There's no place like it -- if you can get there

It’s a beautiful day in the summer of 2013, and my co-workers and I are enjoying the opening day of the state fair.

Meanwhile, the feds have taken over my neighborhood.

According to my brother Michael, who lives with me, they have been scouting the area for the last two weeks. He is home most of the time because of his COPD, and he often keeps an eye on the neighborhood. He says he has seen some unfamiliar vehicles, along with some aircraft.

The feds have been scrutinizing our neighborhood because today President Obama is visiting the high school that is a block away from my home.

I’m at the fairgrounds because the fair is a major client of the ad agency where I work. The agency has an annual tradition: On opening day, it closes around 3 p.m. and we go to the fairgrounds. Someone takes a group picture, and the boss buys us all a drink at one of the food tents.

Now all of that has been done, and everyone has scattered. I’m eventually going to get a bus home, but I hope to time my departure so that the president — and his protectors — are gone by the time I get there. So I have something to eat and wander around, keeping an eye on the big TVs that are showing the president’s visit.

At one point Obama seems to be wrapping things up, so I grab a bus downtown and transfer to one that will take me to James Street and Teall Avenue. From there I will walk to my home. Or so I think.

I walk a few blocks up Teall and encounter a pleasantly polite cop who tells me I have to stop because Obama is still around. But he tells me I can walk home through the side streets.

I eventually reach the corner of the street where I live. My home is in the middle of the block.

But another pleasantly polite cop is blocking my way.

Then I hear a voice saying my name. I turn and see that my kid brother, Matthew, who also lives with me, is also at the corner. He finished his shift at St. Joe’s a little while ago, but because of the security his cab could get him only as far as the corner.

So it’s me, Matt and the cop.

And one very pissed-off woman.

A few hours ago she and her mother came to the neighborhood in hopes of getting a look at the president. After they arrived the area was blocked off. For some reason, she left the blocked-off area, and now she is not being allowed back in. At one point she demands that the cop give him his supervisor’s phone number. He complies without an argument.

The phone conversation (her side of it, anyway) goes something like this:

“Yes, I can’t get back into this area, and I have to find my mother. She doesn’t know where I am, and this cop won’t let me in!” Her tone implies that the pleasantly polite cop is a Gestapo agent.

“And there are two older gentlemen here who are trying to get home!”

“Older gentlemen”? Matthew, who is 54, chuckles at that. So do I. Although I’m not even 60, I’m not pissed off, but I’m not thrilled that she is co-opting us.

After she gets off the phone we wait a few minutes more before the cop makes one last phone call and we get the all-clear. Unlike the woman, Matthew and I make it a point to thank him as we head to our house; after all, he has only been doing his job.

And like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz,” I realize that there’s no place like home — especially when the feds aren’t around. And at least I didn’t have to try to steal anybody’s broomstick.