Vol. 12, No. 2,856W - The American Reporter - March 18, 2006

Make My Day

by Erik Deckers
American Reporter Humor Writer
Syracuse, Indiana

SYRACU.S.E, Ind. -- I wanted to be a spy when I was a kid. I wanted to drive around in cool cars, wear sharp suits, drink vodka martinis, and have beautiful women throw themselves at me, a la James Bond. After I watched my first Bond movie, I was convinced of the awesome power of suits and vodka martinis.

I knew I would be a good spy, because at age nine, my friend Eric Pratt and I snuck around the neighborhood on summer nights, trying to annoy all of our neighbors who were actually enemy spies. We didn't know who they were spying for, only that they were enemy spies. As we saw it, it was our patriotic duty to thwart these ne'er-do-wells from their villainy. (That was also our battle cry.)

We were pretty good at it too. We snuck around from backyard to backyard, and not once did we ever get caught. Oh sure, the occasional dog would bark at us, but that's to be expected when they're highly trained enemy attack dogs. Those Scottish Terriers can be extremely vicious.

Eric's and my spying efforts were based on the ability to ring people's doorbells and run away without getting caught. We got good enough at it that we could do 15 doorbells in a single night. We had a few close calls, like the people who answered their door too quickly, or the people we rang three times in a row. But other than that, we were careful planners who plotted our escape routes and meeting points before each ring.

We eventually had to stop after the parents of one of our so-called "friends" ratted us out after we hit his house one night when he couldn't go out with us. But my dreams of being a spy never died.

When I was 13 years old, I got a book about spies. It was a behind-the-scenes look at what spies did and how they were recruited. There was even a test that I could take to see if I had the temperament to be a spy. I figured out that by answering 'C' to all the questions, I would achieve the ideal score for a spy. And it only took me three tries to do it. The problem was, I didn't know who to tell about my test score or that it showed that I was qualified to drive cool cars and sleep with beautiful women. So I thought about writing a letter.

"Dear CIA, I took a test in the 'Handbook for Spies' book recently. I'm sure you're familiar with the book, since it was written by someone in your line of work. I achieved a score of 82 on the test, which said that I would make an ideal spy. Do you have an opening for any agents? If so, could you please tell me where to get my suits and car? Sincerely yours, [Name stricken for security purposes]."

However, I decided against this approach, since an enemy spy might intercept my letter at the post office. That, and I didn't have the CIA's address.

But I was undeterred. I continued reading James Bond books and watching his movies. I even bought a plastic gun that fired suction cup darts, because it looked like the kind of gun Bond carried. For hours, I practiced concealing it, pulling it out quickly, and making difficult shots in my room. The end result was that if I ever came face to face with an enemy spy who could be killed with a suction cup dart from six feet away, I had nothing to worry about.

That all changed when I finally read a newspaper article about spies, and how James Bond basically over-glamorized the spy business. "It's not really like that," the article said. "It's all about sitting in windowless rooms, analyzing information. You never get to drive cool cars, and beautiful women don't throw themselves at you on a daily basis."

That article popped my dream of becoming a spy like a balloon on broken glass. I was adrift, without any motivation or long-term goals for weeks. But soon, I was embarked on a new career. One of glamour, intrigue, and even more beautiful women. Thanks to the TV show, "Magnum P.I.," I had a new goal in life.

"Dear Private Eye Agency, I would like to be a private investigator. I am very good at gathering secrets, and I already know how to shoot a plastic Walther PPK. Do you have an opening for any investigators? If so, could you please tell me where I could pick up my red Ferrari? Sincerely, [Name stricken for security purposes]."

Copyright 2006 Joe Shea The American Reporter. All Rights Reserved.

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