Compelling Interest

A Funny Thing Happened On the Way Home from Drill

[some details have been changed to protect privacy]

I just had a good, productive Navy weekend. This was the first weekend I wore my summer whites – black shoes, white pants, white short sleeve shirt, and, of course, the world famous white sailor hat. I think I looked pretty dashing, actually. The weekend ended with my return to my apartment complex when, what should I see over there in the grass but an elderly gentleman with a cane attempting to stand up. He had apparently fallen down; the look on his face said, “distress.”

I gunned my car through the complex to park right in front of my apartment (it’s pathetic, but lately I have no guarantee that my car will start after I turn it off, and I didn’t want to have my car stranded out on the street). I got out of the car and ran back through the complex with all speed. I was still in uniform, so anyone looking out their window probably would have guessed that the Japanese were attacking again. I came to the spot where I saw him, but he was gone. I looked around – no sign of him. I thought, “Hmm. Maybe he was able to get up and he lives right here in one of these units.” I then spied him about thirty yards away, lying face down in the grass. He had crossed the street.

I ran toward him and walked the last fifteen feet or so. As I approached, I thought, “Hmm. He has no pants on.” A few feet later, I thought, “Hmm. He has no underwear, either; just a long sleeve dress shirt.”

“Sir,” I said. “Are you okay?”

Looking up, the man said in very confused tones, “I have to get home.”

Squatting down beside him, I asked, “Sir, where is your home? Is it nearby?”

He pointed up the street. “It’s that way.”

“Sir, how did you get out here without any pants on?”

“I woke up and I was in the wrong place. I have to get home.”

“Can I help you up, sir?”

“Yes.” As he rose, he said, “I have Parkinson’s disease.”

I helped him up and he immediately leaned far forward and began to walk. I kept my hands around his arm and pulled back to prevent him from falling. Someone across the street saw what was going on and said they’d call for help.

“Slow down, sir! I don’t want you to fall down again, especially here on the sidewalk. Easy! Easy! What’s your address, sir?”

He gave an address that sounded like something from his past – it didn’t exist anywhere around here, anyway. He kept pulling forward desperately; I kept pulling back to keep him upright.

A police car pulled up and an officer got out and walked with us. He suggested that the man sit down. We stopped him and stood him in the grass. He wouldn’t sit. “It’s cold,” he said. (It was a fairly cold, overcast day.)

“I understand,” said the officer.

The officer asked the man for his address a couple of times. Each time, we heard a different address. The man stood there in the cold on some stranger’s lawn, looking confused and concerned. Another officer pulled up. He got out of his cruiser and looked me up and down as he approached. “What’s going on?”

“I was driving home from my drill weekend when I saw this gentleman struggling to stand up in the grass about fifty yards that way. I came over to help him. He says he lives around here.”

“You in the Reserves?” the officer asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Yeah, we got a call about a half naked man being helped by some guy in a sailor suit.” The officer kind of laughed and smiled at his partner. I got the inference and smiled back.

“No, no, sir; nothing like that,” I said, wryly.

The officer looked at the old man. “What’s your name, sir?”

“John Smith,” came the reply.

The officers smiled at each other again. I couldn’t help but smile, too.

A third squad car pulled up just when the first officer thought to get a blanket out of his trunk. The third officer walked up and said to the others, “Did you guys catch the score? I think the White Sox are still up.”

We helped the man get the blanket around himself and I helped him to sit down. The third officer was instructed to get my information.

“Sir,” I offered up to the officer in charge (the second one to arrive), “the man was coming from the direction of the senior citizen’s home just over there.”

“The Willshire – that must be it. Do you live at the Willshire, sir?”

“Yes,” the man said.

“How did you get out of there?”

“You can leave any time you want.”

“Where are your pants?”

“I left them off when I went to bed.”

To one of his subordinates, the officer said, “Call the Willshire.”

Just then the paramedics pulled up, and right behind them was a fire truck. The officer in charge excused me, and the three officers thanked me and shook my hand. I bent down and put a hand on the old man’s shoulder. “Take care, sir,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, from somewhere far away.

As I began walking home, a paramedic stepped out of his truck and gave me a bemused look. We exchanged “hellos.” I heard one of the officers behind me report, “Yeah, they have a John Smith.”

Jailbird, Part I

It’s about ten-thirty at night, May 11, 1989. I am driving south through Kenosha, Wisconsin, on my way back to Chicago. The night is warm and cloudless. Stars dot the jet black sky, and the land surrounding me is just as black and endless; a beautiful night for a drive. A music major at Northwestern University, I’ve just played a gig with the Kenosha Symphony Orchestra; my string bass is in the back of the car – a gray, two-door, hatchback Pontiac Sunbird, 1980. I’m wearing a tux.

About a hundred yards away a police cruiser pulls out into the road and drives on ahead of me. It doesn’t take me long to realize that I’m gaining on him very quickly; he has slowed down considerably and I am forced to pass him. He immediately pulls me over and approaches my car.

“Good evening. May I see your driver’s license and registration, please?"

"Yes, sir."

He takes my information and looks it over while a couple of cars pass by. We have a brief, informative dialogue.

“I’ll be right back, sir,” he says, returning to his cruiser.

That’s it, I think to myself, I’m busted. Nothing I can do; too late to run for the border. Oh, here he comes…

The officer explains the charge against me. We exchange a few more words and then he says, “Sir, I’m going to get back in my car. Can you please follow me to the police station?”

“Yes, sir.”

He leads me to the station; I follow without incident. Once there, I lock up my car and am frisked before the officer leads me into the building. I am informed that, unless I can post bond, I’ll be locked up for the night. They allow me one phone call, plus about five more, but it’s no use. The couple of friends I manage to speak to are unable to help.

As my captors are taking my mug shots, fingerprints, and clothing, they are also booking a local drunk for domestic violence. He is on a first-name basis with everyone at the station, and all (including the drunk) are having a few laughs as they recount his last visit.

After I pull my socks inside out and hand them to the officer, I begin to wonder if they’ll want to turn anything else inside out for inspection. Fortunately, they just hand me a navy blue, polyester jumpsuit and a pair of orange, vinyl sandals. I put all of my personal belongings into a small paper bag, which they take.

I am then led through a bright, sterile, institutional hallway: white tile floor waxed to a perfect shine, cinder block walls painted a glossy white, white ceiling tile, strategically placed, unmanned observation windows (the kind with wire mesh inside the glass), and off-white metal doors here and there. The only sounds are the faint hum of bright, fluorescent lights and the footsteps of two men: a lawbreaker in orange sandals, and a law enforcer in shiny, black...police shoes. I am ordered to stay between the wall and the red line on the floor, which runs the length of the hallway. This is to ensure that I am seen at all times by the video surveillance cameras.

