A funny thing happened on the way to the forum

Sometimes at a big event, it’s the little things behind the scene that make a story

Last night I accompanied my husband to a political event. Having attended a fair number of these in the past, I would normally prefer to stay home with the dogs, far from the madding crowd. But this time I bestirred myself—with many misgivings—because no matter how reticent you are, you shouldn’t let life pass you by.

My husband is an old pro, unruffled by public appearances, but he was hesitant when I suggested I drive, my car having been more recently vacuumed of dog hair. In the end he acquiesced, because dog hair is very much a presence in our lives, and his car is the take-the-dogs-for-sausage-biscuits car, and somewhat the worse for it.

We were less than a mile from our house when he became alarmed. “Why are you going this way? You should have turned there.”

“I know the back way,” I said. “Trust me.”

“Why wouldn’t you take the highway?” he asked. “It’s 31 minutes. I went that way this afternoon.”

“That was during the day,” I said confidently. “It’s rush hour. They’re going to close the freeways for the motorcade. This is better.”

I showed him the gps. “It’s about the same both ways. I go this way all the time to the dogs’ opthalmologist.”(Ed. note: I know how that sounds.)

“We have to enter from the south. The Secret Service has the northern access blocked with snowplows.”

”It’s fine,” I said. “I checked the route this morning in the bathtub. I know the way.”

“I shouldn’t have let you drive.”

There followed a marital discussion. At last he said, “Okay. Do it your way.”

As we approached the neighborhood of the theater, I was insulted when my husband got out his gps.

“You’re approaching from the north. We have to approach from the south.”

And that’s when I realized: my vague and sporadicly recurring dyslexia had struck again. In my mind, the road I was planning to take was entering from the south. But I had turned it around. It was from the north. We would be late.

“It’s okay,” my kind husband said calmly. “We can turn here.”

With no fuss, and no backtracking, we took a road to the south, passed through the security checkpoints (there were two) and arrived at the venue.

“Turn right,” my husband said, as we entered the drive.

”But the theater is to the left. Your parking spot is in front.”

“It’s to the right.”

My credibility shot, we turned right and drove down to the far end of the parking area.

“This is the adjacent dog park, you know,” I couldn’t help adding.

As we got out of the car, my husband swore quietly. “I forgot my watch.” This was a necessity for a moderator.

“Wear mine.” He thanked me and put it on.

Feeling grateful I had decided not to wear the chic black suede heels I had tried on before we left the house, we had a lovely walk to the theater in a beautiful autumn afternoon, right past the orange cones at front where we were supposed to park. We got through security and were escorted backstage to a dressing room. The campaign staff were remarkably calm, cheerful, and helpful. Everywhere secret service in suits and military guys in full kit—flak jackets, helmets, camouflage, and massive guns—patrolled the halls. They were fiercely intimidating. But later, when it was all over, their duties relieved, as we walked past a cluster of them, I said “You guys are awesome,” and they all grinned and thanked me like school boys.

In the dressing room, my husband sat down to review his notes, and I retreated to the couch to shop online for some new black boots. Knowing there’d be lots of extra time, I’d been planning this all day, and besides, when I poked my head out the door the secret service people all up and down the hallway looked up. I didn’t dare even peruse the autographed photos of stars along the wall for fear I might cause an agent to twitch.

My husband stood up to pace the room, and I noticed something. The silk lining of his beautifully tailored suit was hanging below his jacket like a tail. It was something the dry cleaner should have caught.

In my days in the theater I never went anywhere without a sewing kit, glue, duct tape, pins, and an extra pair of tights—among other things. But I’m out of the habit, and hadn’t thought about whether such things might be needed tonight for an event whose livestream would reach literally millions. This was not a network event, with makeup and props people on hand to help with a little emergency. There was no one to ask. I stood up—bookmarking the incredibly chic boots I’d found—and dug through my purse. Nothing useful. I looked around the room. It was utterly bare except for a pump bottle of hand sanitizer. Braving the secret service, I stepped into the passageway and looked up and down for someone to ask. But one doesn’t ask the secret service for a safety pin.

Across the hall was an empty room with a printed sign taped to the door. I carefully peeled off the bottom piece of tape, leaving the sign in place and returned to the dressing room.

“This isn’t great, but it’s what we’ve got.” I taped the lining to the fabric of the jacket, but the tape had paper stuck to it, and I had doubts about its long-term efficacy.

