For he had learned some of the things that every man
must find out for himself, and he had found out about
them as one has to find out — through error and through
trial, through fantasy and illusion, through falsehood
and his own damn foolishness, through being mistaken and
wrong and an idiot and egotistical and aspiring and hopeful
and believing and confused.

—Thomas Wolfe
_________________

The customer is always right. Of course, we all know that. It’s, like, written in the Constitution or something. At least, one could think that, from the incessant recitation of the phrase. The customer is always right. No exceptions.

In the past month or so, I’ve checked out that little truth from both sides. As a customer dealing with a vast faceless company. And as a vendor dealing with an irate customer. And from those two experiences, I guess I’d reword the phrase into something a bit longer and more cumbersome. But more true. Your customer is always right. Except when he isn’t. But even when he’s wrong, that doesn’t necessarily make you right, either.

Way back in 2007 when I launched this blog, my only home computer connection was through the phone line. Dial up. I shudder when I think of how it was. Ancient, slow, decrepit. Within weeks, after much frustration, I realized something would have to be done. So I called Verizon, and chatted with a friendly sales lady. I signed up. A nice man came out and installed DSL service and connected it all to a little modem under my desk. I felt very liberated. This was cutting edge stuff.

Within months, though, there were issues. Whenever it rained hard, I lost the internet. Verizon sent out a tech now and then, after much hollering from me. And they always got the system cobbled back together. I needed new wiring in the basement, one of them told me. And that service wasn’t included in my contract, so there was nothing he could do. Hm, I said. You know, I’m seriously thinking of calling Comcast. And he suddenly located some “old” wiring in his van and installed that in the basement for me. The connection was saved. As was my relationship with Verizon, at least for the moment.

They were mostly good guys, the techs. Cheerful. And so it went, mostly OK, for the past five years. But about once or twice a year, the modem had a temper tantrum. Its little green eyes would blink balefully. Open and close at random. And my connection opened and closed with the evil little eyes. I grumbled at Verizon. And now and then, they sent out a new modem, and things would roll along again for a while.

Lately though, the connection has been abysmal. Even when the modem eyes shone bright. I’d click on a link, and the little connection wheel sat there and spun and spun. Increasingly the service got worse. Then about a month ago, the modem went haywire again. Kicked off on a great fit of random blinking. And one night late, as I sat there seething, I googled Comcast on my iPhone and called the number. A nice man from another country seemed very excited to hear from me.

“Oh, yes,” he said. “We can fix you up with high speed internet and cable. For much less than you are paying for Verizon and Dish Network combined. And yes, you can keep your phone number. No problem.” It’s very important to me, to keep my old number, I said. “No problem at all,” he reassured me. OK, then. I’ll bite. The nice man from India congratulated me with such elation that I figured I’d won the lottery, almost. Then he signed me up. Soon the vile little green modem eyes would mock me no more.

And two days later, an installer showed up. An energetic guy in a tiny little pickup sagging under racks and great long ladders. “I’ll have you hooked up in an hour,” he promised cheerfully. Oh my, how cool, I thought. An hour. That’s fast. He strung up a long extension ladder on a nearby telephone pole, climbed up and opened a mysterious box and fiddled around with whatever was inside. I watched. He then came inside and strung cables and wires throughout my house. Drilled a hole through my floor into the basement and yanked up a cable from below. He smiled and chatted right along. And then it was time to hook everything up. But strangely, nothing worked. The guy seemed perturbed. Yeah, that’s how it goes, I thought. It won’t work here, at my house, because, well, that’s just how things tend to go.

He walked outside and called his supervisor. They talked quietly and seriously for a few minutes. Then he approached me. They’d have to give me a temporary telephone number, to get the internet hooked up. But it wouldn’t be a problem. My old number would be transferred back within a few hours. Uh, I’m dubious here. That was a promise, I said. That I could keep my old number. He smiled. “Yes, yes, you will keep it.” OK, then. Hook it up with the new number. And he did. Within minutes, I had cable TV and high speed internet, right on my PC. Right in my house. Woo, Hoo. I thanked the guy. Shook his hand. And gave him a signed copy of my book. He smiled some more and promised to read it and tell all his friends. And then I went off to work.