The officer unlocks one of the metal doors and ushers me into a large room full of cots, with bunk beds along the walls. The room is relatively dark, and full of sleeping inmates. Each cot has a small end table at its head. Some end tables have large stacks of mail on them, indicating that the men who are sleeping on those cots have been there for some time. The officer points to a cot near the center of the room. “You sleep there,” he says. “You’ll go before the judge some time tomorrow morning.” If I’m still alive. When I reach my cot, he quietly closes the cold, metal door.

On a cot next to mine a man is reading a book by the light of a small lamp. I glance over, trying to make out what he is reading without attracting his attention. It’s a Bible. This is a good sign. Perhaps he won’t rape me.

We make quiet introductions and have a brief theological dialogue. He then turns out his lamp and goes to sleep. At least, he appears to be sleeping. Hmm. What’s this? A copy of The Cross and the Switchblade. Always heard of this book; never read it. I think I’ll stay awake and read this. I think staying awake will lower my chances of being raped. I fall asleep (against my will) around three or four in the morning.

Upon awakening I immediately take note of two things: I am alive, and unmolested. I am a living, breathing virgin in a den of iniquity. So this is how Lot felt.

Morning in the county jail. The sun is shining brightly through barred windows; birds can be heard in nearby trees singing of freedom. There’s a buzz among the inmates as they get ready for a new day. Some remain in their cots. Some are heading for the showers, others for the small cafeteria that a pair of open metal doors has revealed. Not wanting to press my luck, I decide to forego the shower. I get in line for breakfast.

On my brown, plastic tray are placed: one hard boiled egg in one of those cute little egg cups (tin, of course), a tin plate with two sausage links and two pieces of toast, coffee in a tin cup, plasticware, and a napkin. I sit down unobtrusively at one of the least occupied tables. In my mind, I have already come up with three or four uses for my plastic knife involving revolt and/or escape. Looking at my food, I decide that there isn’t much that can be done to spoil toast or coffee; the sausage and egg will go untouched.

The toast is good – hearty; crunchy yet yielding; tasty. The coffee...ahhh, the coffee...

I grew up watching a drama series on TV called “Kung Fu.” It was the story of a man raised and trained in the wisdom and skills of the martial arts, traveling through the great American West back in the 1800’s. One of his final tests before going out into the big, wide world is to pick up a blazing hot cauldron – with his bare forearms. When he carefully puts the cauldron down, the images of a dragon and the word “Mother” have been permanently burned into his flesh. The television audience notes that, while the cauldron was being held, there was no screaming, crying, or complaining. Total self-control. Mind over matter. Very impressive.

I stare at my tin cup full of hot coffee, knowing what I must do. I pinch the cup handle between my thumb and index finger. Mother! I’m in jail, surrounded by men using the same cups, and yet all morning I’ve heard not one whimper or complaint. The pack will turn on the weaker animal and kill it. I lift the cup as if it were filled with lemonade. Anyone reading my face would read: “I have no sensory nerves. I’m not allowed near a hot stove.” Putting the cup to my lips, which happen to be packed with fully functional sensory nerves, I take a leisurely sip. My face, my watering eyes, my entire body language quietly states: “I’m not allowed to use matches.” Ever so gently, I place the cup back on the table. Proud of my mastery of Self, I calmly release my grip on the handle and sit back, enjoying the feeling throughout my body as large amounts of adrenaline slowly dissipate. I belong here. I am one of the pack. I will not be mauled. I am hardly aware of the man sitting next to me, who suddenly asks:

“You want your egg?”

“N-”

“Can I have it?”

“Sur-”

“Can I have your sausage, too?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

Finishing my toast, I take stock: no screaming from the showers, my fingerprints and lips remain unaltered, and, despite the pain, this is some of the best tasting coffee I’ve ever had in my life. All in all, not bad.

As breakfast comes to an end I begin to feel that I should have some plan of action after I return my food tray. It simply won’t do to stand around looking lost. At that time in my life it was standard procedure to go from the "Tray Drop-off" to my next college class; and in earlier days, to the playground. Well, I obviously won’t be attending any classes today (and I’m praying that no one here will try to give new meaning to the phrase “monkey bars”), so I guess it’s back to the cot to finish my book. As I visualize myself striding confidently from the cafeteria back to my cot, I hear the door from the hallway unlocking with efficient, metallic clicks. A guard takes a step into the main room and calls out six names, none of which are mine. “Come out into the hallway and line up against the wall! Time to see the judge.” Six of our own walk out of the room; the big, metal door shuts resolutely behind them. Geez, how long ‘til they call my name?

I drop off my tray and start heading back to my cot when I spot my Bible-reading friend sitting at a table. He is deep in conversation with a bunch of other guys. He catches my eye and invites me over. Is everyone seeing this? I have friends here. People know me. They make room for me at the table as I pull up a chair. We quickly go around with introductions, and then I am brought up to speed with the current topic: Is this guy sitting at the head of the table “saved because he believes,” or still lost because he doesn’t “feel saved”? He looks very sincere and concerned. The conversation goes on for some time. I offer a few points for either case, and conclude with this thought, addressing everyone at the table (it has become clear to me by now that everyone seated before me is a regular at this cafeteria):

“All I can say for sure is that Jesus wouldn’t be in jail for wrongdoing. He and his followers might have been punished for preaching the message, but they weren’t busted for just plain, sinful lawbreaking. So, we have to wonder: If he wouldn’t end up here, and yet we keep finding ourselves behind bars, then who are we following, really?”

It’s sort of quiet at the table. Suddenly, the big door opens and in walks the first group of six. They have seen the judge. A couple of them go to their cots, grab a few things, and are allowed to leave. Six more names are called, including mine! I excuse myself from the table and walk out into the hallway.

Bright light reflects off the walls and the polished floor. We six are cuffed together at the wrists as we stand in a line with our backs to the wall. I’m second from my left; at my far right is the guy who was booked last night for domestic violence. Part of me wants to laugh. The other part of me wants to be really quiet. I don’t laugh.

We march down the hall, being reminded of the red line on the floor. After passing through a series of doors we suddenly find ourselves in some garage/loading dock area. Waiting for us out in the glaring sunlight is a clean, bright paddy wagon. The guards load us into the back. Man, I could crack some really good one-liners right about now. “Okay, boys, as soon as we turn the corner, right?” Or, “Everybody knows the plan?” But Prudence tells me to keep my big mouth shut. In fact, I can still hear her frantic voice in my head saying something about how I don’t want to be pistol whipped. How did she know?

We’re all pretty quiet on the ride over to the courthouse. It is strange to look out the small windows of the paddy wagon at any cars passing by, any people walking down the street. I am in a different world from theirs; I can see them and they can see me, but I am not allowed into their world, and they want no part of mine.

