Blaming No One. Dan Inc. Whitman

and forearms might have killed Bedouins in late colonial wars, or could have.

      When backed against a wall, never retreat; it serves no purpose. I dug into my wallet and pulled out my District of Columbia driver’s license. It all has to do with the wrist: I presented my DC license to the gendarme and looked straight into his beady eyes.

      “Passez!” he said, and waved me through. He might have winked, but I didn’t dare look.

      I found myself all alone in the Orly Salle d’Honneur, then exited the other side to the tarmac just as Air Force One was taxiing to its final position. With not another soul in sight, I advanced under the wing of the plane and suddenly saw the camera angle just as they’d described it at the countdowns. Checking my SBU map one last time, I got to the rear steps of the plane. I made myself visible to the photographers as they hurried down the steps to get into position for their angle for the arrival shot.

      The gendarme, a rhinoceros of a man, stood proudly at attention at the gate, his turf.

      The photographers got their shot, I survived, and highest bureaucratic achievement was realized: nothing noticeable, nothing out of place.

      Anecdotes should have applications. There could be one here: when trapped, keep moving. When stumped, consider the worst options. If you plan to disrupt a VIP appearance, you might get in, but there can be a gendarme to block the exit, ready to break you like a toothpick. Keep a cool head, but be willing to have it ripped from your thorax if you try anything funny.