Here’s the story Donna told us:

Well, it happened when I was living at that cool farm out near Matlock. Twenty acres out in the woods. They had horses, a big garden, and a greenhouse. And there was always music happening, and fantastic parties all summer, and of course, there was lots of weed, both homegrown and Mexican sugar cured. And one time these very sketchy dudes showed up with two pounds of Afghani hashish that even had the gold stamp from the Afghan royal family.

Some of us were kind of uncomfortable with that scene, especially with the little kids around, so we tried to steer clear of that source of income. One thing that helped out was food stamps that we could get every month. For a lot of the collective houses in the Olympia area that was like a regular infusion of cash, as long as you understood how that system worked. Talk about an interaction with the bureaucracy! It seemed like there were always a few people associated with the food conspiracies who had experience with the government welfare system and who could explain how to fill out the application forms—you know, what to say and what not to say. I guess I caught on pretty quickly so I would often be the one to go to the office. 

One very important piece of information that I picked up from one of these “consulting hippies” was that it made a difference which of the county workers you were dealing with. Some of them were very picky about every little detail. We learned that you could make an appointment with specific ones. My favorite, whom I kind of cultivated a rapport with, was named Charles Brown. I’m not kidding. We called him Charlie Brown behind his back, but Mister Brown to his face. I think he thought we were cute with our colorful clothes and interesting stories. 

Charlie seemed somewhat skeptical about so many unemployed forest workers and dishwashers all living at the same address, but as long as we checked the right boxes he was happy to hand over the dough. 

So, here’s what happened. 

The farm was right across the county line, in Mason County, so we used the DSHS office in Shelton. And you know what a redneck place that is. I called on the fifth of the month to make an appointment一we had learned that that was usually the smoothest time to go. They must have seen from my file that I’d been working with Mr. Brown, so when I got there, at exactly two o’clock, there were some familiar faces behind the counter. But there seemed to be a kind of tension in the air. I was worried that there might be some problem with my paperwork. After only a couple minutes I was ushered into a small room that I had never noticed before. 

The room was totally empty except for three folding chairs and a small table: no bookshelves, no pictures on the walls, no window, nothing. The woman who directed me into the room just said, “Wait here. They will be with you in a few minutes.”

They. She said THEY. That’s when I really got nervous. After another few minutes, the door opened again and two men walked in. One was tall and thin, the other was short and fat. I remember that clearly. They were wearing identical black suits, white shirts, and black neckties. They introduced each other in a very ritualistic way. The tall one introduced the short one: “This is agent Whatchamacallit”’ And the short one introduced the tall one: “This is agent Whoozit.” They flashed badges that were totally unreadable from where I was sitting. 

They sat down opposite me and the short one opened a briefcase and took out a manilla folder and a notebook. I was totally confused by that time. I said, “I’m here for an appointment with Mr. Brown.” 

The tall one said, “We just need to ask you a few questions and then you will be free to go. As far as I know, Mr. Brown is not here today.”

The “few questions” turned into an in-depth interrogation, mostly about my past history and my present living situation. They seemed especially interested in some of the people who had been at a party the previous year. Obviously, I was scared shitless, and I remember saying, “What is this about?” And “I just need to get my food stamps.” And then several times saying, “I just don’t remember any of these people you’re talking about.” That’s when the tall one reached into the briefcase and pulled out a fat envelope which he opened and took out a stack of photos.

“Maybe these will help you remember.” He spread the pictures out like . . . you know, like one of those Las Vegas card sharks spreading out a pack of cards. I was shocked. I immediately knew what these were. They were MY PICTURES. They were pictures of my children, my friends, plus a bunch of party photos including pictures of people I vaguely recognized but didn’t know from Adam. 

I remember saying very forcefully, “That is my property. Where the hell did you get those? Give those to me, you fucking asshole.” I distinctly remember calling the tall one a fucking asshole.

The short one said something like, “We’ll return the photographs as soon as they have been processed. There’s nothing to be upset about, ma’am.” He called me “ma’am.”

At that point, the “interview” was pretty much over. They pulled out about a dozen pictures and put the rest back in the envelope and returned it to me. The tall one said, “We’ve got your contact information so we can return those other ones.”  

I’m proud that I still had the presence of mind to get the food stamps. The nice lady behind the counter said something like, “I’m so sorry about that.” The next month Charlie was back, and nobody at the office ever said a word about what had happened. I did check in with one of our local hippie lawyers. Come to find out that my mysterious men in black were genuine FBI, and they were trying to track down someone who they thought was active in the American Indian Movement. There were lots of those people around一tribal activists helping with the fish war protests. Who knows who all was there with all the people coming and going at the farm?

I have no idea how they got ahold of those pictures. Someone must have been undercover on the farm and snooping around, spying on everything that was going on. I never got the pictures back. Our lawyer said we could sue for them but there was not a snowball’s chance in hell of getting them back. Imagine what would have happened if the spies had been there when some big transaction was going down.