The wagon stops in the courthouse lot and we are released from our mobile jail. Into the building, through another series of doors, and we are led into the hushed, respectful silence of an empty courtroom. It looks and feels like an old New England church sanctuary: a very high ceiling; the room is longer than it is wide; there are rows of wooden pews with an aisle up the center and aisles along the walls; big windows filter in the morning sunlight; lots of dark wood everywhere. My companions and I, still joined at the wrists, are seated in a front pew. To our left, across the center aisle, the other section of pews begins to slowly fill with lawbreakers who are in need of a form of justice requiring no time behind bars: perhaps only a fine and a judge’s admonition to renew that license, keep change handy for those parking meters, replace the disgruntled neighbor’s mailbox, keep the dog in the backyard. There seem to be a considerable number of minors with their parents: obey the stop sign, obey the speed limit, stop on red, green doesn’t mean “Ready, set, go!” On my side of the aisle: just the six of us, and silence. The other side looks packed, and the room is filled with the murmur of parental prosecutions and teen defenses.

I am sure the six of us can feel, from across the aisle, all eyes affixed to the backs of our heads. Each juvenile offender goes down our line, sizing us up to figure out what it was that earned us our front row seats and fancy uniforms: bank robber, dognapper, gang banger, pervert, tax evader, horse thief.

“All rise!” We all rise. And there he is: the judge – our judge – my judge. I’m guessing mid-sixties; more pepper than salt in the thick, well-groomed hair; he looks robust and wise in his long, black robe and black-rimmed glasses. He sits; we sit. As he begins to speak it becomes clear that he is in no mood for jokes. Dear God, is this really happening? Am I really attached to this chain gang? If I stand up and try to drag myself out of the room with five other alleged criminals in tow, will guns be drawn? Shots fired? Blood spilled? This can’t be real.

Not that I have anywhere to go, but I am relieved to find they will begin on our side of the aisle. One by one, we are released from our shackles to stand and face judgment.

Standing before the judge, I am hearing him say, "The charge against you is…” Behind me, all eyes behold the back of my shame-ridden head; justice will be served in Wisconsin today; a man will be held accountable for his actions; our civil society will be protected and preserved. Everyone in the room will once again be reminded that no man is above the law. “...Failure to Dim Headlights.”

Do I hear snickering?

“How do you plead, sir?”

“Guilty, your Honor.”

“The court will enter a plea of ‘Guilty.’ [sound of gavel – Whack!] That’ll be a seventy-three dollar fine, payable by mail within thirty days.”

“Yes, your Honor.”

“Upon your return to the county jail your personal belongings will be returned to you and you will be released.”

“Yes, your Honor.”

I return to my place on the illustrious first pew and await the sentencing of my fellows. Once Mr. Domestic Violence is reattached to our line, we are escorted from the room, from the building, and back into the paddy wagon. Is it just me, or do I sense a change in the way my fellow inmates regard me? Yeah, they sense the danger now, wary of my every move.

After the quiet ride back to the jail, we are lined up again in the hallway outside of our dormitory. One by one, we are released from our handcuffs and sent back into the large room – except me. I am taken to another room where I am allowed to change back into my own clothes. I am then escorted back out into the main lobby of the building. A woman sitting at a desk behind bulletproof glass slips some papers underneath her window for me to sign. I sign where needed, and in exchange for the papers she slips me the small paper bag which holds everything from my pockets.

I walk out into the parking lot toward my awaiting car, digging through the articles in the bag until I find my car keys. This is just like in the movies!

Pulling out of the lot and onto the road that will take me home, I am comforted by the thought that I will complete the trip well before dark.

Speech! Speech!

The following are two speeches I gave upon two very different occasions, and only a few months apart. The first was given at a reunion of preschool teachers I had worked with. We had gathered at a local park enjoying the sunny weather, good food, and fond memories.

The second speech was given at the first rehearsal for a musical I was going to conduct. The whole cast was there, along with the stage director. It was not an easy speech to give, but I felt it was necessary in light of the events of the previous day. The cast was very appreciative, and it helped us get to work.

My interest in the founding era of our country inspired me to think of "speech giving" at important (or even not so important) events. It seems that when you read of that bygone era, where ever people are gathered someone stands up and gives a speech. So, I thought I'd try it out.

SPEECH No. 1

June 23, 2001

Staff Reunion Address

If a person is lucky they will, at least once in their lifetime, have the experience of working for some time in a particular place with a particular group of people and, upon reflection of that time and place and those people, will be able to say that the experience was a magical one. What it was that created the magic may be different for each person, or it may be wholly undefinable. But I think we would agree that the time we shared together in the not too distant past was a magical time. There were good times and bad times to be sure, but there was always magic in the air.

The time: the greater part of the 1990’s. The place: the Preschool. The people: us.

My experience was only supposed to last a few months. A few months became almost ten years. To Nancy, Madeline, Michelle, and Roxanne, I was the “new kid” in the winter of 1989. All the rest of you arrived after me. I have worked under every director and assistant director the center has ever had to this date.

Part of the magic is found in the memories. I have many, of which I will share but a few:

--Touring the country and getting to speak at National AEYC Conventions, promoting the anti-bias curriculum by telling people from all over America that I was called a wimp in grade school.

--Discussing with Margaret the idea of creating an Anti-bias Police Force for conventions. We would be dressed in bright red jumpsuits and roam around the convention halls carrying anti-bias stickers. Whenever we saw or heard any type of bias, we would run up to the offender, wild-eyed, and screaming “BIAS!”, and slap a sticker on them. The idea never made it to the jumpsuit phase.

--Nancy's Great Decree against stereotyping males in the work place: “We can’t go calling our only male staff member out of the classroom every time there’s something heavy to lift. What would we do if he weren’t here? Besides, he’s a wimp. You’re better off calling our maintenance man.”

--The whole staff being forced to sit around the table in the Conference Room to discover how much we misunderstand and hate each other, even though our anti-bias curriculum said we shouldn’t.

--A special moment in my personal journey when I realize that being a young, healthy, educated, middle-class, white, Christian, American male....is nothing to be proud of!

--Havva hitting a bus in downtown Denver as she walked back to her hotel. Sure, we were told she was hit by a bus. Frankly, she’d had a rough day at the convention, and she wasn’t about to let a little traffic get between her and her hotel room. Eye-witnesses say she’d have taken out a nearby car if they hadn’t wrestled her to the stretcher. When the ambulance pulled up to the emergency room....Havva was driving.

--Margaret and I are sitting across from each other in the Conference Room on lunch break. It is a hot, summer day. I have just returned from the nearby convenience store and pull a cold beverage out of a sack.

Margaret: What is that?!
Me: A beer.
Margaret: You can’t drink that here!
Me: I’m thirsty. I like a cold beer when I’m hot and thirsty!
Margaret: You can’t consume alcohol on campus!
Me: Campus? This is a campus?
Margaret: What would a parent think if they smelled alcohol on your breath as you’re handing them their child?
Me: Well, as long as I’m not drunk!