And, of course, when I called in later that evening to get my phone number switched back, it all morphed into la la land. I dialed 1-800-Comcast, like they had told me. Punched in my account number, the last four digits of my social security number, my life history, and so forth. And then stayed on hold. On hold. On hold. Then, a lady’s bright voice. From India, I’d wager my house. I told her what I wanted to do. Switch back to my old phone number. She was very sympathetic.

“Oh, I am so sorry you are having a problem,” she said. Yes, yes, keep reading the script, I thought. All I need is someone who can speak to me and help me. “Let me see what I can do about that.” Great. She punched around on her keyboard, checking her list for more wide open, generally asinine questions. Finally, she conceded. “I’ll have to transfer you to the next level. I’ll put you on hold.” Music. For minutes. Another lady’s bright voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry you are having a problem.” Yeah, yeah, I’m sure you are. I appreciate that. Just get me some help here. I didn’t say that, just thought it. “I’ll transfer you to the tech department,” she said. Music, then. For minutes. Then, suddenly, deadness. Nothing. I was disconnected. Gaaah. Now I’d have to jump through all those hoops again.

The next day, I jumped through the hoops and spoke with a nice lady from York, PA. Practically next door. She told me she wasn’t sure I could keep my old phone number. “That’s now a Leola number, and you live in New Holland. It might not be possible to get it switched back.” It was a promise, I said. “I’ll see what I can do, I’ll fill out the request,” she replied. I’m leaving for the beach for a week, I said. When I come home, I want it to be fixed.

It wasn’t, of course. And I decided to unlimber the big guns. I called again, the Tuesday after returning from the beach. This time, the call went overseas again. A lady answered in almost good English. Almost good, but still from India, I figured. I need to get my old number switched back, I said. I’m an attorney. I was promised I could keep my old number. It’s important.

I rarely, rarely play the “attorney” card. Almost never. Only when it’s absolutely necessary. As this now seemed to be. The lady from India stuttered a bit, then said she’d transfer me to the right department. Music for a minute. Then two. Then a clear American English voice. “John speaking. How can I help you?” I didn’t mention anything about being an attorney. Just told him I’d like my old phone number back. It’s important. I got it printed on my business cards. “That should be no problem. We can port it over,” he said. “Give me four business days.” That’s great, I said. Can you send me an email to verify our conversation? Yes, he could. And he did.

It took more than four days. But after a nudging email from me earlier this week, in which I did mention the word “attorney,” John got it done. My old phone number is still my phone number. It took a bit of work, but I can’t complain much about Comcast’s customer service. It’s a labyrinth, sure, and you have to figure it’s going to take a while to get anything done. But I can’t complain. Not much. Not so far.

Back a month or two ago, I saw it from the other side. Well, I see it from the other side every day, really. But not usually from an irate customer. The situation just slipped in on me, totally unexpected. And it spiraled right on down into a dimension I had never seen before.

Graber is a quality company. We take pride in our identity, take the extra step to ensure customer satisfaction. We always have. If I can’t work it out with you, well, that’s not an option. I will work it out. Somehow. And then, that day came a test.

It was about twenty til five. Almost closing time. It had been a hectic day. Dave and Eric, the other two sales guys, had already left, for one reason or another. Rosita and I were winding it down. The phone rang intermittently. And then it rang again. I listened as Rosita talked to the person on the other end.

“No, Eric’s on the road.” A pause. “All right. I’ll transfer you.” And my phone beeped. I answered. “Some guy wants to talk to someone in management,” Rosita said. A red flag waved in the distance, in my head. Management. He asked to speak to someone in management. OK, I said. And she transferred the call.

“This is ‘Ray’.” The hostile voice came through my headset. “What’s your position at Graber?” It was an attack, the way he asked the question. I’m a manager, I answered politely. What can I do for you?

And Ray explained, fairly coherently. He lived in upstate New York. A few weeks back, he’d bought some metal roofing from us. A small order. His friend, who lived in our area, had picked up the order and delivered it to him. Good so far, I figured. But we had sent only half enough screws to attach the metal. He had half his roof on. Now he needed some more screws. His friend was coming back up this weekend.

