True Tales of the Citizen Corps: A New Breed of Secret Agent

If I told you my real name, I'd have to kill you. And believe me, as an elite member of Citizen Corps, I have the authority to do just that. Besides, you probably already know my code name: "Cable Guy." I may seem like an ordinary employee of your local cable company, but I'm really a secret agent.

I know, I know. You seem to be under the impression that secret agents are supposed to run around in tuxedos, impersonating foreign dignitaries at debutante balls, or sabotaging the doomsday devices of evil geniuses bent on destroying the world. If that's what you think it's all about, then you've been watching too many James Bond movies. This is reality, and I'm just a normal U.S. citizen trying to do his patriotic duty in the fight against terrorism.

To show you just how important my job is, let me share with you some of the details of my latest mission. It's a harrowing tale, but one that must be told so that you realize just how important we agents are to the security of this nation.

It all started when I got the call one Monday afternoon. Mrs. Benson, a 76-year-old widow living at 2304 Walker Street, wanted cable TV in her new home. At first, I thought nothing of it. It seemed like a routine installation. But my suspicions were raised the moment I laid eyes on that woman.

I arrived precisely when I told Mrs. Benson I would be there, sometime between one and five o'clock. When my van pulled up to the curb outside her modest, one level, suburban home, she was outside working in her garden. Strange, I thought, glancing up at the sky. It's cloudy today, and the forecast calls for rain. Why would she be out here watering her flowers? That certainly seems suspicious...

"Hello!" Mrs. Benson called out as soon as she saw me. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up at all today." She was smiling, but that didn't fool me. I could see right away that something was going on. There was something about her that made me feel uneasy.

"Looks like rain," I said, trying to stay in control of the conversation. "You're probably wasting water on those flowers."

Mrs. Benson smiled again and took off her dirty gardening gloves. "Well, I just transplanted these little guys from the backyard. They could use the extra moisture."

Hmmm... Transplanted from the backyard. Why? Was she making room for something else back there? I knew I had to find out what she was really up to.

Inside her humble abode, she began to walk me around the house, explaining where she wanted the cable outlets. It turned out that she wanted three: one in the living room, one in the bedroom, and one in the kitchen. The kitchen? Who watches TV in the kitchen? My mind was racing.

During the tour, I was making mental notes. Mrs. Benson seemed to have gone out of her way to give the impression that she was normal. I saw pictures of her deceased husband, her kids, and her grandchildren. It all seemed a little too normal, if you know what I mean. She even had various crosses and Bible verses strategically placed throughout the house, as if trying to scream the message, "Hey! I'm not an Islamic fundamentalist! I'm just a normal, churchgoing grandma!" I wasn't buying it.

There were other things that led me to believe that Mrs. Benson was not what she appeared to be. When she noticed me taking an interest in her "craft table," she quickly explained, "Oh, excuse the mess. I make handmade Christmas ornaments in my spare time to sell at my antique shop."

A likely story. This was the middle of the summer. Why would anyone be concerned with Christmas ornaments at this time of year? It was obvious that she was hiding something. The best thing for me to do was to just play it cool.

After about an hour, I had her cable installed. I called out to let her know I had finished, but she didn't answer. I started to walk through the living room, toward the kitchen, and it was then that I caught sight of something in the hall closet. Carefully, I crept over to the door that had been left slightly ajar.

To my astonishment, the old lady's closet actually turned out to be a small arsenal. I counted three rifles, four shotguns, and no less than seven handguns. There were also several swords and knives tucked away in the corner, loosely covered with an old blanket. What was going on?! A tremendous fear swept over me. What kind of responsible grandmother keeps a cache of weapons in her hall closet?

Just then, I heard her voice behind me. "I see you found my late husband's antique military collection. He was a big history buff, and has something from just about every major conflict, from the American Revolution to Vietnam. It took him decades to collect it all, and I just haven't been able to part with it. You know, you look a little warm. Would you care for some fresh lemonade?"

I knew I had to act quickly. "Yes. Yes I would." I pretended to go along with her little scheme. She saw that I knew too much and thought she could poison me with her special "lemonade." Well, I was on to her.