I found that water is also good on a hot day.

And one more memory before I begin to wrap it up:

--An almost daily conversation with Madeline:

Madeline: Lesson plans ready?
Me: No.

Everyone look around. We are a diverse group. What is it that has brought this diverse group of people together today? What do we have in common? What is it that has unified us?

Was it our visit to a far away Park District where we helped each other walk across a bunch of tree stumps to promote team work? I say, “no.”

Was it that special camaraderie that develops between people as they roast marshmallows together at the bi-monthly anti-bias book burning? I say, “no.”

Was it the fact that we knew we were not “babysitters,” because we were not “sitting on babies”? I say, “no.”

What is it that binds us together? Was it our annual Lobster Day fundraiser? Certainly not!

Was our unity forged through our undying hatred of the Sunday school staff who didn't respect our classroom space? I say, “no.”

Some here would say that it was the shared experience of using the restrooms in our building that, in the middle of a Midwestern winter, were hotter than Death Valley itself.

But to all of this, friends, I say, “no.” Look around. What is it that brings this diverse group of people together? (It’s a shame that the media declined my invitation to record this historic event, this statement of “unity in diversity.”) My friends, what we share, the magic that brings us back together today, what unifies this group, is the fact that we... HAVE CHANGED MORE POOPY DIAPERS THAN MOST PEOPLE WILL EVER SEE IF THEY LIVE TO BE FIVE HUNDRED YEARS OLD!!!!!!!

Blessed be the tie that binds!
I thank you.

SPEECH No. 2

September 12, 2001

Address to the cast of A Chorus Line

It happens that, in the last year, I have read the autobiography of Benjamin Franklin, a biography of Paul Revere, and an account of how our Constitution came to be. I have come to realize through these books what it was they were trying to teach me in American history class: that the American system of government is the greatest form of government ever achieved by mankind - not perfect, but unquestionably the fairest, the free-est, and therefore the greatest. America is known around the world as the most prosperous and powerful nation on earth - and it’s true. And it is our unique form of government that makes it so.

I was making breakfast for my two little boys when my wife called from her downtown office. This sounds too preposterous to be real, I thought as she spoke. But there was fear and concern in her voice. My heart sank. For me: a day I’ll never forget. For my boys: a day they’ll never remember, but will one day learn about, as we learned about Pearl Harbor, the Holocaust, and many other instances of human cruelty.

Ultimately, America will prevail against this enemy. They have dealt us a wound deep, hideous, and grievous...but not mortal. Our enemy gains nothing by our destruction, for we will forever live, and die, a free people. Their only true victory would come by converting us to their way of thinking. But their way of thinking is based on oppression, and these so-called fanatics will soon realize that when Americans feel oppressed by anything or anyone, Americans become The Mother of All Fanatics. American fanaticism for freedom makes all other fanatics look like pacifists for their cause. And let us remember that the cause of our enemy is neither religious, nor political, nor ethnic...it is criminal.

I’m glad we’re together tonight. Our presence here defies them. Our rehearsal tonight defies them. The production and performance of this show defies them. Every act of love and comfort and decency we share with one another defies them. Our sense of humor and our laughter defies them. Everything we do as part of a free society defies them.

There are only two possible ends for our enemy. Either they will be found out and quickly brought to justice, or they will remain hidden, and as time passes will see that, for all of the damage they caused, they ultimately neither changed nor gained anything. They will see that their cause was for nothing, they spent their energies for nothing, their one life on this earth was for nothing. They caused death and destruction, but where is their victory? As human beings, they have achieved complete, utter, and irredeemable failure.

My hope for them is this: that, before they close their eyes forever they may somehow come to fully realize their failed attempt at being human; that, though as human beings they were designed for greatness, they were the smallest of men; and that they would die full of bitter regret, ashamed not only for what they had done, but for what they had become.

God bless America, her living and her dead. And God bless every government that strives, however imperfectly, for peace, freedom, and justice for all.

It Could Happen to You

So, I have friends who live near the Navy base where I have my drill weekends, and they let me stay at their house overnight on Saturdays when I am drilling. Of course, the Navy would offer me such accommodations if I lived 1.5 miles further from the base, but I don't.

My friends are very hospitable and fun to be with; I always look forward to going to their house after Saturday's drill. I have known this couple for six years; we met when she was cast in a show I was conducting.

Now, to fully set up this story (which no longer has anything to do with the Navy), you'll need a little insight regarding my thoughts on using the potty, especially in someone else's home.

I believe that no one actually wants to hear me relieving myself, whether it be a splashy Number One or a thundering Number Two. (Am I wrong to think this?) So, it has become my custom to sit for either occasion - this allows Number One to be silent and not sprinkley. However, Number Two is a little more tricky. Number Two has many ways to make sounds which can filter out of the bathroom and into the ears of the person or persons who are trying to ignore what it is I am doing. And when people can hear what's going on, people will create an image in their mind of what I am doing - whether they want to or not. That's what this is really all about. Once I close that bathroom door, I want to cease to exist in the minds of my friends or family until I come back out - I think it's less disruptive to conversation and...train of thought. Because of the trickiness of Number Two, I will often wait for the opportune moment when I cannot be heard - when the TV or stereo might be on, when I'm on another floor, when I'm close to a busy airport, etc.

I believe I have been quite successful in sparing these particular friends any unsavory sounds or mental images of myself for the last six years. And then there was last night.

Last night after dinner, I was sitting with my friends in their living room - talking, getting gassy, and noticing that my bowels were on the move. But, as the conversation wore on, no good opportunity presented itself for my relief. I couldn't run upstairs, use the bathroom, and then run back down - not when there was a bathroom just 15 feet from where we were sitting. There was no music or extraneous, masking sounds that allowed me to feel comfortable to interrupt our conversation and go have at it.

Well, it became time to go to bed, and I really had to go Number Two. I could tell that this was going to be a noisy affair, but there was nothing for it as we all turned off the lights and climbed the stairs to our respective chambers. There is a bathroom right next to their bedroom, and they have their own bathroom within the confines of their master bedroom suite. Everything in me wanted to go downstairs, but it would have been the opposite problem from before. With facilities at my disposal right there on the second floor, it would look odd for me to turn, descend the stairs, use the first floor bathroom, and come back up.

In a few moments, I found myself sitting in the bathroom right next to their bedroom, wishing their dogs would start barking, or that a hail storm would descend upon the house from out of nowhere, or that they would suddenly get into a raucous fist fight. There was nothing but stillness beyond the bathroom door. From where I was sitting, there was no stillness - only a silent, desperate struggle to let go of things slowly and carefully - slowly and carefully. The problem was my semi-constipated state which required a certain amount of force to get anything to move. And waiting in between these things which needed moving were my nightmare - what coal miners would call "pockets of gas."

