This isn't the droid you're looking for. . .

Once a week I have the honor of picking my daughter up at the airport when she gets in from her business travels. I make every attempt to smile and pretend to be courteous to the security Gestapo posted to prevent terrorist, like myself, from parking anywhere on the airport property. The idea being that someone might park a bomb close to one of the terminals.

I see no point in driving around the terminal complex like a hamster for their amusement and so I have found a few inconspicuous nooks. One of them is a reserved parking place for employees. I was enjoying my music with the windows down on my green Z coupe when one of our Gestapo drove up, on my passenger side, and motioned for me to move along. I ignored him and looked the other direction; forcing him to exit his vehicle and actually carry on a conversation with me.

"Are you an employee?"

"Yes Sir, I am" It was a true statement, under the wide scope of the given question. I didn't say for whom I was employed.

"I need to see your ID badge."

"I no longer wear a badge, Sir. I keep my ID in my pocket." It were as if he had explained that the badge was what he wanted to see. I pulled out my wallet, thumbed to my retired Houston Police Department ID card and "flashed" it in his direction; making sure that my thumb covered the red ink stamped "retired".

"Do you work here often?"

"Only about three or four times a month, Sir", and then I threw in, "From now on when you see my little green Z you'll know its okay." It's an old Jedi mind trick, "This isn't the droid you're looking for. . .park as long as you need to, Sir."

I should feel terrible for having "badge'd" a parking place; except I don't. I also know that the Gestapo are too easily horns waggled.