By Dave MacKenzie

Commentary

With reliable sources warning that other terrorist attacks were imminent,Vice President Cheney again left Washington for an undisclosed destination. - Associated Press

Now that it’s over, the whole episode seems like Hollywood script that only a director like Oliver Stone could mess up.

Some days ago, around 10 p.m., a car with a “Papa Hemingway Pizzas” sign on the roof stopped at my front door. Several men got out, all dressed in dark suits. All wore dark glasses although the night was moonless. My keen intuition told me these were not typical pizza drivers. Right. Before I could say, “But I didn’t order…” one of the Suits flashed me a badge. They were secret service operators. The Vice President would be my guest for an unspecified length of time. Is he with you? No. He’d be arriving shortly in a mobile home. The exterior looks shoddy but inside it carried sophisticated electronic gear, a kitchen Julia Childs would envy, a four-star chef,. state of the art medical facilities and a ping pong table made from exotic woods. Just then a true relic of the dust bowl days wheezed up my drive. Out came two more Suits and someone, who resembled Woody Allen, went directly into my home. I was later told the Woody disguise was one Mr. Cheney selected. Better, they said, than his Halloween choice: bin Laden. Friendly fire almost got him.

I was briefed on “why me?” and regulations I would follow. They said I was chosen because my house had only 1 1/2 baths and one bedroom, the sort of place the Evils could not imagine creature comfort Cheney would inhabit. Besides, the house was so small terrorist bombs would have to have pin-point accuracy to make a hit, something only our state-of-the-art bombers could do. Mr. Cheney would use my upstairs bedroom and bath. I could sleep on a downstairs couch. I was asked if I had sufficient food to sustain me for a few days. Mr. Cheney’s food would come from the trailer. They apologized for not including me in that menu. To qualify, I would have to be a federal employee. Besides, that extra expense had not been budgeted…

I got along without too much inconvenience. But men milling around day and night with trigger fingers close to activation mode did require a sleeping pill at bedtime. My phones had been disconnected but the lack of calls from telemarketers was a relief. Mr. Cheney was a model guest. No demands, little noise. I’d hear an occasional question like”What’s a three letter word for member of the farm flock?”or some grumbling when a well paid athlete erred on TV.

Just as abruptly as he came, the VP departed. I was told he’d be downstairs shortly and had time for a brief chat. He arrived disguised this time as a snorkle diver. I could see the foot flippers gave him trouble walking. He removed the snorkle for our chat.

VP: “I notice there are no houses on theproperty looking southwest. Why not?”

ME: “That’s an open space preserve, sir.”

VP: “You mean you can’t build, raise hogs or mine on that land? Talk about a waste. By the way,what are those things on the wall?”

ME: “Mexican Masks, sir.”

VP: “What did those set you back?”

ME: “Around $15″

VP: “I’m not an appraiser but I think you got taken. Say, There’s a deer. Do you hunt?”

ME : “Not permitted in Los Altos Hills.”

VP: “You’re kidding. What kind of a burg is this?”

ME: “Sir, it might interest you to know that we are called “The Conspicuous Consumption Capital of California”. Oversize houses, big water and electricity bills, gas guzzling cars.”

VP: “I’m very impressed. That consumption will get us out of the recession. And all those SUVs. More reason to drill in Alaska. The President will hear about your sacrifice on behalf of the war when I get home. Not sure when. Thanks.”

He was gone. I thought that was the end. But I did get a note from one of the Suits. It said, “Thought you’d like to know. Our next hideout was a turkey ranch near Manteca. The VP hated it. Beasts kept gobbling all night. He couldn’t sleep. Told me he wish he were back in your town.”

I’ll pass this compliment on to Town Hall. Perhaps they’ll give me permission to put up a sign on my place. Something small, modest, tasteful in keeping with the town’s old money atmosphere. It will just say,”Dick Cheney Slept Here.”

Dave MacKenzie is co founder of the Town Crier and a Los Altos Hills resident.