For the longest time I was quite successful in my efforts to dominate my inner workings. It took a relentless mental policing of both small and large muscle groups, and timing was everything as I alternated between pushing and relaxing. I had to constantly be thinking ahead.

In a flash, the struggle was lost - it was hopelessly lost - it was hopelessly and irretrievably lost. There was a sudden burst of sound which managed to simultaneously cover the three basic overtone groups in its brief but powerful life: the lower group which shakes things, the middle group which honks, and the upper group which rings. It was an all-encompassing whack of sound bouncing out of a porcelain bowl which, in such circumstances, takes on the properties of a megaphone. Folks, it was loud.

The next struggle was the one to stifle my belly laughter, a struggle which took the form of tears rolling down my cheeks and which lasted until well after I reached my bed.

I can't be 100% certain that my friends heard it, but I really have to suspend my belief to think they had somehow missed it. I don't think I'll venture to ask. My only hope for my dignity is that they may have thought I dropped a large hammer.

Jailbird, Part II

I was a newlywed in April of 1993. For our first summer together, my wife and I decided to go see the Badlands of South Dakota, and Mount Rushmore. We piled ourselves and our camping gear into her teal Mercury Tracer, and off we went. The drive was beautiful – from Chicago up through a corner of Wisconsin, through southern Minnesota, and into the endless prairies of South Dakota.

We found a B&B to stay at two hours south of Pierre. It was a 30,000-acre ranch, and we were treated to a horse ride soon after we arrived. It was late afternoon; plenty of daylight left. Our guide was the owner of the ranch, and he took us to wherever we pointed – no trails, just riding over the land. Here and there we’d spot some of his cattle or some wandering deer. Otherwise, it was just the three of us on our horses, rolling hills covered in lush prairie grass, and the golden summer sun.

The ranch owner would let us run the horses now and again. At one point, we started walking up a long hill, and my wife’s horse and mine decided it would be easier to take the hill at a run. Shortly after the horses started, we slowed them a little and called back for the “go ahead” from the owner, and he said to go on. I turned my head forward and watched as my wife’s horse pulled out all the stops. I thought I had seen a horse run before, but this horse kicked into a gear I never knew existed – it looked as if the horse were gliding up the hill, almost floating. It was one of the most breathtaking sights I had ever seen.

After our ride, I enjoyed catching the little frogs that were sitting on the still warm sidewalks around the house as the sun began to set.

We eventually found our way to the town of Sturgis, just in time to catch the sea of bikers that find their way there every year. So many bikers – so many Harleys. We purchased a pass that allowed us to camp at any of the state parks, and we found a campsite and settled in. So many campers – so many Harleys. The bikers were actually very kind, considerate neighbors at the campsites. For reasons I cannot remember, we ended up setting up our tent at a new site every evening. We became very proficient at tearing down and setting up camp. The Army could have taken a few lessons from us, I think.

We learned that the park rangers had a series of lectures going on at the various campsites at different times of the day. One night we ventured into the darkness around our camp with a ranger and fellow campers and listened on a special radio to the signals the bats were sending out above us to navigate through the woods and feed on mosquitoes and moths.

On one of our last mornings of the trip, we decided to go to an early lecture being given at a nearby park service facility. The building was a large, all-purpose log structure, a mix between a lodge and a barn. I forget what the lecture was on, but I will never forget what happened immediately after.

At the conclusion of the lecture, the park ranger invited all of the guests to some hot coffee and pastries near the front entrance. In a few minutes, everyone had left except for the ranger, my wife and I, and a middle-aged couple. We discussed the lecture and stepped outside into the sunshine to enjoy our coffee and continue the conversation.

Inevitably, the topic turned to where the respective couples hailed from.

“We’re from Chicago,” I said.

“Oh!” said the middle-aged man. “We’re practically neighbors! We’re from Kenosha, Wisconsin.”

We briefly discussed the coincidence of our relatively close points of origin, and then we went to the topic of what we all do for a living.

“I’m a musician,” I said, “and my wife is an accountant.” I asked the man, “What do you do?”

“I’m a police officer for Kenosha County.”

“Really?” I laughed. “I spent a night in your jail!”

Now there was a coincidence.

“You’re kidding me!” the man said.

“I'm totally serious! It was about four years ago. I had played that night with the Kenosha Symphony and was pulled over on my way back to Chicago.”

“What for?” the man asked.

“Failure to dim headlights.”

“Was that you?!” came the unexpected question. “I was in the police station the night you were brought in!”

“No way!”

“Yes! I remember my partner and I were in the back and we couldn’t believe the arresting officer was going to hold this college kid overnight. We didn’t think he was really going to do it. Weren’t you in a tux or something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We didn’t agree with his decision. We thought he should have let you go. Didn’t they take your mug shots and everything?”

“Yes, sir, the whole nine yards. I have to say the coffee in that place was some of the best I’ve ever had. And speaking of mug shots, I tried about a year later to get copies of them, you know, as a memento.”

“Did you get them?” the man asked, laughing.

“No, they wouldn’t release them to me.”

“Would you still like copies?”

“Sure I would!”

“I know the guy who’s in charge of the archives. Without a repeat offense, that’s where your record would be by now. Any repeat offenses?” he asked, good-naturedly.

“No, sir!” I said.

“I’ll get them for you!”

We exchanged information, and several months later (after I’d just about given up hope) an envelope showed up in the mail with my mug shots. The officer included a note which read, in part:

“Here are your pictures which show you to be the hardened criminal you are.”

So, as if what happened to me in Kenosha weren’t unbelievable enough, the saga unexpectedly picks up again four years later at a state park in South Dakota. I still have the pictures. Someday, I think I’ll have them printed on a t-shirt with a caption underneath:

Failure to dim headlights. Kenosha, Wisconsin.

The End.

Goodbye, Julian King

Julian, I don’t know how one human being takes the life of another; I don’t know what kind of rage and anger and thoughtlessness that takes. I am so sorry that you had to face anger of that kind in your brief life, and that you lost your life to it.

We never met, but by your age I am guessing that you were a second-grader. I suppose that you were busy this year with new spelling lists and simple math that wasn’t as simple as last year. I suppose you had your favorite video games and that going to GameStop was like visiting a candy store. Doubtless you were learning how to get along with your friends and family, how to conduct yourself at school and in the home; when to be silly and when not to; how to deal with your own anger in a constructive, positive way; “please” and “thank you;” how to share – all that good stuff. And I’m sure you were learning your lessons well and that you were a fine, young boy – full of life, psyched that Halloween was so close, and already looking forward to Christmas!

I used to teach pre-school, and I have a couple of boys barely older than you. I get along with kids fine. I bet if we had met, I could have made you laugh, and I’ll bet you could have cracked me up, too. I’ll bet we would have been buds; we could’ve had some real fun times if we had ever met, Julian. You and my boys could have shared your vast knowledge of this or that video game and talked excitedly of the games you have only dreamed of playing.