Well that’s no reason to get hostile, I thought. I chuckled into the phone. That’s no problem, I said. Just have your friend stop by, and I’ll gladly sell him another bag of screws. He can bring them right up to you. No problem at all.

But it was a serious problem, in Ray’s mind. “I ordered the metal. You didn’t send me enough screws. I want you to give them to me.” He sounded old, cantankerous and mad. I shouldn’t have done it. But it was late, almost closing time. And I couldn’t stop myself. Or wouldn’t. I flared. Look. I’m not sending you any free screws. That’s not how it works.

Ray was a practiced hand at harassing customer service reps, that much became very clear in the next few minutes. “I ordered the metal. You should have known how many screws I needed,” he said. “I want you to send them to me free. You owe them to me.”

How dense could the guy be? Look, I said impatiently. I didn’t take this order, so I don’t know what was said or wasn’t. But even if we figured the amount of screws wrong, had we figured it right, you would have paid for them. You would have spent exactly what they cost you. So you’re short right now. But you will have to pay for the screws. It’s one bag. 250 screws. That’s fifteen bucks. That’s all I can do for you. But you aren’t getting them for nothing. I will not do that.

He was an old practiced hand at this game. He’d gotten away with a lot, in his lifetime, harassing customer service people. With oily ease he shifted, like he was reading from a script. “I want the name of your supervisor.” Smugly, like he expected me to wither.

This is as high as it goes, here, for you. I shot back. “Then I want the complaint department,” he said next. I am the complaint department, I said. And back and forth we went for another minute. Then, “I want the full address of your corporate office, and the name of the public relations person.” I’m sure he’d sent many a customer service rep dashing for cover in the past with that demand. But not this time. This is the corporate office, I replied. Like I said before, this is as high as it goes for you. Look. It’s almost five, and I got things to do. And again he came back, hedging for time. “Then I want the mailing address for your office.” It’s on your invoice, I said. “I don’t have that with me right now.” Find it, I said. The mailing address is right there at the top of the invoice. Feel free to write.

Silence, then, as he absorbed my words. He wasn’t done. One more shot. “I don’t like your attitude,” he huffed. Nope. I’m not going down that bunny trail. I was done. Suit yourself, I said. And then I did something I have never done before. Ever, to anyone, in all my life (except the occasional pesky sales person, but that doesn’t count). I hung up on the man. And I sat there, seething and drained.

The next morning, I checked it out with Eric at the office. Ray had called, I told him. And I told him how it went. It turned out that Ray’s local friend had ordered the metal and the amount of screws. Eric had just taken the order over the phone and written it up. Ray may or may not have known that. Chances are, though, that he had tried to pull a fast one on me.

But still. I was highly irritated at myself. I don’t lose my cool like that. Don’t lose control. Not like that. Not to where I hang up on a customer. That’s not my heart. I could have handled it calmly. I should have. Sure, it was late in the day, and I was frazzled. Not prepared to be attacked. But my reaction was wrong. Way, way wrong.

The problem is, you have to be prepared, mentally and emotionally, all the time. You can’t ever let your guard down. Because you never know when the doors will open and the crap comes pouring in. When some irate person will come at you, right or wrong. That’s just how it is. Not just in sales, but in life as well.

Some “Ray” will assail me again, for reasons that make no sense to me. That’s a given, and it’ll happen soon enough. And I don’t know if the outcome will be different. But I think my attitude and my reaction will be. I can’t know for sure until it happens, I guess. But I know where my heart is.

****************************************************
My book talk at Grove City College came down last Friday evening. And, in retrospect, the whole trip was one of those experiences that will always stay with me. My good friend from our Bob Jones days, Dr. Mark Graham, got me into the place. I mean, how many authors get to go to any college and talk about their book? Mark and I were classmates during my two years at BJU, and I last saw him and his wife Becky eighteen years ago when I was a groomsman at their wedding in Rhode Island. I wore a tux for the first time ever that day.

