neednât have bothered. They were both completely clueless about the whole drawing lessons thing. They were just glad I was all right. My dad was able to joke about it, a little.
âIf you wanted more attention from us, Sam,â he said, âall you had to do was ask. Throwing yourself in the path of a speeding bullet really wasnât necessary.â
Ha ha ha.
The Secret Service guys gave us about five minutes for our tearful reunion before pouncing. It turns out thereâd been a lot of stuff theyâd wanted to ask me, but because Iâm a minor, theyâd had to wait to interview me until my parents got there. This is just a small sample of some of the things they asked me about:
SECRET SERVICE: Did you know the man who was holding the gun?
ME: No, I did not know the guy.
SECRET SERVICE: Did he say anything to you?
ME: No, he did not say a word to me.
SECRET SERVICE: Nothing? He didnât say anything as he was pulling the trigger?
ME: Like what?
SECRET SERVICE: Like âThis is for Margie,â or something like that.
ME: Whoâs Margie?
SECRET SERVICE: That was just an example. There is no Margie.
ME: He didnât say anything at all.
SECRET SERVICE: Was there anything unusual about him? Anything that caused you to pay special attention to him, out of all the people who were on the street?
ME: Yes. He had a gun.
SECRET SERVICE: Other than him having a gun.
ME: Well, he seemed to like the song âUptown Girlâ quite a bit.
And so on. It went on for hours. Hours. I had to describe what had happened between me and Mr. Uptown Girl like five hundred times. I talked until I was hoarse. Finally, my dad was like, âLook, gentlemen, we appreciate that you are trying to get to the bottom of this, but our daughter has been through a very traumatic event and needs to get some rest.â
The Secret Service guys were very nice about it. They thanked me and leftâ¦but a couple of them stayed around, just outside the door to my room, and wouldnât leave. My dad told me after he came back with a Quarter Pounder for my dinner, since I absolutely could not bring myself to eat the food the hospital provided, which was some kind of stew with peas and carrots in it.
Like people in a hospital donât feel sick enough already. This is what they give them to eat?
I wasnât too happy about having to spend the night at the hospitalwhen the only thing wrong with me was a broken wrist, but the Secret Service guys kind of insisted on it. They said it was for my own protection. I said, âI donât see why. You caught the guy, right?â
But they said Mr. Uptown Girl (only they didnât call him that; they called him The Alleged Shooter) was invoking his right to remain silent, and they werenât sure if he belonged to some terrorist organization that might choose to avenge itself against me for sabotaging its scheme to assassinate the president.
This, of course, caused my mother to flip out and call Theresa and tell her to make sure the front door was locked, but the Secret Service guy said not to worry, they had already posted agents around the house for our protection. These agents, I later found out, were also keeping the hordes of press away from our front porch. This was somewhat distressing to Lucy, with whom I spoke on the phone a little before midnight.
âOhmigod,â she gushed. âAll I did was try to slip the folks from MSNBC a more flattering photo of you. I mean, they keep showing that hideous shot from your school ID . I was all, âDudes, she is way more attractive than that ,â and I tried to give them that photo Grandma took at Christmasâyou know, the one where youâre in that Esprit dress, which used to be cute until you dyed it black, but whatever. Anyway, I open the door and go out on the porch with the photo, and all these flashbulbs start going off and all these people start yelling, âAre you the sister?
âIf you wanted more attention from us, Sam,â he said, âall you had to do was ask. Throwing yourself in the path of a speeding bullet really wasnât necessary.â
Ha ha ha.
The Secret Service guys gave us about five minutes for our tearful reunion before pouncing. It turns out thereâd been a lot of stuff theyâd wanted to ask me, but because Iâm a minor, theyâd had to wait to interview me until my parents got there. This is just a small sample of some of the things they asked me about:
SECRET SERVICE: Did you know the man who was holding the gun?
ME: No, I did not know the guy.
SECRET SERVICE: Did he say anything to you?
ME: No, he did not say a word to me.
SECRET SERVICE: Nothing? He didnât say anything as he was pulling the trigger?
ME: Like what?
SECRET SERVICE: Like âThis is for Margie,â or something like that.
ME: Whoâs Margie?
SECRET SERVICE: That was just an example. There is no Margie.
ME: He didnât say anything at all.
SECRET SERVICE: Was there anything unusual about him? Anything that caused you to pay special attention to him, out of all the people who were on the street?
ME: Yes. He had a gun.
SECRET SERVICE: Other than him having a gun.
ME: Well, he seemed to like the song âUptown Girlâ quite a bit.
And so on. It went on for hours. Hours. I had to describe what had happened between me and Mr. Uptown Girl like five hundred times. I talked until I was hoarse. Finally, my dad was like, âLook, gentlemen, we appreciate that you are trying to get to the bottom of this, but our daughter has been through a very traumatic event and needs to get some rest.â
The Secret Service guys were very nice about it. They thanked me and leftâ¦but a couple of them stayed around, just outside the door to my room, and wouldnât leave. My dad told me after he came back with a Quarter Pounder for my dinner, since I absolutely could not bring myself to eat the food the hospital provided, which was some kind of stew with peas and carrots in it.
Like people in a hospital donât feel sick enough already. This is what they give them to eat?
I wasnât too happy about having to spend the night at the hospitalwhen the only thing wrong with me was a broken wrist, but the Secret Service guys kind of insisted on it. They said it was for my own protection. I said, âI donât see why. You caught the guy, right?â
But they said Mr. Uptown Girl (only they didnât call him that; they called him The Alleged Shooter) was invoking his right to remain silent, and they werenât sure if he belonged to some terrorist organization that might choose to avenge itself against me for sabotaging its scheme to assassinate the president.
This, of course, caused my mother to flip out and call Theresa and tell her to make sure the front door was locked, but the Secret Service guy said not to worry, they had already posted agents around the house for our protection. These agents, I later found out, were also keeping the hordes of press away from our front porch. This was somewhat distressing to Lucy, with whom I spoke on the phone a little before midnight.
âOhmigod,â she gushed. âAll I did was try to slip the folks from MSNBC a more flattering photo of you. I mean, they keep showing that hideous shot from your school ID . I was all, âDudes, she is way more attractive than that ,â and I tried to give them that photo Grandma took at Christmasâyou know, the one where youâre in that Esprit dress, which used to be cute until you dyed it black, but whatever. Anyway, I open the door and go out on the porch with the photo, and all these flashbulbs start going off and all these people start yelling, âAre you the sister?
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