At your age, life was supposed to just be about having fun and growing and learning. You weren’t supposed to know how fierce and violent this world can be. You weren’t supposed to know about “domestic disturbances.” You weren’t supposed to look into the eyes of a cold-blooded killer. You were never supposed to feel that fear, and especially at your age and with no one at your side to protect you.

That cold-blooded killer set a bad example, didn’t he? You knew he wasn’t supposed to act out his anger; he was supposed to use his words. That’s what you’d been taught, right? You knew it, and you were just a kid. What was the killer’s excuse? At seven-years-old, Julian, you could have handled your anger better than a grown man. I am so sorry that you had to find out the terrible truth of this world in such a blunt, brutal fashion – that you would have to look upon a man who had lost all self-control and his conscience; that you would have to look at a man who could stare at your small, helpless frame...and pull the trigger.

You weren’t made for destruction, Julian. You were on this earth to thrive, to live, to love, and to be loved. That’s why you were here. Had it been in my power, Julian, I’d have flown to your side and made the bad guy go away. I’d have held you in my arms and made you feel safe and secure. I’d have dried your tears and found ways to make you smile again. And you’d have gone back to your spelling lists and your math and your friends at school, and we’d go to GameStop at the first opportunity, and there wouldn’t be a “$15 limit” like my boys usually get.

Sad to say that the world keeps spinning, Julian, even though you’ve gotten off. Your little world, and your short experience of it, came to an abrupt and tragic end. Your name will flash through the papers for a while, and come to rest on a gravestone – the one place it shouldn’t be right now. But already, you have to compete with all else that is going on in the world. There are stories about the Middle East, of course, and our economy takes up quite a bit of space on the page. Oh, and some people needed to stop what they were doing today and look into this critical headline: “Desperate Housewives Recap: Now We Know.” You see, Julian? There are so many other things going on besides your death. And far fewer of us would even have heard of yours if we didn’t know your aunt’s name. There are so many like you, Julian – so many children whose lives have ended in the same senseless way. I don’t know their names; so few of us do.

You probably hadn’t heard of that “six degrees of separation” thing at your age. It’s the idea that none of us are that far from knowing a famous person. I have to believe also that none of us are that far from knowing a murderer. Why it is that no one ever stormed into my house at seven-years-old and shot me to death I’ll never know. It could have happened to me just as easily as it did to you. I guess I was just one of the lucky ones. I wish you’d had my luck.

I’d have flown to your side, Julian. I’d have made the bad guy go away. I’d have taken away your fear and reminded you of how loved you are. And today you’d have started on a new spelling list, and you’d have shown me your costume for this Friday. I am so sorry.

A Horse Called Laredo

My friends and I decided to go horseback riding one summer day in 1984. We arrived at a ranch in the far west suburbs of Chicago, signed the waivers that said we knew we were taking a chance sitting atop these large animals (that move) and that we might die in the process, paid our fees, and were then assigned our horses.

Of course, before they assign you a horse, they ask what sort of riding experience you’ve had. I had to admit to “almost none.” They called up Laredo.

All my friends had saddled up already when they led Laredo out of the barn. He wasn’t as tall as the other horses, but he was respectably tall. His coloring was sort of a mottled gray and off-white. I was excited to mount my trusty steed – Laredo! – and hit the trail.

The staff members helped me up and immediately instructed me to sit forward in the saddle. “He has kidney problems, and if you sit too far back it makes him have to go pee.”

Fair enough, I thought. Wouldn’t want to make the ol’ boy uncomfortable. Further instructions were forthcoming.

“You see how he keeps turning his head over to the left like that? If you let him do that he will keep veering off to the left, so what you want to do is just kick his face there and he’ll straighten out. Not very hard; he’ll get the message.”

Sit forward, and kick him in the face – not too complicated.

And we were off, our trail guide leading the way with the horses at a leisurely walk.

The trail was marked at different points to let the riders know whether to walk the horse, or whether you were allowed to trot or run. The horses knew the routine and the trail to the point where you didn’t even have to give them instructions. We arrived at the first stretch where trotting was allowed, and the horses spontaneously began to trot. Trotting is very bouncy and uncomfortable if you don’t know to stand in the stirrups. I didn’t know.

Laredo and I fell behind a little during the trot, and I had a great view of all my friends as their horses broke into a run where the trail was so marked. It was a majestic sight, and I couldn’t wait – my stomach couldn’t wait – for Laredo to reach that threshold. We reached it, and on we trotted. I tried the old “Giddyup!” and “Come on!” and “Run!” On we trotted.

The guide and my friends had reached the end of the stretch for running and were gathered together in a little cluster. They had turned and were watching me bounce along. I yelled ahead to the trail guide, “He-e wo-on’t ru-un!”

“Say again?” yelled the guide.

I got nearer to the group and pulled back on the reins until Laredo slowed to a walk. “My horse won’t break out of a trot!”

“Oh, Laredo? Well, he’s kind of retarded. He won’t run. Okay, y’all, let’s head back!”

From where we were on the trail, my friends and their horses ran, then trotted, then walked back to the big white barn. Laredo and I trotted, then trotted, then walked.

Laredo. I’ll never forget that horse. Sit forward, kick face, won’t run, retarded. I was riding a glue bottle with four legs. And I was too naïve to ask for a refund.

Next time? “Lot’s of experience.”

Sorry, I'm Just Not In the Mood

Once in a while, I tune pianos in some of the local nursing homes. I usually enjoy conversing with the residents, and many of them become very interested in what I am doing - it's entertaining for them; a little break from the normal routine.

So, there I was a few days ago, tuning away in one of these homes. The piano was situated in their multi-purpose room. Just before lunch, they had one of the staff members come in and lead the residents in some stretching exercises, and then they had a little sing along. I was trying to get the job done as soon as possible, but tuning in a room full of singing people tends to slow me down. Well, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? So, instead of tuning, I offered up some piano accompinament to their small repertoire of old favorites. It was a good time.

Once the singing was done, the staff began to help their elderly charges to the tables in the room to begin serving lunch. I went into overdrive to finish up my tuning, but I had at least another ten to fifteen minutes before I could wrap it up.

There was a table of four old women right next to the piano, and I was suddenly aware that the woman closest to me was having a hard time of it as I pounded away at the instrument to make everything just right.

Her friends at the table were saying, "It's okay, Linda. He'll be done soon."

Soon, Linda was standing next to her chair, obviously bothered by the clamor, but suffering in silence. Her friends convinced her to sit down again. After a few more minutes, she was standing up again and had moved several feet away. The staff had to convince her this time to take her seat, and she did.

Linda was seated just to my left, and I became aware that she was now looking right at me, and it looked as if she had something to say. I stopped tuning and looked at her.

Very quietly, and with the straightest possible face, she said, "It's okay. We got it." It was plain that what she meant was: "That's enough. You can stop now."

