09 January 2065
Unbelievably enough for the rather jaded and sophisticated city of
Washington, DC, there really is a hotel with the rather small-town name of
'Hotel Washington.' While not in the highest echelons of elegance, service
and history, like The Jefferson or The Willard, or Hay-Adams, it is
nonetheless considered one of the grand old dames of the Capital. The
Vesta/Tellus group had been given rooms there for their four-night stay in
the city. Four nights only because, even with the new restrictions, it was
still more economical to travel having "stayed over Saturday." But the
travel and accommodations had been paid for.
The counselors from The Greenbrier had been brought in and were meeting with
individuals and families to check on progress, and there were lists of
available tours, concerts, plays, and events that the group could attend -
most at their own expense.
It was Friday. There were tours during the day, and in the evening the Wang
family was going to The Folger to see 'Henry V' - a suitable choice for a
production at the Shakespeare Museum. The Celina family was going to attend a
concert at The Kennedy Center. Kylen, however, had other plans for the
evening. She had been invited to attend an event curiously referred to as
Mess Night at Marine Corps Headquarters. She had an early breakfast with an
officer from the protocol office - one Captain Armstrong. "So the briefing
need not interfere with your plans for the day, Ma'am." After her meeting
with the captain Kylen had promptly phoned Amy Langston to get the straight
dope on this type of event. "Amy, Amy, Amy help me out here."
A few weeks earlier Amy Langston, nee McQueen, the Colonel's ex-wife and
through a series of coincidences his rehabilitation therapist, had been
openly infuriated by Kylen's little bomb about going to work for the Marine
Corps. Ty's oblique assurances that "Kylen has her reasons" had only
partially oiled the waters. Amy had become fond of Kylen, had started to
build a relationship independent of the McQueen connection. She had been
forced to come to a painful decision. If she wanted to maintain her growing
friendship with Kylen, Amy would have to swallow, or at least not give voice
to, some of her old resentments.
As it turned out Amy had only attended two Mess Nights, once when she and her
father had made the fateful visit to Loxley and the second time while she
been married to McQueen. A former member of the Angry Angels had retired and
was given a Mess Night to "dine-out" her detachment. Amy remembered that
night not so much for the tradition it signified, but rather for the
memorable argument that had followed: Amy had felt that Ty should resign his
commission - that he could 'do better' - and T.C. McQueen was not interested
in leaving the Marine Corps.
Kylen filled Amy in on the events of the awards ceremony at the White House
the day before. Amy laughed to herself. But the picture of McQueen with The
President of the United States? Amy could only imagine her estranged father
prowling around his office in the Senate absolutely apoplectic with rage at
an InVitro being received in such a manner. And then to have the InVitro be
Ty? Well, it was immensely satisfying. Amy had to caution herself. She
mustn't use T.C. McQueen as a weapon against her father. Not again. She had
done it before and the results had been disastrous. She had been unthinking,
and the upshot had been cruel - to both T.C. and to herself. Amy and McQueen
had finally achieved an almost comfortable rapprochement of their tumultuous
relationship. They had started, it seemed, to forgive one another. They might
one day even become friends after a fashion.
Occasionally a guest list was included with the invitation to Mess Night.
When Kylen read it off to Amy, the older woman could only whistle her
surprise. McQueen was playing with the Big Boys.
"Mess Night is equivalent to a black tie affair. It is formal. Did McQueen
give you any pointers?" Amy asked, using Ty's surname, which in her case was
a sure sign of irritation.
"He just said it was a nice dinner ... that I'd know what to do ... and to be
on time," Kylen replied, her anxiety beginning to grow.
Amy shook her head. "Well, that's typical McQueen. But, from him ...
consider it a compliment. How about this captain? Did she give you any info?"
Kylen waved a sheet of paper in front of the vidphone camera. "Pages out of
the Marine Officer's Guide."
"Good. That's more than I ever got," Amy said with a trace of bitterness.
"I thought it was just a dinner for the Ambassador - because The Colonel was
given that decoration from Finland. But there are lists here," Kylen
emphasized. "A list of people and another whole list of things that have to
happen in a certain order."
