That was strange. As I was typing the last story about Spitzer I heard a helicopter flying around outside. I looked up and a beam of light from the chopper landed right on my face. I have seen and heard police helicopters around here on occasion but for a second it felt like they were looking for me. It felt like a violent sunshine for a brutal morning where suddenly and without reason one’s life is completely turned over. I could have been wrested from this spot and hauled away into the sky by mistaken law enforcement who simply got me wrong. I would be cold and confused, shirtless as I was when they dropped their claw device from the chopper and through the window, grasping me by the head and making it feel like I was being dragged through the air when you cannot really be dragged against anything but physical objects or surfaces. They would be smiling, the three police officers stuffed into the small space on board, assuring me this was routine kidnapping for everyday questioning. I had done nothing wrong, they said. I was needed for questioning regarding Eliot Spitzer, and my reason for writing about him just now. Ashley Dupré wanted to talk to me about her past, her future, and what other small roles I played in her life. All I could do was point them to my BATES LIST FINDER address book, which has been in my possession since grade 2. It has names and numbers of the kids I knew at Bay Crest Elementary School in Tampa, where I attended second grade. Those people could answer all the questions the police might have for me, though the answers would be fabrications from alternate realities that cannot exist within a police helicopter. I will answer no questions put to me by these police officers but lifting the shroud of papal secrecy from the address book of my childhood will fill their ears with mulchy music and their chopper with intestate shot glasses.