Mark always spoke and breathed history, back in those days. A doctorate in history is kind of like an English degree of any level. With it and a couple of bucks, you can buy yourself a cup of coffee at most gas stations. Mark is one of the very few people I know who pursued his passion and is doing exactly what his heart always called him to do. What he’s always known he would do. Teaching, breathing and writing history.

Mark met me when I arrived at the campus, and we picked up right where we had left off, way back. I could still see the eager young student in him, back in the classroom. We talked full speed as he showed me the college grounds. Beautiful place, Grove City. Had my life taken a slightly different curve along the tracks, I could easily have attended there as a student. Mark proudly regaled me with the history of the place.

And later his wife Becky, looking young as ever, smiled and greeted me with a hug. Introduced me to their three well-mannered daughters and their youngest child, four-year-old Ira. No, I wasn’t his namesake, his great-grandfather was. But I told the boy, who has an orator’s voice if I ever heard one in a child so young, to always be proud of that name. There aren’t many of us out there.

After dining with Mark and a small group of his colleagues and friends, we headed on over to the hall where I would speak. A beautiful, brand new building. This was the first such event to be held there, Mark told me. They had set up 150 chairs. I seriously doubt that many people will show up, I said. A crowd of 25 or 30 is more than respectable.

I didn’t have much time to get nervous. A few outside people trickled in, including an old law school friend from way back. Kelly Tua Hammers and her father drove the two hours from Latrobe, over close to Pittsburgh. Kelly and I were in the same study group through three years of law school. We became close friends. Such bonds are never forgotten. She hugged me and showed me pictures of her husband and two beautiful children. And I seated her and her Dad right up in the front row.

At about 6:25, the doors opened and students poured in by the dozens. All the chairs were grabbed in about two minutes. Standing room only. And still they came. After 250 people crammed the room, the doors were shut. No more were allowed in. My friend Mark must have really harassed his students to show up, I thought.

Then it was time. I’m not a public speaker, not used to talking to packed rooms. But somehow, after a few nervous moments, it all came down OK. I spoke for 20 minutes, read a scene from the book, and then took questions from the audience for the remainder of the hour. The students asked thoughtful, intelligent questions. It was a lot of fun. And then it was over.

Turned out there was a reason the students had flooded my event so enthusiastically. It’s just funny, really. At Grove City, you have to attend a certain number of chapel services each semester. Fourteen, or some such small amount. Which would just appall the Bob Jones people, but seems perfectly sensible to me. Anyway, somehow my book talk was credited as a chapel attendance. So it was an easy credit to any student who wandered in. Which they did, in great numbers. So that’s why the room was so full. But hey, it was all just part of a great experience. I’m grateful for any audience of that size, even if a little “coercion” was applied.

The next day I headed east and south for Carlisle, PA, for the fifteenth reunion of my law school class. The first such event I’ve attended in fifteen years. I don’t usually pay any attention whatsoever to what’s going on back in the schools I attended. It’s not that I have anything against the schools, or against such events, it’s just that I don’t want to be bugged by Alumni Associations. First you attend, next thing you’re being dragged onto some committee, and of course, there’s always the delicate matter of raising funds. It’s all such a wearying of the mind. It’s better to just make a clean break.

But this year it worked out, because I was on the road anyway. So I went. And it was great. I reconnected with friends and classmates, many of whom I had not seen since graduation. There was a reception, a brief speech, and a nice banquet. Then a bunch of us headed over to The Gingerbread Man, a local watering hole, and hung out until the wee hours. Shooting pool and just generally having a grand old time. Some things never change.

…there was something there incredibly near and
most familiar, only a word, a stride, a room, a door
away — only a door away and never opened, only
a door away and never found.

—Thomas Wolfe
______________

It’s an understatement to say that I have some very strong political opinions. I’m a libertarian. And I’m not shy about saying it as I see it, now and then. Agree or disagree, I’m fine either way. I know what I believe. Doesn’t matter what the majority thinks. I don’t write what I think my readers might want to hear, I write it as I see it. Or try to, anyway.