"Kylen, the Marine Corps has a ritual for everything. Somewhere there are
written directions for tying your shoes. But you don't have to perform the
rituals. You are a guest: Remember that. You take part, but someone will be
there to help you. McQueen has done this before," Amy said, but then she had
a thought. Never in such a rarefied atmosphere. I wonder how nervous he is.
Always hard to tell.
"Now I'm not sure why I was invited," Kylen said. "I thought it was just to
be company for Colonel McQueen. But now this?" Kylen again waved the papers
in the air.
It seemed patently obvious to Amy, who had taken in politics along with her
cornflakes - at the breakfast table - since childhood. "They are using this
as an introduction. I don't know what job they have in mind for you, Kylen,
and I don't think that I want to know. But you were invited so that the
'players' could meet you and so that your stamp of approval would be obvious.
Trust me, aides-de-camp are scribbling your name into their notebooks even
as we speak."
Kylen looked uncomfortable.
"Then again," Amy continued.,"You were undoubtedly included to be company for
Ty. In any case, the deals are made after dinner and the toasts, so stay on
your toes and keep your eyes open. Takes notes. Go to the bathroom and write
things down."
Kylen's initial excitement about the evening was fast turning into dread.
Deals made after dinner? Writing notes in the bathroom? Sitting in a
basement someplace reading people's mail was starting to look like a good
alternative.
"Couldn't it really just be a nice dinner?" she asked. Kylen almost wished
that she hadn't called Amy. In retrospect, she much preferred McQueen's terse
shorthand explanation.
"Kylen, you are in Washington, DC. Even a nice dinner party is going to have
an agenda." Amy could see that she may have been too forthright. She hadn't
needed to be quite so blunt, but she hadn't been able to temper enough of her
resentments or her political barometer. She had made Kylen nervous. Amy
attempted to lighten the tone by changing the subject to one which was still
of importance to most women and their feelings of confidence. "What are you
going to wear?"
It was soon obvious to Amy that Kylen needed the boost that only a new and
more sophisticated garment could impart. Amy immediately set up a conference
call to one of her old roommates. The Celina tribe went on a tour of the
city without Kylen, who instead went shopping with Amy's friend. It seemed
that there was a little known but rather sizable underground of high-end
resale shops in the DC area. There was a brisk market for all those suits,
dresses and gowns worn by the politicos and foreign service types. Kylen had
a good time, the appropriate gown and renewed confidence by one-o'clock. And
by two-o'clock she had a manicure, the blackened areas of her fingernails
covered with a warm rosy lacquer.
Colonel T.C. McQueen, on the other hand, spent the day over at the Pentagon.
It was rare that someone from the front lines of his rank and caliber made it
back to Earth. A lot of people wanted to attend what could best be termed a
debriefing - though unlike any he had ever been through before. A lot of
people came and went. Subjects jumped around, but everyone let him finish all
of his thoughts and didn't interrupt. What was gratifying about the rather
grueling day was the fact that people appeared to be listening. The questions
posed to the Colonel did not contain veiled threats. They were in no way
accusatory, but rather probing and frequently thought-provoking.
If the Brass wanted something specific from him they didn't let him know.
McQueen remembered what Kylen had told him about children. They 'want.'
They just don't know what it is they want. He shook his head, feeling that
he had missed something.
09 January 2065
It was 6:15 PM and Kylen was again sitting in front of the vidphone. She had
checked in with Amy and had received her final bits of advice on behavior,
protocol and appearance, but she was now speaking with Eithne. Kylen was
pretending. I'm NOT lying, she told herself. I'm pretending. Please,
God, let this go well.
Kylen was attempting to mend fences with her sister by asking Eithne's advice
on the final touches of her appearance - touches that Amy had already given
her - but it was a way to reconnect with her artistic and dramatic younger
sister.
The entire trip had been slightly tainted for Kylen. She had asked Eithne to
come with them, and her younger sister had refused in no uncertain and very
colorful terms. From the cradle, Eithne had been known as the familial
spitfire. Her brothers said the she was "a redhead and all that that
implied." She was talented and driven and had hitched her wagon to a star.
