In my job as Press Secretary for New York State Comptroller Carl McCall, I traveled all over the state, from farm country to big-city functions. I saw a lot of strange things.

Driving to Allegheny County one time, which is kind of nowhere somewhere south of Rochester near Cuba, N.Y., I saw a sign advertising “Used Headstones and Alpaca Fur.” I had to get out of the car and take a picture of that one. 

Our destination was Houghton College, where the students take a pledge of no alcohol, tobacco or sex. It is a four-year Christian college. Carl was giving a speech at a conference there. I was following him in my car from a meeting in Syracuse at an economic symposium. As were leaving that event, the chair called both of us into his office and gave us a flask of maple syrup from his own trees on land he owned in Vermont. It was clear glass, and the amber syrup looked just like bourbon.

When we arrived at Houghton, I saw that the flask had leaked in my briefcase. I picked it up out of the briefcase and the bottom of the flask fell out. The remaining syrup spilled all over the pants of my light gray suit. It looked like I had pissed myself.

I got out of the car, holding the sticky bottle just as a group of female students walked past my car. Did I mention this is a school where students take a pledge not to drink, smoke or have sex? And I staggered out in my syrup-soaked pants, holding a flask and cursing. 

The coeds saw me and laughed. I was a mess.

I had to ask directions to the building where Carl was going to speak. The security guard looked at me kind of funny and asked for ID. I showed him my Comptroller’s ID. He still looked at me kind of funny. I went inside and managed to make my way into the men’s room. I was still holding the flask. I couldn’t find a garbage can. I generated a lot of weird looks as I went in from the few dozen people waiting for the event to start. A lot of people noticed me. It’s kind of hard to slip by unnoticed when you’re 6’4” with a flask in your hand and maple syrup down the front of your pants.

In the men’s room I finally got rid of the damn flask, but I couldn’t do anything about my pants. I tried paper towels and then wet paper towels and then a hand dryer. Shreds of the wet paper towels stuck to the syrup and made it even more noticeable. 

When I walked outside to meet Carl, he gave me his “What did Dennis do now?” look. I tried to tell him what happened, but he just shook his head and said, “Wait in the car.”

I sat out in the car for about an hour. It was very uncomfortable because my pants were damp and the sticky syrup was stiff onto the fabric. 

The smell wasn’t bad.

Later that week we had a trip to Long Island to meet with a local Democratic club. As usual, I followed Carl. Carl’s driver, a former N.Y.P.D. undercover detective, said I drove like a cop. I thought it was the ultimate compliment.

As usual, I did my advance work before Carl came in, making sure the podium was set up, that there was water for him, and greeted the press. Carl gave a great speech about the Long Island economy. I had provided him with notes, but he said it much better than I did. Afterward, he answered every question with authority. It was a good event.

 As the meeting was wrapping up, we were chatting in the back of the room with some of the attendees. 

The organizer of the event approached me off to the side and said that Carl should probably bring a few less African-Americans with him next time.

Carl overheard him. He stepped closer and said “Dennis, the white guy, is my press secretary. The African American woman in the gray skirt is my wife. The African American woman in the flowered dress is my daughter. The African American gentleman at the door is a retired undercover New York City police officer. Why don’t you come to dinner with us, and tell me who I should leave behind next time?”

The guy was flabbergasted. And Carl did not help him out. The guy was trying to spit out an apology. Carl just stood there with his arms folded, waiting. 

Finally, I saved the guy. “Thanks for having us,” I said. And Carl and I walked out.

At dinner later on that night, I asked Carl if he ever got angry when stuff like that happened. Carl said,  “Dennis, if I got angry every time something like that happened, you’d never see me smile.”

Then he waited a beat, looked at me, smiled, and said “But that guy pissed me off.”