There’s one area, though, where I’m the most apolitical person out there. I mean apolitical as in completely ambivalent. And that’s when it comes to readers of my book. When it comes to that, I’m the most agreeable person you could imagine. I cheer folks of every political stripe, from the Earth First crowd to Secessionists. And every shade between. Including, of course, the mainstream Democrats and Republicans alike.

I don’t care who you are, I want you to read my book. I’d be honored to give a signed copy to President Obama, and hope that maybe he’d carry it openly with the title clearly visible to cameras as he walked across the White House lawn to board the helicopter to his next golf game. I’d sign and give a copy to Nancy Pelosi. John Boehner. Harry Reed. Both ex-presidents Bush, George H. W. and George W. And Mr. William Jefferson Clinton, he’d get a signed copy too, if I could get it to him. I’m very much an across-the-board kind of guy that way.

How far would I take it, this political ambivalence? I’d even give a copy to North Korea’s new young little pot-bellied tyrant, Kim what’s-his-name. And hope that he’d decree that all his brutally oppressed subjects must also buy and read it. Well, maybe that’s going too far. No one should be compelled to read a book just because a tyrant tells him to. So strike that. But I’d sign a copy of Growing Up Amish to the murderous young Kim himself. And give it to him, free. Yep, I would.

I don’t care who you are, I want you to read my book. And talk about it in your world.

I’ve always been very shy, though, about aggressively promoting myself or the book. Through the years, I have never promoted this blog in any way. Never. I just sat at my old beat-up metal Army desk in a corner of my cluttered little living room and wrote, and let the chips fall. And the chips fell in some very good places. At work, I have a little poster of the book hanging in front of the counter where I take walk-ins. If a customer happens to notice and inquires, I’ll tell him. But I’d never call his attention to it. And if he wants a book, well, it just so happens that I always keep a case right there beside my desk. Twelve to fifteen bucks, depending on what I figure the market will bear right at that moment. And I’ll be happy to sign it. I’m very laid back about it all.

So it didn’t really hit me, right at first, when I heard the radio commercials a few months back. Glenn Beck was coming to town, right here in Lancaster on Friday night, April 13th. A banquet of some sort. He was giving a speech. Get your tickets now, the radio announcer’s solemn voice intoned. They will be sold out soon.

And I thought about it. How cool would it be, to give Glenn Beck a copy of my book? I mean, the man has millions of loyal listeners. I listen to him myself, now and then. Not as rabidly as I used to years ago. But still, I respect him and agree with much of what he says. He loses me when he mocks Ron Paul and his foreign policy. Irritates me a lot, that does. Slice that out, and I’d be a decently loyal fan. And I figured if he’d read Growing Up Amish, he’d surely be compelled to mention it on the air. Well, maybe he would. Maybe he wouldn’t. One would never know unless he somehow got a copy.

I mulled it over a lot. How could I get my book to him? Here he was going to be, in person, less than fifteen miles from my home. Seemed like there had to be a way, somehow. I instinctively knew it would not work for me to attend the banquet and try to hand him the book. Every man and his dog who’s ever written a book is trying to get people of Glenn Beck’s status to notice it. It’s all so desperate and hopeless, when you push yourself out there like that. And besides, I’m not one for big rah-rah banquets anyway. Don’t enjoy that kind of thing. So that was out. I wouldn’t go myself.

Who, then? Who could give him a copy? I had friends attending the banquet, and one or two of them volunteered to take a copy and see if they could get through. But still, it didn’t feel right. It couldn’t be me, giving him the book, but it couldn’t be just anyone else either. It had to be someone with some credibility. Who would be the most credible person to give Glenn Beck a book titled Growing Up Amish? And the answer just kind of slid into my mind.

An Amish person. That’s who would be the most credible. An Amish person giving him a book about the Amish.

I have many Amish friends in Lancaster County. Friends I hang out with because they are just that. Friends. And Lancaster County is different from any other Amish community I’ve ever seen or lived in. These people, at least the ones I hang with, know what’s going on. They are intelligent, wary, street smart.

