The FBI Incident

THE FBI INCIDENT

It all happened during the year of Our Lord 1992, whilst traveling the East Coast of the good old U.S of A. I had just said my farewells to the friends that accompanied me throughout Florida. I had one week to go before returning to England.

With about four days to go, I found myself in a dire financial situation, namely that I had ran out of money, apart from one dollar and twenty-five cents, which I kept safely secure in my back pocket, which was the amount I needed to get from Penn Station, New York to J.F.K Airport of the same city.
Four days to survive, no money and nowhere to turn. Living off complimentary peanuts placed upon the tables of the trains that I traveled on, and a box a 'cheerio cereals' that I had brought earlier.

The trains, that in America were called 'Amtrak Trains', were in many respects my hotels, for I traveled overnight journeys just to have somewhere safe and warm to sleep. This was available because I was in ownership of an Amtrak Train Pass, entitling me to unlimited travel across the width and breadth of the Eastern Coast. It was my savior. One day I would arrive in Washington to take the overnight train to Chicago, the following night from Chicago to Montreal and so on.

Which brings me onto a tantrum to the story; a little story in it's self.
The Amtrak Pass cost about £250 for three months unlimited travel. This was a lot of money to me, especially considering my financial state as I prepared to leave 'Kiwago Summer Camp' and embark on three months of travel. Suffice to say the sums didn't add up, I was in trouble, my back was against the wall, and drastic action was required.

So while reading the Camp America Leaflet on the 'Do's and Don'ts of Traveling in U.S.A', I was excited to come across an advert advertising the aforementioned Amtrak Pass. And as I had nothing to lose, I wrote out a cheque for £250, knowing full well I had no money in my bank, and sent it away. It was a long shot, and had no real expectations of receiving anything back in return.

Though low and behold two weeks later an Amtrak Pass arrived in the post, closely followed by a letter from the management of Camp America, informing me that the cheque had bounced, and that if it wasn't paid in full, as soon as possible, that is, by return of post, my return flight back to England would be cancelled.

This last sentence literally sent a shiver down my spine.

I had to do something, but the one thing that I should have done, was the one thing I couldn't do, I hadn't the money to pay.

Reverting to the belief of the Human Spirit, helping those that need help, I wrote back enclosing a £50 postal order attached to a pleading/begging letter, promising that as soon as I returned to England, I'll repay the remaining £200 within a week.

I left the Summer Camp before I received their reply, thus as my final days in America drew to a close, I still never knew for sure whether I had a flight ticket out. My state of mind wasn't at it's best.

All accumulating early, one sunny day, as I arrived in the capital, Washington D.C. The plan was to spend the day sightseeing before returning to the Train Station to catch an overnight train, to Buffalo.

Walking along the street, I felt the need to release, what I thought was a little, tidy, innocent fart. The consequences of letting loose such an irrelevant little innocent fart, never crossed my mind, I'd been letting loose such little, innocent farts all my life.

Oh, how wrong I was, how guilty the fart. And considering that at this stage, I had been eating nothing else but peanuts and cheerios, what was about to follow should really have been predicted.

For to my absolute horror, the little innocent fart was replaced instead with a bucket full of diarrhoea or liquid shit, if you like to call it that, gushing into my underpants, spoiling my pants beyond comprehension.

With my buttocks squelching against each other, with the smell of utter shit hammering against my scent glands, paranoia stabbing daggers into me, each time I passed another person, I walked on, with my head held high, my mind in turmoil, I walked on, desperately wondering, what the hell to do.

I had to do something and I had to do it fast.

I made a feeble attempt at wrapping my jumper around my waist to hide the smell, though as you would guess, it made not a damn bit of difference.

It was just at this point I was walking past the J. Edgar Hoover Building, otherwise known as the F.B.I Building. A solution sprung to mind.

Walking through the outer glass doors, into the foyer, approaching the metal detector entrance gates, nearing the four or five huge black security guards, who watched me with suspicious eyes, and folded arms, pondering what impending enquiry I would ask; I summoned the nerve and asked,
"Good morning guys, would you mind if I could use your toilets please, I'd only be a moment and it'd really be appreciated?" followed by the best smile I could muster, under the circumstances.

Now, I don't know whether they could smell what kind of trouble I was in, or whether it was my British charm, either way they let me in.

Once in the privacy of the toilet, I stripped, removed the spoiled underpants and stuffed them behind the toilet's cistern, cleaned myself up, regained my composure and ultimately left the building.

"Thanks guys, I really needed that".

"You're welcome, have a nice day now".

Little did they know what ghastly crime I had just perpetrated, and I still wonder how long it took before they did discover it. Though I don't wonder about it too much.

I got back to England, though regrettably 'Camp America' never got their £200.