She would dance no matter what, and at the age of fifteen had won a
scholarship to Boston's School of the Arts.
Eithne's volatile personality was kept in line by her father, to whom she was
devoted, and by her brothers and sisters, who occasionally made fun of, but
generally ignored, her tirades. About once a year or so there would be an
argument with one of her siblings: A series of fireworks that blazed, boomed
and crackled, and then died out just as quickly. It was just Eithne after
all.
Kylen now remembered the whole incident that had happened only a few days ago
as 'Eithne's Refusal' - complete with quotation marks and capital letters.
The event had become like a national news break on television: It replayed
itself incessantly - breaking in on other thoughts - interrupting and
distracting her - affecting her abilty to concentrate on the tasks at hand.
No one can fight like family members, and this had started out as the usual
family difference of opinion. It became almost immediately obvious that
Kylen, at least, was not viewing the exchange as usual or common. Kylen was
tired of dancing around Eithne's temperament. Life was too short to put up
with mini-dramas. Once the two got started, an argument of historic
proportions had ensued. There were no cooler, more mature heads around to
diffuse the emotional confrontation. Frank had been at the university, and
Ewan had been out at the barn.
Kylen had been walking around full of emotional disappointments and wounds
that were only just beginning to heal. Eithne had seen her ambitions and
possibly her entire career in the ballet placed on indefinite hold due to the
War. Unconsciously they each had been spoiling for a fight. They had known
exactly which buttons to push. It had been a reaction that neither one was
capable of stopping - a chemical reaction that now had to run its course. Old
jealousies and sibling rivalries had bubbled up and burst with acidic
violence on the seemingly calm surface of the family. It had become clear
that Eithne had a world of resentments to dump about Kylen's ill-fated Tellus
mission and what the family had gone through in her absence and supposed
death. Kylen had had it up to here with Eithne's narrow, provincial view of
the War: The comfortable life filled with opportunities that the younger
sister took for granted. At seventeen there was no excuse to think that your
life was over. Not unless and until you had a gun pointed in your face.
Each sister had accused the other of being selfish and self-absorbed. Things
had escalated rapidly.
Eithne had only been gunning for the old bob and weave. The usual. She had
been frankly shocked that the fight did not progress like fights usually did.
She had pushed too hard one too many times - was not prepared for the result
- and was soon outclassed. There was no way on God's green earth that Kylen
was going to let Eithne out of that kitchen with just the sound of footsteps
pounding up the stairs and a door slamming. Sensing fear now in her opponent,
Kylen had pressed her advantage.
Kylen had not raised a hand to her sister. Hitting your brothers or sisters
had always been a forbidden and heavily punished act in the household. Such
behavior would not ever be tolerated at Ridge Farm, and some training could
not be overridden. But before anyone had known what was happening, Kylen had
literally backed the smaller Eithne into a corner. Rather than meeting
Eithne's famous heat and volume, Kylen had been unnaturally pale and
extraordinarily quiet. The potential violence - the ability to do violence -
under the controlled surface had been a terrifying realization for the
witnesses and the participants. Kylen had given a warning to her frozen
sister. "Don't let your mouth write checks that your body isn't prepared to
cash." No one but Kylen had a clue as to where that little bit of poison had
come from. It had been an ugly moment that was broken only when Allston
slammed his school books against the kitchen table.
The incident had reinforced Kylen's decision to leave the farm - to come down
to Washington. She had angers and fears and serious work to do on herself.
The loss of the Tellus colonial mission had deeply scarred her family, and
Kylen didn't want to risk further damage - of poisoning them all with her
issues. Now, she was facing her sister again - attempting to reconnect.
"You don't think it's too sophisticated?" Kylen asked. The dress was not in
the least revealing in a conventional sense and had no ornamentation, but the
cut was severe - tailored and fitted. The impact of the garment was its
material and its color. Real silk and a deep rich purple-blue. It had a
suggestion of silvery sheen when the light hit it just right. It had made
Kylen think of New England in the summer. The color of blueberries when she
and Eithne plucked them off the bushes in August, enduring the stickers and
scratches for the sweet reward.