After I figured out the ideal conduit to get my book to Glenn, I immediately thought of the ideal couple. Good friends of mine. Young, thirtyish. With young children. Dave and Anne. I’ve known Anne for a long time, since she was a child, through her family. After she married Dave, I got to know him too. He runs his own small manufacturing shop. He’s a realtor and a real estate investor and shares his insights now and then. He’s always moving. Shaking. Connecting, always connecting. So I called him on his cell phone. Yep, in Lancaster, as in many other Amish communities, cell phones are grudgingly allowed. For business, and such. And Dave is among the most wired of all the Amish in the land.

He answered. Dave here. And I launched right in. Did you know Glenn Beck’s coming to town for a banquet? He’d heard something, but hadn’t paid much attention. He had several of Glenn’s books. And I told him. I’m trying to get my book into his hands. If I bought tickets for you and Anne, would you take a copy and give it to him? Dave seemed taken with the idea. Free tickets. Free banquet. All he had to do was slip a book to Glenn Beck.

“Let me talk it over with Anne,” he said. “I’ll get back to you. But yeah, I’d say we’d be into that.” Great, I said. It’s next Friday night. Let me know.

And he did, the next day. Yeah, they would love to go attend the banquet and help me carry out my little plot. No guarantees of anything, though. He’d do what he could. All right. I had found the source to get my book to Glenn. Now for the tickets. Those were all sold out, long ago. So I called a local businessman, Jeff Smoker, owner of Smoker Door Sales. We deal with Jeff a good bit at Graber, buy Overhead doors from him for our buildings. It was time to call in a little favor. After hearing my request, Jeff was most agreeable. Yes, he had bought several very good tables up front, close to the stage. “I’ll gladly sell you a ticket,” he said. “So you can give your book to Glenn.”

No, no, I said. I’m not going. That won’t work. I don’t want to be anywhere close to the place. Every writer tries to push his book on people like Glenn. I’ve got some Amish friends, a young couple. They said they’d go and do it for me. I want to buy two tickets for them. And Jeff was instantly intrigued. Pulled into the excitement of the plot.

“You know what?” he said. “I’ve got a few VIP tickets left, to go in the back room and meet Glenn. I’ll throw those in for free, to help you out. And tell Dave and Anne I’ll pick them up and take them with me on Friday night.” And just like that, it all fell into place, better than I could have dared to hope. I had the right people. I had access. Now, plan out the details and see what happens.

I stopped by to see Dave and Anne that Tuesday after work. Sat at their kitchen table. We talked. Plotted. Connived. I want you dressed in Sunday finery, I said. Wear your “Mutza” suit coat. White shirt. And Anne, look as Amish as you can. Bonnet. Halzduch. The whole works. And then they offered something I hadn’t thought of. They would give Glenn one of their copies of the book, a copy I had signed to them. That way, the gift would be from them, not from me. I left, feeling mildly exuberant. Hey, when there’s a job to do, get the right people to do it. That’s what I’d just done, I figured, for a mission such as this.

Friday evening rolled around, and I went to the gym as usual. Little ripples of tension pulsed through me. It would be happening right around 6:30 or so. That’s when the VIPs would get to meet Glenn for pictures. After my workout, I went home, ate my supper, then sat at my command center, my computer. I felt like a devious spymaster, in hood and cloak, behind the scenes in the shadows. I’d pulled all the right levers, seemed like, for a covert operation. Now everything depended on the people I had chosen for the task.

The minutes passed. It should be happening about now. I sat there. And then my iPhone beeped. An instant message. I pawed at the screen. From Dave. A few brief words. “Mission accomplished.” And I sat there as relief flooded through me. Whatever else happened or didn’t happen, Glenn Beck had my book. In his hands. There’s not a whole lot of people out there who can say that. I texted back. Thanks much. I’ll stop by for a full debriefing tomorrow sometime.

The next day, around mid morning on a Saturday, I pulled in. Dave and Anne met me with smiles and coffee. They still seemed on a high from what they had seen and done the night before. And he told me in detail how it came down.

