He wouldn’t remember me. I wasn’t the person there to meet him that day.
It was back some time in 1993. I was doing some consulting between full time engagements. Translation: I was unemployed. I spent some time working for a friend’s company that provide author escorts. Get your mind out of the gutter. We escorted authors and other celebrities to radio interviews, book signings and more.
One day I was tasked to drive a Hollywood producer from Washington, DC to a home on the Chesapeake Bay. It just happened to be Tom Clancy’s home. We entered the security gate and drove up the drive to be greeted by a full-sized tank with the Chesapeake Bay as a backdrop.
I was the hired hand, so I dutifully waited in the car, I think for four hours or more while they met inside. On the ride home she told me about the indoor shooting range.
I did manage to go inside a staff entrance once to use the restroom. With all of the firepower on that estate, I figured finding a tree was not a safe option.
Mr. Clancy escorted the producer back to the car before we left. He told us to have a safe trip. Had I realized then that I’d one day finally be pursuing my life long dream of writing, it might have had more of an impact.
As celebrity stories go, this isn’t a great one. It’s just mine.
Tom Clancy died yesterday at the age of 66. Way too young. There was so much more he could have written.
Rest in peace, Mr. Clancy.