“Sir, you’ve been randomly selected.”
Shit.
Only inconvenience and pain follow that statement.
And I was already running late.
Due circumstances beyond my control.
About which the gate guard could not have cared less.
RAMs: Random Antiterrorism Measures.
There were procedures to be followed.
“I’ll need you to pull your car off to the side over there. Just follow him.”
The guard was pointing to another Air Force MP, wearing body armor and an M4 rifle, who was waving me to a spot just inside Offutt Air Force Base’s main gate.
I followed, as though I were taxiing an aircraft on the flight line under the direction of a plane captain.
Expect it wasn’t that at all.
I really didn’t need this.
Any of this.
The Stoic gods had already hurled one test at me that morning, which I thought I’d passed quite well.
Every so often, I pick up a book on Stoicism.
Usually when life’s been kicking me in the stomach a bit more than usual, and I’ve indulged in excess whining about it.
When I recognize this condition, I turn to Marcus Aurelius or Seneca or Epictetus.
I’m usually too lazy to slog through the authors’ original works.
So, I read books written by people who have.
I’ve sampled the originals through the years, mostly to make myself feel smart and to be able to look down on people who haven’t.
You haven’t read Meditations? Dude, you have to read Meditations.
The latest book invited readers to engage in a thought experiment when presented with a setback.
Rather than get angry about it, think instead, Aha! The Stoic gods have found me worthy of being tested.
And then stick it to the gods by maintaining perfect equanimity as you deal with the setback.
Because that’s what a proper Stoic would do.
My test that morning came in the form of a closed freeway exit.
Without warning, the route I’d been taking to the base was blocked by construction.
I’d seen crews working on the shoulder the previous week, but the traffic lanes had remained open.
Until, suddenly, they weren’t.
After I got over the initial frustration, I focused on finding an alternate route.
I knew I had to turn south, which I did at the next exit. From there, I figured I would find my way back to the expressway at a point beyond the construction zone.
It didn’t work out that way.
I encountered a dead end almost immediately. Right in the middle of the hood.
No bueno.
But, of course, as long as you have a phone, you’re never really lost.
“Hey, Siri . . . get me the hell out of here!”
And with that, I was back on the expressway ten minutes later.
Problem solved.
Nicely done, I congratulated myself.
But the episode was not without cost.
See, I like to ease into my workday.
By the time I clock in, I want to have consumed all relevant information for the coming day, at a leisurely pace, while sipping on a cup of French roast.
The blocked intersection would cost me a portion of this ritual.
Not all of it, but some of it.
A small price to pay for sticking it to the Stoic gods, I thought.
But then there was this goddamned random vehicle search.
I didn’t recognize it as a follow-on test from the Stoic gods initially.
So, I got irritated. Very irritated.
How long is this going to take? I shot at the MP once I’d parked my car inside the gate.
“Usually about ten minutes, sir,” he said.
I could tell that he could tell I was pissed.
He continued, calmly, “I’ll need you to open all your doors and compartments.”
Compartments? You mean, like, the trunk?
“Yes, sir. And the glove compartment. And the hood.”
Jesus. We’ll be here all frickin’ morning, I thought.
I started opening compartments, as instructed.
And as I did, it finally hit me.
This, too, was a test from the Stoic gods.
Okay, I reasoned with myself. Time to take a breath and chill out.
Sorry I was a little short with you guys, I said to the senior MP.
And then I told him about the closed freeway entrance and that I was already running a little behind.
“Well, sir, if anyone asks why you’re late, now you can blame it all on us,” he said.
He was taking it all in stride, too.
The mood thus lightened, I started chatting up the MPs while they searched my car.
Where you guys from? Any plans for the weekend? Ever find anything weird while doing one of these vehicle searches?
You know, the standard stuff.
When it appeared they were concluding their search, I asked if I could go ahead and close my doors and compartments.
“We just have one more thing, sir,” the MP said. “We need to have a look under the hood.”
Right. I’d forgotten that.
I reached under the steering wheel and pulled the hood switch.
Then, I walked around to the front of the car and started feeling around under the leading edge of the hood for the latch.
That stupid, f—king latch.
I was feeling around all over the place, but it was nowhere to be found.
I could feel the MPs staring at me, thinking, What’s the holdup, dude?
Here, I must make a confession.
I’d never opened the hood of my car.
Other cars, yes, but not this car.
See, the last time I’d spent time under the hood of any car, people were still dancing the Macarena.
While I’m a stickler for preventative maintenance, I don’t do any of it myself.
The guys at the shop take care of that.
As a result, I’d never had any reason to pop the hood of my own car.
Now, the problem with that is, any guy who is unable to open the hood of his own car should be made to surrender his Man Card. Immediately.
Right there. On the spot. No questions asked.
I tried to buy myself some time with the MPs.
That’s what I like about these cars, I said. They require almost no maintenance.
It was a weak attempt to explain why I couldn’t, for the life of me, find the stupid hood latch.
It was getting awkward.
Besides the MPs, there was now a long line of cars formed at the gate.
I had an audience.
And I still couldn’t get my goddamned hood open.
Then, once again, it dawned on me.
Things come in threes, right?
This, too, was a test from the Stoic gods.
I moved to the far-right corner of the hood and slowly, smoothly, worked my hand across the entire width of the hood.
On the far-left side, I found the hood latch, gave it a quick pull, and then up came the hood.
Have at it, gents, I told the MPs.
They both stuck their heads in, gave each other a quick nod, and then told me to close it.
“Have a nice day, sir. Sorry for the inconvenience,” said the MP.
I know you guys are just doing your job, I told him. Sorry again for being short with you.
Terrific guys, those MPs.
I arrived at work comfortably on time.
Yes, I’d lost my pre-clock-in ritual,
But I was not, in fact, late.
And, I got to keep my Man Card.
Take that, Stoic gods.
Test complete.
Bring it on, any time.
I’ll be ready.
But next time,
Please don’t screw me
Out of a drop of my French roast.
That would make
For a bad day.