Then, for reasons I can’t really explain, I took one of the prints down from the dressing room wall. There, hidden behind it, was a postcard sized pencil drawing of a young man. It was taped to the wall with two pieces of blue electrical tape. Eureka.

Carefully peeling the tape from the drawing, I tucked the drawing into the mirror and did a more thorough job of taping the lining of the jacket. Problem solved, my husband resumed pacing, and in a habitual gesture I always find attractive, put his right hand into his trouser pocket as he walked. The jacket, stuck with tape, now hitched up behind him in a truly unfortunate manner.

“Don’t do that again,” I said. But mannerisms are difficult to supress when one’s mind is on the job. This was not going to be a solution.

Fortunately, five minutes later, the lead staffer poked her head in the door. “You look like a woman with a safety pin,” I said. She shook her head regretfully. “Normally, I am, but at the moment I don’t have one. I’ll ask around.” When she reappeared ten minutes later with news that the motorcade was five minutes away, she handed me a safety pin. My husband stood patiently while I finagled with the jacket.

The head of the campaign came in to discuss details with my husband. She sat beside me on the couch. “How are you?” I asked. “Thank you for asking. I’m tired.”

We knew the motorcade had arrived when the hall was suddenly filled with a whirl of footsteps and low voices. VPOTUS walked around the corner wearing an elegant green suit. I have met a lot of public figures from all kinds of endeavors. I won’t say that celebrity doesn’t impress me, because sometimes it is earned and deserved. But the old adage “Fawn not upon the mighty” is worth remembering. So perhaps when I say she is a warm and genuine person who looks you in the eye, pays attention to what you say, and responds intelligently, you will appreciate that this is not the norm.

I was shown to my extremely good seat at the front of the theater, where my name was printed on a piece of paper and taped to the seat, and crumpled loudly whenever I moved for the next hour. I was warmly greeted by a member of theater management and his wife, already seated.

”We’re so excited,” they told me. “But you must go to these things all the time.”

“Well, no,” I said. “Actually, I had a hard time finding anything to wear that didn’t have dog hair on it.”

The Lieutenant Governor, whom I had never met, and who had no idea who I was (and why would she?) turned around, convinced that I was important, and introduced herself. It is, no doubt, a sign of civic malfeasance that I couldn’t tell you her name.

A face in the crowd.

Across the aisle from us in the audience sat a secret service agent whose secret-service-agentness screamed from his every pore. He was like an Ayn Rand character. Tall, handsome, chisel-featured, fit and stoic, the coil from his earpiece winding around the back of his very starched white collar, he was about as inconspicuous as Eli at a chihuahua convention. Had he been cast in a Netflix series we would all have rolled our eyes and commented that he was too on-the-nose. The only thing missing was the dark glasses, but then, he was in a darkened theater. I watched him off and on during the event, struck by his inhuman perfection, and never saw his expression change.

The event went well, the motorcade whisked away, and I found the helpful staffer who had shown me to my seat to take me backstage. My husband was standing in the hall with Congresswoman Cheney and her chief of staff, both gracious and unassuming. We chatted for a few moments, but it had been a long day, they must have been tired.

After pausing repeatedly to chat with old colleagues, pols, and friends, we finally stepped out into the balmy night air. As we crossed the nearly empty parking lot, I thought I heard someone following us, and nervously looked back several times. The Secret Service and intensive police presence had melted away, leaving the rest of us to our fates. Finally, he spoke, calling my husband’s name. I did not find this reassuring.

But he was a reporter from a French newspaper, wanting to interview my husband. I left them to their privacy, and strolled down the sidewalk toward the car, thinking my husband would soon catch up. Before I knew it, I was deep in the dark, walking down the middle of empty parking lots between huge artistically planted swaths of ornamental grasses that towered over my head. This, I thought, was probably not one of my better life decisions. My husband and the reporter were out of sight. But I was halfway there. My feet now hurt in my Spanish ankle boots. Could I run?

This is Waukesha County. Perfectly safe. But I couldn’t help thinking of the wackos who come to these events, and often try to talk to my husband. Could one of them be here? I clicked the key fob to unlock the car, but nothing happened, and I realized there were two more parking lots to go, each connected by a dark lane lined with tall grasses.

At this point in the narrative, you are all realizing—as I did—that I need to get out more. Nothing happened. My husband joined me as I reached the car. The lone car parked next to us turned out to belong to the French reporter. We waved good bye and went home to be greeted by joyous and very hungry dogs.

I had a whisky. Actually, two.

***

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