I leaned toward her a little and turned on the charm. "You can sing along if you know the words," I said with a smile.

She continued to stare at me as she slowly turned her head away, her mouth remaining as straight as a ruler, her eyes fixed on me until the last possible moment as she turned toward her friends. Her friends just looked at me and their eyes said, "Nice try."

I returned to my work, more eager than ever to finish up. That line never failed before.

"What the hell are you doing?!" a gruff voice demanded from over my right shoulder. Any other day I would have been slightly bemused at the silver-haired grump who had rolled up in his wheel chair, acting like an overgrown child. But not today. There was no more magic in the air.

I spoke over my right shoulder, giving free reign to my sarcasm: "I have no idea, sir."

"Then why are you doing it?" he barked.

"Because someone told me to," I replied, barely turning my head this time.

He harrumphed in derision and wheeled himself away to his table. I continued to pound out the last few notes, knowing that Linda was ready to stick her fork into my neck.

Feels good to be wanted.

Look For the Silver Lining

It was a beautiful morning this past June. I drove to the courthouse because it turns out that one of my credit card banks was serious about me paying off my balance.

I walk into the courtroom a little early, and a woman standing among a small group in back of the room looks at me and asks, “Are you here for credit cards, too?”

“Yeah,” I say, and we all laugh a little at our common predicament.

Already seated was a young woman with bleach-blonde hair coming off her head in every direction. She was wearing a very short, very tight black dress with red, spiked heels. She had a cute face and killer legs. Just goes to show that if you look for the silver lining in any situation, you will find it. I decided I would sit next to her (with a seat between us so as not to be too obvious). She was there for the same reason.

The judge entered and got right to work. He was a machine – fast and efficient, but not cold and threatening as you might expect. He even got the room to laugh a couple of times.

It wasn’t long before the girl I was sitting next to leaned over and whispered, “I could go for a Bloody Mary after this!” It was nine in the morning.

I decided to go for it, primarily just to see if things like this really happened in real life: do people actually get picked up out of the blue, or does that just happen in the movies?

I turned my summons over and wrote on the back: “Where do they serve drinks this early?” I discreetly handed it to her, and she wrote on it and handed it back. She had written down the name of a bar and the cross streets.

Okay, here goes nothin’! I thought, and wrote, “See you there?”

She wrote back, “For sure!”

I couldn’t believe it! I just picked someone up out of the blue, and this is for real!

The judge processed us through and gave us the continuances we had asked for. We walked out of the building together and to our cars in the parking garage. “I’ll follow you there,” I said. On the ride over to the bar, I kept pinching myself.

We got to the bar and she ordered her Bloody Mary. I got a Blue Moon and realized I would have to sip it really slowly as I was on an empty stomach. Fortunately, the bartender slid us a bowl of pretzels. I ended up eating every one; she never even reached for them.

After her first drink, she ordered another. Then she ordered us a shot of something that tasted like a candy cane. She downed hers in one gulp; I sipped mine. In fact, I finished neither of my drinks; I only finished the pretzels.

We chatted about this and that the whole time, and as it began to feel like it was time to wrap things up, she said, “You know, we can see each other again.”

“Yeah?” I said.

“Sure! For a hundred bucks. Afternoons usually work best.” She wrote her name and number on a napkin.

Wow - of all the dumb luck. The first time I ever get the nerve to ask a girl out completely off the cuff, and I pick up a hooker…in court, no less.

I never did call; I threw away the number. And to think, I wasn’t gonna charge her a dime!

Navy Beats Army!

It was May of 2009, and I flew home from Chicago to Denver to witness the Change of Command ceremony in which my oldest brother, Ralph, would be assuming his first post as a battalion commander in the Army Reserve. He had just made Lieutenant Colonel about a year prior. Ralph put his advancement to me in Navy terms: “It’s like becoming the captain of a Navy ship.” That’s huge; I didn’t want to miss it.

I brought along my dress blues (the “Cracker Jack” uniform) to wear at the ceremony as an expression of armed forces solidarity and as a show of support for my literal “brother-in-arms.”

It turns out that there is a formal dinner thrown for the outgoing commander the night before the Change of Command. My brother and his wife were going, and Ralph thought it would be great to have me come along. Dress uniforms were in order, so on went the Cracker Jack.

The dinner was held in a nice hotel ballroom on the outskirts of downtown Denver. My sister-in-law, Marianne, looked lovely in her formal black dress. Ralph looked dashing in his Army dress uniform: light green shirt with black tie, dark green jacket (in military parlance, a “blouse”) replete with a large array of ribbons and shiny brass, light blue trousers with a dark blue stripe running down each leg, and shiny black shoes. I looked, well, like a damn fine sailor (in Army parlance, a faggot).

The three of us arrived at the hotel and found the ballroom, and I walked into a sea of Army officers and enlisted personnel, most of whom had brought their significant other. No other branches of the service were represented – no Air Force, no Marines, no Coast Guard – it was all Army, and the Lone Sailor. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

The evening opened with everyone mingling just outside of the ballroom enjoying drinks from two cash bars. Ralph and Marianne walked about shaking hands with various people and introducing me to them. It soon occurred to us that I had no seat reserved in the ballroom. Ralph and I went in and looked the situation over.

The seating consisted of about a dozen large, round tables for all of the guests complete with little name tags at each place setting. Then there was the head table, like at a wedding: a long, rectangular table with six settings all the way across. The outgoing commander and his wife were to have the place of honor in the middle. To his right would sit Ralph and Marianne, and to his left would sit the Sergeant Major of the battalion, with his girlfriend seated next to him on the very end. There seemed to be a few spaces available among the round tables, and Ralph said that when people came in to sit down, I could pretty much choose whatever empty seat I wanted.

We went back out to mixing and mingling, and Ralph led me to the table where they were taking ticket money. Being only an E-4 (that’s the fourth rung out of nine on the enlisted ladder – the Sergeant Major was an E-9), my fee for the dinner was less than most people there had to pay. Being almost a nobody has its advantages.

Ralph introduced me to the major who was collecting the money, and she asked where I’d be sitting. Ralph told her the situation, and she came up with a better idea.

“You know, Sergeant Major’s girlfriend couldn’t make it tonight, so why don’t we have him sit at the head table?” She knew I had flown in from Chicago, so I guess she wanted to honor my show of support for my brother. Ralph thought that would be a great idea, and we found the Sergeant Major and he agreed. Sergeant Major was just the kind of guy you might imagine him to be: an Army bull dog who neither gave nor took bull from anyone, but very cordial and with a good sense of humor. So, the issue of seating was settled.

About this time, the outgoing commander and his wife formed a greeting line with my brother, his wife, and the Sergeant Major. So, everyone who had been mingling formed a line (a long line) and pressed the flesh with those in the greeting line. The idea was that those who had gone through the greeting line would then enter the ballroom and take their seats in preparation for dinner.

