at a married Presidential candidate’s door at 2 am for a session of plain and fancy trick fucking was no cause for concern. What story got the older agent so upset?

Wonder if BJ Bill will attend the funeral?