By Jared Fields, Editor in Chief

I stood in line Sunday night for the chance to see former President Bill Clinton speak in an Abilene hangar and waited for the gate to open. I kept hearing he would be late but never imagined such odd events over the next four hours would occur as they did.

For the last month, I had been growing out my facial hair with the intent to shave the area around my chin so I could sport one of the meanest, biggest, baddest, trashiest and admirable set of mutton-chop sideburns ever.

Sunday night, I stood in line for a Hillary Clinton rally, and keep in mind her stereotypical supporter, wearing the most redneck facial hair imaginable. I felt like a sore thumb.

We waited in line at least an extra hour than originally planned because of delays in his hectic campaigning that day. As the gates finally opened, however, a growing storm cloud in the west approached.

Cops drove down the line, announcing with their loudspeaker that rain, and possibly hail, were approaching. Sticking out the weather until the last minute, we proceeded within 50 feet of the gate opening when the rain blew in fullforce and our “Hillary for President” sign we lifted from nearby as a makeshift umbrella wasn’t enough.

Because the thousands of wannabe attendees had to park in a hilly – and now muddy – field, it took five minutes to find my car.

The old saying about the journey, and not the destination, being most important part of a quest held no truth with me then.

As we drove home, my friend on the inside said the organizers would open the gate once the storm passed. So we went back, found the gate already opened, and went into the hangar.

After taking some potentially embarrassing photos of myself, more time passed. A usually trustworthy friend said Clinton was so delayed, he wouldn’t even come, then the friend left.

Stubbornly, I stayed, waiting for someone just a little more higher ranking to confirm this.

Finally, at about 10:40, Clinton walked into the hangar and took his spot on the stage. Fittingly, perhaps, the “stage” was the bed of a pickup truck. At least Clinton didn’t ride in on a Texas Longhorn decked out in a cowboy hat and spurs.

After his speech, I found a place at the barrier for the chance to shake his hand.

As he made his way down the line, old women, parents and kids squeezed in. I finally shook his hand, and left with a pretty decent story to tell.

However, the cherry on the icing on the cake is the ending I can add to the story about seeing and shaking hands with a former president.

In a group of people, it’s the ending that will stop competitive speakers from trying to one-up me.

The next time I tell that story, I can just say, “And that’s how I shook Bill Clinton’s hand – with chops!”