Feeling deferential to my Army comrades, I went all the way to the back of the line. The people running late to the event took their place in line behind me. I made a little small talk with those near me as the line progressed. Finally, I made my way through the greeting line. Of course, my brother and I made nothing but silly comments as I shook his hand. After shaking Sergeant Major’s hand, I entered the ballroom only to see that no one had taken their seats. Everyone was still milling about and chatting it up out by the cash bars.

To show that at least someone in this crowd knew how to follow orders, I walked up to the head table and stood next to my chair. I looked out at all the empty tables and realized how dumb I’d look sitting down in the ballroom all by myself. I already stood out enough – no need to put a spotlight on me. I walked back out to mill.

There were still quite a few people going through the greeting line, so hanging out with Ralph and Marianne was out of the question; I was on my own. I looked about the room, and my eye caught a color guard forming up. They were easy to spot with their shiny, silver helmets, white mesh belts, flags and rifles. This was good as I knew that these guys would most likely be E-3’s, 4’s and 5’s – my peers. I decided I’d feel most at ease striking up conversation with them. Making my way through the crowd, I approached the color guard. My opening salvo was:

“So, you guys gonna be up for an Army-Navy brawl later on tonight?”

They laughed a sort of laugh that said, “That was funny. Who the hell does this guy think he is?”

One of them smiled and said, “I think you’re a little outnumbered.”

“Well, maybe,” I replied. “You guys a part of this battalion, or are you just coming in to parade the colors?”

“This is our battalion,” they offered.

“Cool,” I said.

We weren’t two minutes into the small talk when references were being made to the Village People as they examined my outfit.

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Well, you guys look a lot like the construction worker with those helmets.”

We laughed. Just some good-natured inter-service rivalry.

“And, by the way,” I continued, indicating their name tags (I don’t wear one on my dress uniform), “I am memorizing all your names. The incoming commander, your new boss, happens to be my brother, so feel free to say anything you want about me. He will hear everything!”

That got me some wide-eyed looks, and some more good-natured laughs. It was a well placed zinger. Suddenly, they were noting the resemblance (everyone in the battalion already knew my brother as he’d been acting as the executive officer for some time). A call went out for people to begin taking their seats for dinner, so I exchanged friendly handshakes with the color guard and told them to do a great job.

We were all standing next to our chairs as those in the greeting line were announced to the room, and they filed in to the head table and took their places next to their chairs. The color guard marched in and took their place in front of the head table as everyone in uniform held a salute. The national anthem was played through the sound system, the colors were posted, the salute was concluded, the color guard exited (having done a very honorable job), and everyone took their seats.

No sooner had we sat down than Ralph leaned forward and looked down to my end of the table.

“Nice date, Sergeant Major!” he gushed. “He’s really cute!”

Everyone within earshot gave a hearty laugh. I just smiled and nodded. I was, indeed, outnumbered. What else could I do?

To my left and a little behind me was a podium with a cordless microphone. Directly in front of me was the round table reserved for the “full bird” colonels, the highest ranking officers in the room (just one step below brigadier general). And there I sat in full view of the entire room – nowhere to hide.

Dinner opened with a prayer by the battalion chaplain, and out came the food. It was quite good. Soon after the meal began, the outgoing commander had a crown placed on his head, everyone was instructed on the exact protocol should anyone in the room wish to address him, and anyone who screwed up the protocol was sentenced to the “chair of shame” which was placed in front of the head table. I soon discovered that there was an entire script prepared for the evening. Suddenly, the night transformed to what might have been a stuffy, formal affair, to what felt like a medieval feast complete with court jesters and ribald humor. The Sergeant Major saw my bewildered face and explained the tradition. Dinner was served with lots of laughs.

Things settled down after awhile and it became time for the outgoing commander to make a farewell speech. He approached the podium and turned on the mic. A little way into his opening remarks, the commander said:

“And I also want to mention that I think it’s really great to have one of our sister services represented here tonight.” A few chuckles were heard sprinkled throughout the room, and the commander reiterated, with emphasis, “Sister services.” A few chuckles became general laughter. I smiled and nodded, outnumbered.

Toward the close of the evening, the cordless mic was going from table to table, and one person from each table was given the opportunity to make remarks to the outgoing commander, usually in the form of a funny story from times past, and then some sort of farewell gift was presented from that table. I leaned over to the Sergeant Major and asked if I might make a few remarks. He initially didn’t think it would be a good idea, but after I reminded him I had flown in from Chicago to support my brother and promised to be brief, he changed his mind. After all the tables had had their turn, the Sergeant Major called for the mic to be brought to me. I took hold of the mic and stood up. I first addressed the commander, who was standing at the podium.

“Sir, on behalf of the United States Navy [which got a few laughs], I just want to say that, from what I have heard here tonight, it sounds like you were a great officer to work for. Thank you for your service. And it is truly an honor for me to be here among all you fine Army officers and enlisted personnel, and I never imagined I’d be sitting at the head table, which is also an honor. I flew in from Chicago this morning to be here because, as you know, my brother will be taking over command of this battalion, and I am [a slight pause, and then, with playful emphasis] heterosexual. Thank you very much.”

Eyes in the room lit up as I handed the mic to the commander, and the room exploded in laughter and even some applause. As I sat down, I looked over at my brother who was enjoying a hearty laugh, and Sergeant Major shook my hand with a big grin and said, “That was perfect!”

The Lone Sailor becomes the “Army of One.” Who’s outnumbered now?

* * * *

Epilogue

The following morning, the battalion and attending audience had all taken their places for the Change of Command ceremony. The audience had a side view, and I was standing up in the back row at a point that put me easily within the peripheral vision of the soldiers standing in formation. In fact, I kept catching many of them looking over at me. Again, in my Navy dress blues, I stood out like a sore thumb. And having so recently learned how the Army tends to view Navy personnel, I knew exactly what they were thinking.

The space we were in looked like an airplane hangar, and there must have been four or five times the number of soldiers that had attended last night’s dinner. The outgoing commander and the general he served took to the podium, made their respective speeches, and then partook of the ceremony along with my brother and the Sergeant Major. The ceremony went without a hitch, and then my brother, the new battalion commander, stepped to the podium and took the cordless mic from its stand to give his speech.

It was a fine speech, but Ralph was holding the mic a little too far away and it was difficult to hear him in such a large space. I was just about to do my brother a favor, but in a split-second I calculated that my conspicuous uniform, coupled with an unexpected and very particular motion of my closed hand, would cause more than a few eyes to turn my way, and I knew that many of those who would look over had heard my speech last night. I couldn’t chance having a bunch of soldiers giggling in ranks during their new commander’s inaugural address. The “favor” I had come so close to performing was to flash my brother the international sign for: “Hold the Microphone Closer to Your Mouth.”

Sometimes it’s just better to stand down.