"No, no, no. The dress is great," Eithne urged. "Now look in the mirror and
take off one piece of jewelry. I don't care what, but something has to go. "
Kylen did as she was commanded. She removed her bracelet and stood back from
the camera, turning so that Eithne could give her the final word.
"That's it. Perfect," Eithne actually smiled at her sister. "Let Bridee wear
the bracelet to the concert. It will make her feel grown up," she pronounced
with the tone reminiscent of a grandmother. "I still have the feeling you are
going into the lion's den, Kylen, but you look fabulous," she said. "Thanks
for calling, but then you know that I am the arbiter of style," Eithne joked.
Kylen had to laugh. Nerves were still tender. This was going to take a while
to smooth over, but it was a start.
"Love you. Bye bye."
At 1835 McQueen called up from the lobby. Bridee had read about this Evening
Dress Uniform in the papers Kylen had received from Captain Armstrong and had
to see it to believe it. She accompanied Kylen down to the lobby with her
camera.
When the elevator doors opened, Bridee gave an immediate little gasp. "Kylen,
look. He is wearing a cape. He looks like a prince in a movie," she whispered.
"Hush," Kylen hissed and took her sister's arm, propelling her out of the
elevator before the doors closed on them. But it was true. Six was standing
there in a full length cape. Amy hadn't prepared her for this.
As a commissioned officer it was mandatory that McQueen have an Evening Dress
uniform. Even though he would never admit it unless pressed, he did rather
like the uniform, and it was far and away the most money he had ever laid out
for any clothing. A major expense, especially for something worn so seldom.
The traditional Marine Corps boatcloak was optional. Worn only with Dress
blues or Evening Dress attire, the cloak - like the sword - was a throwback
to the Napoleonic era. McQueen had never been able to justify the purchase of
one for himself. They were costly in the extreme. Captain Armstrong had
delivered this to his quarters at Henderson Hall last night.
"I didn't know if you had a cloak with you, Sir, but if you don't I can make
this available to you for the length of your visit."
McQueen had had no idea that things like this were ever done. Marines were
supposed to show up with the required gear in hand, and the cloak was not
required. His unspoken question must have shown on his face.
"Part of my duty, as I see it, Colonel, is to see not only that things
progress smoothly, but that people are made as comfortable as possible with
protocol," Captain Armstrong had explained. "I'm a Marine and trained to
improvise. With the War on we found that some bits and pieces of uniforms
could get worn or lost in transit. So several of us have put together a few
things to have on hand just in case. We can't lend anyone a full uniform,
Sir, but gloves, covers, a sword and this cloak ... We can help."
Colonel McQueen's feelings about Captain Armstrong had changed at that
moment. She went from being an officious, irritating little protocol ramrod
to being HIS little protocol ramrod.
"Thank you, Captain," he had said honestly. "Waistcoat or cummerbund?" he
asked, holding the items up.
"Waistcoat I think, Colonel. After all, you are one of the guests of honor,"
she had said. "And tomorrow evening, in honor of the Ambassador from Finland,
you may - and probably should - wear the White Rose decoration on its ribbon,
rather than the miniature."
So now McQueen stood before the Celina sisters - white gloves, white
waistcoat, White Rose of Finland at his neck, white cover tucked under his
arm - topped off with the boatcloak of a Marine Corps officer. They thought
he looked spectacular.
Bridee whipped out the camera and went to work.
"Bridgid, this isn't the senior prom," Kylen remonstrated.
"But it is special," Bridee replied. She was finished anyway. "Look at the
tiny medals," she said, tentatively touching the miniatures on McQueen's
chest. "Where is your sword?"
"We have to leave," McQueen said, his impatience now showing. This was yet
another situation that he was having trouble controlling. He was getting sick
and tired of reacting - not acting.
"The driver is waiting," he told the sisters. McQueen accepted Bridee's kiss
on his cheek and escorted Kylen through the doors to the car.
(Six)
Center House, Marine Barracks
At 1900 promptly, McQueen and Kylen arrived at Center House, Eighth and I:
The appointed time, in the appointed dress, with the appointed gear. A
corporal saw to her coat, his cover and cloak, and they were shown into the
anteroom for introductions, cocktails and conversation. Kylen was pleased to
see some familiar faces: General Weirick and the Commandant, both of whom she
had met in November. Major Howard was present, and Kylen caught a glimpse of
Captain Armstrong standing on the sidelines.
