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Across the hall from us there was the exhibit stand of the well-known cigarette lighter company manned by a very attractive girl. All the guys on our stand called her “The Ronson Girl” and I was trying to “pull” her. That’s a British term for trying to get a date. Problem was she was being pursued by a NYC cop.  Coming from Ireland In the mid-sixties, one never saw a policeman (called Garda in Ireland, which means Garda Síochána na hÉireann – Irish/Gaelic for “Guard(ians) of the Peace of Ireland”), with so much hardware; consisting of an enormous gun, cuffs, baton, etc. This guy had an array of stuff around his waist that would make any European bow down in immediate surrender. He seemed a friendly fellow who had been to our stand on more than a few occasions.

On one such occasion he did offer me a subtle warning that he was, to use his expression, chasing the lighter girl’s tail and I should back off.  She was such a good-looking friendly girl, so I figured if she was not yet his girlfriend, then all was fair in love and war, I didn’t give a thought to the war part. After all, I had arrived at the conclusion that he couldn’t actually shoot me, so my weak-willed Irish brain did not heed the warning.

Enter ACT 3 concocted by my friend Don and a few other guys at our exhibit. Little did I know at the time that they had recruited the willing help of the cop with all the hardware and were about to embark on a scary practical joke at my expense? The scam was something I fell for hook, line and sinker. Greed oh how did I offend you?  I’ve gone over the 1,000 words mark, so I’ll sign off and if you’re interested to hear the ACT 3 conclusion, stay tuned, it comes to a dizzying end.