The moment her back was turned, I made my move. From the Citizen Corps Spy Kit I kept in my toolbox, I ripped a Suspect Inhibiting Presoaked Chloroform Pad out of its foil pouch, reached around from behind, and held it firmly over her nose and mouth. In an instant, her unconscious body slumped against me, and I carried her to the couch in the living room.

Without hesitation, I whipped out my cell phone and put in a call to the local Citizen Corps Council, who then called the FBI field office for back-up. About 15 minutes later, I heard the wail of sirens, and three black vehicles screeched to a halt in front of the house.

I told the FBI agents everything that had transpired. They seemed especially interested in the weapons in the hall closet, and assured me that Mrs. Benson was exactly the kind of person they wanted under surveillance. Sure, people like her seem normal on the outside, but who knows what evil schemes they are hatching in secret?

As the agents prepared to leave with their terrorist suspect, one of them slapped me on the shoulder and handed me a small, gold star for me to put in my mission log book. "Good work, Cable Guy. If we had more vigilant citizens like you, it's a cinch this war on terror will be over before you know it." He was right.

I could see Mrs. Benson crying and pleading with the agents that she was innocent. Typical, I thought, shaking my head. I watched as the caravan of government cars disappeared around the bend, and then finished loading my tools into my van.

Before I had her arrested on suspicion of being a terrorist, my ex-wife had convinced me to quit smoking, but I always carried a couple of cigarettes in my shirt pocket to enjoy after a successful mission. I pulled one out, lit it, and inhaled deeply. I immediately felt calm once again.

Slipping into my van, I retrieved my USA Freedom Corps journal from under the driver's seat, and logged my latest contribution of volunteer service for my country. As I finished writing, I looked out across the valley upon the houses of citizens whose lives I helped save that afternoon. I started to wonder if people realized that the reason they were able to sleep at night was because of the work of agents like me.

But, of course, this wasn't about me. I realized that. It was about doing our part as citizens of this great nation, to give back to the country that has given us so much. Anything less is criminal—or at least it should be. I pondered the call-to-arms of President John F. Kennedy, who said, "Ask not what your country can do for you; ask what you can do for your country." More noble words have yet to be spoken.

I took a final drag on my cigarette, flicked the butt out the window, and adjusted my rearview mirror. My work here was done. As much as I wanted to continue to reflect on what it meant to be a patriot, it was time for me to go. The Johnson family up the road needed a cable modem installed for their home business of selling handmade greeting cards. Yeah, right. Greeting cards. We'll see about that.

I laughed so hard, I almost stopped breathing. Seriously. Don't know why. Maybe because I'm getting too serious and I need the comic relief.

Thanks!

"Monsters Due on Maple Street" You are quite correct, sir.
Claude Akins as one of the players trying to maintain sanity in a neighborhood gone mad.

"The Obsolete Man" ... Fritz Weaver, first as judge & grand inquisitor,only to slip up in his moment of great distress and himself also found obsolete in his role as was Burgess Meredith - Mr. Wordsworth.

Robert Redford as a severely wounded policeman, initially refused help by the old widow as she believes him to be the angel of death come to claim her. ....... Charles Bronson and Elizabeth Montgomery as opposing combatants in a post apocalypse world.....etc.

Imaginative writing, good casting and stories with a message within a half hour format.

when Bush leaves office it may very well will happen.

When he leaves office? I think he's looking forward to seeing this happen on his watch. The boy only looks stupid.

You all are grossly mis-evaluating the way in which TIPS runs (or will run).

News flash for y'all: Your average cable guy can, and sometimes does, call the FBI if he sees something "suspicious" ANYWAY, regardless of whether or not he styles himself a "secret agent".

The FBI has absolutely no use for an informant who calls in a report on an elderly grandmother with a flower garden. The cable guy in the story would get a chance to make such a call exactly once. The FBI would come, knock on the woman's door, see she's not a threat, apologize for wasting her time, and give the cable guy a long talking-to.

If he was found making a habit of it, he'd be jailed under aggressive accusation clauses. These are the same laws that jail women who cry, "Rape!" to put away ex-boyfriends they don't like.

The sky isn't falling, folks. I'm sorry to shatter all your conspiracy theory illusions, but the article presents a work of fiction, nothing more.

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