One to read my reactions and one to make sure I toe the line, Kylen
thought with wry amusement.
General Radford crossed the floor to greet them. As the junior officer it
fell to McQueen to make the unneeded introductions.
"Good evening, General Radford," he said, taking the general's proffered
hand. "Of course you know Ms. Celina."
"Good evening, Colonel McQueen. Yesterday was a fine day for the Corps."
Turning to Kylen the general spoke in an easy tone. "Yes, it is always a
pleasure to see Ms. Celina. I see that New England has agreed with you. You
look terrific, Kylen. But we could have given you a tan in Arizona. Come,
let me introduce you to the Ambassador. Colonel McQueen, come along and 'make
your number' as well."
Radford led them toward the Ambassador. Kylen felt self-conscious, but
thought : I'm going to have to learn to swim in these waters soon enough.
No time like the present, I guess.
"General Radford, are Martin and your sister here this evening? " she asked,
holding out a hope that there would be another real friend to buffer the
evening.
"No," he said. "We thought that this might be a bit much for Martin. He and
Dawntreader are attending the concert at the Kennedy Center. They have seats
close to your family."
Radford, Howard - and who knows who else - know the color of my
underwear. I shouldn't be surprised that he knows what my family is doing
tonight. Kylen looked around the room and did not see anyone else from
either the Tellus or Vesta missions. I guess I'm the 'trophy' survivor this
evening, as well as being the new kid on the block and company for Six. Try
and look heroic, Kylen, she told herself. Maybe I shouldn't have gotten
the manicure. Too bad for them I don't look more like a victim. She was
immediately ashamed of her cynicism.
Heikki Virtanen, the Honorable Ambassador from the Republic of Finland, and
his wife were standing with Lieutenant General Becca Green, the Deputy Chief
of Marine Corps Aviation. Her title was misleading: Deputy Chief did not
imply that there was a more senior Chief of Aviation. Her title said that she
was a deputy to the Commandant, and that she was THE head honcho for USMC
aviation.
General Green had become something of an institution in the Corps. She had
come into the Corps out of Annapolis, but it didn't make her one of the good
old boys. She had gotten into the academy the hard way - after putting in
four years as a grunt. She had been in well over her thirty years. If it
hadn't been for the War, Green would have been in the Outer Banks fishing off
of the piers and hang-gliding off of Jockey Ridge. It had been her plan to
retire this year, but plans change.
Years ago her brother officers had called Lieutenant Colonel - and then
Colonel Becca Green - 'Sister Mary Zelda Zoomie' or 'Mommy Dearest' behind
her back. It had bothered her briefly, but had not changed the way she did
business. After she had become General Becca Green they called her 'Becca
Boyington' or 'Mom' - the terms were of affection and respect. Becca rather
liked those. There were worse things than being compared to the legendary
commander of The Black Sheep Squadron, and she was actually a grandmother.
She got a kick out of the fact that none of her brother officers knew that
her husband, who was not in the military, called her 'Cookie.' Wouldn't
they all just love that.
General Radford made his introductions. "Mr. Ambassador, Mrs. Virtanen,
General Green, may I present Ms. Kylen Celina. Ms. Celina has been in the
process of briefing us on her time spent off planet these last two years."
Kylen was under no illusions that General Green, at least, knew exactly where
she had been and what she had been doing, and on what subject she had been
briefing Marine Intelligence. The Ambassador may or may not have been out of
the loop. Time will tell. I've just been shown an example of plausible
deniablity, she thought. How to tell and not tell. Kylen also felt that
General Radford's wording was probably the nicest way that anyone could
describe her life. She smiled honestly and warmly. Then she spoke.
"This is an honor, Ambassador. My fiance is a member of the Fifty-eighth
Squadron. In his letters to his parents he told of his friendship with and
admiration of the Finnish Twenty-third Squadron. We deeply regret their loss,
Sir, and will never forget their bravery. Nathan described it as something
called 'sisu.' Perhaps the Ambassador would be kind enough to favor me with a
better explanation of that term?"
