Despite a mild acrophobia, my lust for rooftop escapades has been constant throughout my life. This paradoxical affinity may stem from evolutionary instincts—trees offer sanctuary, and high ground provides tactical advantages. Whatever the reason, a rooftop posture is a favorite means to be high, mild fear notwithstanding.
In one startup's rapid expansion, we acquired the majority tenancy of a top-floor office suite for our 50-person team. As is standard protocol, I swiftly located and liberated myself to the roof through a 3-foot opening hidden on our floor. The view was a panoramic vista of mountains in one direction and downtown in the other—a perfect intermediate.
As a fan of anything clandestine and working for a team that shared these values, the roof soon became a sanctuary for "select" team members. We would host afternoon libations, indulge in smoking (tobacco for me, an old habit I kicked), and engage in other activities best kept to in-person conversation.
Our rooftop society continued unabated for months, building maintenance turning a blind eye to our appropriation of this windy domain. Then, one day, across the road, an enigmatic obsidian monolith of a building decided to awaken. Until that day, the ominous post-modern cube across the street was largely ignored.
The turning point came abruptly during one of our frequent gatherings. One of our sales guys (who served in the Army and Air Force, making him a butt of jokes with all the other former military men on the team) banged on the door to the roof.
Looking down through the hatch, I could see he was visibly uncomfortable, and his look of urgency drew us inside to a cramped janitor's closet.
Once off the roof, he divulged that the neighboring dark cube of a building housed an FBI field office. Having an FBI dispatch so close was not a surprise because we were very close to the Denver Federal Center, the second largest federal facility after Washington, DC, with 670,000 acres of land that formed a complete town.
On that particular day, a high-profile visitor—later identified as Condoleezza Rice—solicited heightened security measures in our locale. Whether Secret Service or FBI snipers were involved remains unclear, but we were suddenly unsafe. Our traditions had placed us in the crosshairs of a sniper team on a protection detail.
Given our current political landscape at the end of 2024, any urge to research protection details and protocols for high-value federal officials continues to be ignored.
Would the FBI or US Secret Service call over and request us inside? Would a contingency of spooks visit us? We were about one block away, so anything was on the table. Or would we have been made holy, I mean holey, by long-range cordless hole punchers?
What would the resolution have been if we had stayed on the roof?
Maybe one day, I will have a beer with a USSS sniper and learn a little more.
Lessons and Considerations
Lesson 1 is to stay frosty or be ready to "go with the flow." In no uncertain terms, an FBI contingent showing up to the office would have been bad mojo. There were numerous fragile people on the team, and that type of "what did you get into now" scenario would not be welcome.
Nor would getting shot at, something I have narrowly escaped several times in my life, be a good outcome.
Staying frosty is a term I picked up from intelligence people, which means you want to be aware of your surroundings and be ready physically and mentally to react to whatever may be at hand.
Having a beer for sunset when the FBI shows up sounds right. Please understand that I don't attract the FBI, but my life is a patchwork of unexplainable interactions of that type. Having proper readiness, frostyness as it were, is always welcome.
The second lesson is to know how to play stupid. I learned this from a roommate who would land a new girl as if going to the supermarket for ketchup. He would play dumb, innocent, and a "farm boy," and it worked. I remember he was working with a new contact, looking at me and winking while playing this role.
Why is playing dumb important? Oh, let me count the ways; a bullet list is in order:
- Immediately explaining one's self can be offputting. Consider your run-of-the-mill pox-laden crackhead on the COPS show spilling his story without anyone asking. Does not help.
- Playing dumb requires silence and less control over the dialog, a skill worth practicing.
- Let the adversary think they are more intelligent until it is necessary to correct them.
- When being silent, others involved, such as an adversary, may hang themselves with their rope and create a winning situation.
- Sharp wit and strong language skills are best kept in the back pocket, a concealed weapon. Use wisely and with precision.
- You can always be more intelligent when engaging with any advisory, but scaling down to look dumber quickly leads to loss—direction matters.
If the FBI showed up to pull us in, I would have played dumb. Indeed, we were an innocent group of yahoos having a drink on the roof. Still, the snipers had a job, and we were a threat.
Over time, I have recognized that playing dumb and staying frosty is a good combination. Humility comes out early, builds trust, and allows others to feel comfortable.
Why this matters!?
Take this approach to delivering projects, scoping work, estimation, and managing complex scenarios for a win. Sometimes, being dumb and playing it quiet is necessary for an angry person to get out all their toxins and move on.
So sit back, take notes, and be ready to address what they say—whether it is correct or not. Being dumb provides an understanding of the scenario; staying frosty is the constant pursuit of situational readiness.