They arrived early and got in line to get into the back room. Jeff slipped in first, to case the joint. He saw they were confiscating everything. Many people had brought books Glenn had written, for his signature. But this was immediately nixed by security. They were here to meet Glenn for a few seconds, to get their pictures taken. Nothing else was allowed. Put everything in these boxes here. Books. Purses. Jeff quickly texted Dave. (My team in action, there.) Hide the book, or they will seize it. And Dave tucked the book into the inside pocket of his “Mutza” suit coat. And there it remained, undetected, as the line slowly moved forward. When they entered the room, even Dave’s hat was confiscated. You can’t take anything in. Nothing but yourselves.

The room was full of eager fans, all lined up. As each person approached Glenn, they shook hands and turned to the camera man, who snapped a picture. Budda boom, ten seconds or less, just like that, and then move on out. Lots of people here. Keep the line moving. Security hovered everywhere.

I’ve seen Dave in action many times. He’s friendly, charming and outgoing. Not afraid to talk to anyone, anywhere. But he admitted that as the line slowly snaked toward Glenn, and it was time to walk out to the spot where it would be their turn next, he shivered a bit inside. Steeled himself. What had he gotten himself into this time? Or more accurately, what had Ira talked him into this time? Those thoughts, and many others, he said, flashed through his head. And then it was their turn to approach the man who was the target of our plot.

I give Dave a lot of credit. A lesser man might well have shriveled under the pressure. Might have just smiled, shook Glenn’s hand, and turned to pose for the picture. But not Dave. He and Anne walked up and he positioned himself so his back was actually turned to the camera. Anne stood beside him. They were Amish. Not here for a picture.

Glenn smiled and greeted them, probably the first Amish people he’d ever met. And Dave boldly plunged in. He smiled back. Shook Glenn’s hand. “Hi, I’m Dave. This is my wife, Anne. We’re not here for a picture. We came to give you a gift.” And he reached into his suit coat pocket and pulled out my book. Security guys almost lunged in for the tackle, but drew back when they saw what he held. And my friend Dave offered a copy of Growing Up Amish to Glenn Beck. And Glenn Beck took the book from his hands.

“This is Amish country, and I thought you might want to know a bit more about us.” Dave continued. “This is the most authentic book out there, if you want to know the inside story of how it can be. How it really is for some.”

Glenn responded with one word. “Fantastic.” A tap on Dave’s shoulder then. Security. Time to move on. But amazingly, Glenn waved his guys back. And chatted with Dave and Anne for another ten or fifteen seconds. And then they turned and left him. Mission accomplished. I don’t know if their knees were weak as they walked away. Mine would have been.

They enjoyed the banquet and Glenn’s speech later, of course. But the real rush of the evening came from smuggling in that book, and getting it to where it was going. We sat there at their kitchen table and talked, glowing in the success of it all. It felt pretty good. We had done it.

Sure, to some it might seem devious, maybe even to Glenn himself if he ever finds out what we did. But people at his level must inherently know that an incident like that doesn’t just happen. Nothing is innocent, however much it might appear so. People plan and plot and scheme, to get their stuff into the hands of public figures. And that’s what I had just done. Planned and plotted and schemed. I just happened to know and enlist the right people to actually pull it off.

The following Monday, I listened to Glenn’s show, as best I could with everything else going on at work. And toward the very end, in the last segment, he talked about his Lancaster experience. And how he met this nice young Amish couple. How they thanked him, for generally supporting the Amish. He seemed puzzled. How in the world did these Amish folks know of him, know who he was? You don’t know the Lancaster Amish, I thought to myself. I waited then, holding my breath. But he never mentioned my book. Not a word. Which was about what I’d expected. But still, after the triumph of the plot, it was a bit deflating that it didn’t play out all the way like it could have.

It still might. The way the book’s been looping down some wild and crazy roads, this episode might well yet bear some fruit. Maybe if Glenn or one of his minions reads this blog, and sees the humor in what really happened. How a few simple country folks, all from “Plain” background, connived so successfully in their little scheme. So if you do read this, come on, Glenn. Give my book two minutes. Or five. Or better yet, have me on your show sometime. I can answer every question you’ve ever had about the Amish. Without even thinking. Because that’s where I come from.

But if you do none of those things, just know this much. The covert quest of getting my book into your hands was a grand little adventure for a small band of plotters in Lancaster County.