Generals Radford and Green noted how effortlessly Kylen had changed the topic
of conversation, shifting it off of herself and onto another subject
entirely. McQueen, who had been the victim of what he thought of as a 'Kylen
maneuver,' was used to it. Radford was extremely satisfied. Green's
estimation of Kylen went up, and she was sorry now that she would not be
seated on Kylen's right during dinner. The young woman could perhaps offer a
shortcut.
Before the Ambassador could answer, General Green spoke: "Ambassador, I would
have trouble explaining that, but I do know sisu when I see it," she said,
looking indulgently at Kylen. The Ambassador, Radford and McQueen broke into
polite and expected laughter. General Green continued: "If you will excuse
Colonel McQueen and me for just a moment? There is something we need to
attend to before dinner. Your Excellency. Mrs. Virtenen. General." With that
she steered Colonel McQueen away while Heikki Virtanen attempted to define a
Finnish term that has no direct translation.
"Sisu is that quality that makes our nation unique. It is a combination of
courage, intelligence and the determination to get things done in the face of
impractical or even impossible odds. But it is more than that. You must
remember that in Finland we will bake in a sauna at 185 degrees and then run
outside and roll in the snow. This is for us entertainment. This is part of
sisu...."
The Ambassador's explanation faded into the background as Green and McQueen
walked out of earshot. They had reached the seating diagram. General Green
touched the chart with her finger. McQueen saw that the Ambassador was seated
on the Commandant's right and Kylen on his left - the guests of honor. He
then saw that he was seated between the ambassador's wife and General Radford
- across from General Weirick, the Supreme Commander of American Forces who
was seated next to Kylen. In short he was also a guest of honor - a nightmare
for a person who did not enjoy being in the spotlight.
"Kylen Celina is an interesting young woman," Green remarked almost too
casually, hoping to play the shortcut.
"She is a survivor, Ma'am," McQueen replied, as if that should be explanation
enough.
"And you have known her...?" the general left the question hanging in the air.
"Since the evacuation, Ma'am."
"Tell me, Colonel, in your estimation, does she have the brains to match her
balls?"
McQueen choked on her question and was forced to spit the wine he had been
sipping back into his glass.
The question had been asked in order to establish a different and more
personal level of communication between the general and one of her men. A
joke. General Green had read up on McQueen - everything she could get her
hands on. It had been an idle question actually - she knew the answer. She
knew from his reputation that T.C. McQueen would not waste his time being
chivalrous to a bimbo - no matter what the connection. And she also knew he
had a reputation for irony and a rather sardonic wit. No. The question had
not been an idle one so much as it had been a calculated risk. Time was
short. She needed to establish a connection to one of her 'kids' quickly. She
needed to get to know T.C. McQueen fast.
McQueen was a Marine and belonged to the Corps, but he was also an aviator -
one of the most talented -and that made him HER Marine. General Becca Green
was known to jealously watch over her brood. She made sure that her talented
officers were brought along and given challenges just outside their grasp.
She liked to see them stretched, and hated to see them fail. General Green
got the job done. She was still not sure where it was best to place this
Marine aviator, but she didn't want anyone else to steal him away from her
command - not without her approval.
Returning the general's gaze, McQueen could see that she was not being
insulting. He got the joke. He gave an honest chuckle this time, giving her a
tolerent smile. "That's a toss up, General. She does have big brass ones,
but she is extremely bright and learns quickly." He paused for a moment. "She
is in an untenable position," he explained.
"Aren't we all, Colonel. Aren't we all, " the general said, with an irony
that could not be missed. "Ah, well, we can speak more after dinner. We have
things to discuss. Go retrieve Celina and then make your number to the
Commandant and General Weirick. You had also better check in with our
efficient little Captain Armstrong before they begin escorting people into
the dining hall. She looks like she is about to pee her pants over there."
The general gestured in the direction of McQueen's protocol wizard as she
moved off to do the 'Meet and Greet.'
Why do I feel that the general had somehow just described an obstacle
course? Glen calls this place 'Sodom on the Potomac.' I don't like Washington
and that is a fact. Colonel McQueen moved out to fetch Kylen.
(Seven)
09 Jaunary 2065
Offering toasts after dinner is an extraordinaryly formal part of Mess Night.
Certain toasts are expected in a rigid order. Toasts of protocol are followed
by official toasts, which are followed by the traditional toast; finally
personal toasts are offered. It is the way things are done. Tradition is
followed, and national anthems are played. It can seem to go on for quite
some time.
This evening the Commandant was seated at the head of the long table, acting
as the president of the mess. General Green was seated at the opposite end of
the table, which was decked in fine linen, crystal and all the regimental
silver. Marines had learned centuries earlier to embrace creature comforts
whenever they presented themselves - the Corps would give them more than
enough opportunities to be miserable. General Green was acting as the
vice-president of the mess and the host. The evening had been her idea, and
she was nominally in charge of the events. All toasts began with an address
to her.
The Commandant stood and offered a toast to the president of Finland and - by
extension - to the Ambassador. The entire party stood, and the chamber
orchestra played "Finlandia." After three or four minutes the Ambassador
offered a toast to the President of the United States. Again everyone stood
for the playing of the "Star-Spangled Banner." There were no official toasts
to offer - no members of the government or another branch of the service had
been invited. This was a private night. The Commandant, in his role as mess
president, offered the traditional toast:
"General Green, to Corps and Country."
General Green stood, and in a clear, well-trained voice gave the traditional
response - the words having been read from a poster dating from the
Revolutionary War.
"Long live the United States, and success to the Marines!"
After a few minutes of conversation the Commandant again stood and then
offered a toast to Lieutenant Paul Wang, recipient of the Medal of Honor.
Someone to whom Kylen had not yet been introduced offered a toast to General
Wierick and the victory of Ixion. General Wierick offered a toast to Colonel
McQueen. General Oliver Radford offered a toast to the Tellus and Vesta
Colonists. The pauses that had come between all the toasts began to stretch
out, and everyone expected the coffee to be served momentarily. But Kylen,
rather timidly, touched the Commandant's arm, and whispered something to him.
He nodded his acquiescence, and Kylen stood.
"General Green," she said, having picked up the proper form. "Honored guests,
ladies and gentlemen, I offer a toast on behalf of the survivors of the
colonial missions. I wish to give you the Fifty-eighth Squadron, the
Wildcards, and also the Fifty-ninth, the Ready Reserve, who cleared the path
home for us. I now understand that any and all Marines would have given their
best to save us. In this case, however, it wasn't just any Marine: It was the
men and women of these two squadrons." She raised her glass. "To the F
ifty-eighth and the Fifty-ninth."
The company raised their glasses. Radford's little find had surprised most of
them.
When everyone had put down their glasses, McQueen further surprised the group
by standing, glass in hand. With a voice rich in dignity, he addressed the
assembly.
"General Green, honored guests, ladies and gentlemen. We have recalled the
glory and sacrifice of Ixion. I ask you now to stand with me in a moment of
silence. Let us remember the victory and the sacrifice of Demios."
There was a good five seconds of silence before anyone stood. Kylen was aware
that McQueen had just done something that shocked almost everyone assembled,
but she had no idea what it was. She noted that people stood carefully so
their chairs would not make noise. After they were all standing, McQueen
waited a full thirty seconds in silence before solemnly intoning: "To our
fallen brothers and sisters ... Those who have gone before."
"Those who have gone before," the crowd responded. After a couple of seconds
McQueen sat and everyone else, one by one, followed his lead. Few people
could believe that he had done it. Not that the toast wasn't the right thing
to do: It was just that no one could quite believe that he had actually
offered such a toast in front of Wierick.
Demios had almost been a disaster - another Guadalcanal. Intelligence had
been faulty and people had screwed up. The fleet had been caught with its
pants down and had been forced to withdraw. Troops had been left on the
planet with no reinforcements, aircover, or backup. The withdrawal had been
to Ixion - true - a spectacular surprise to the enemy and a fantastic
victory. But the loss of life at Demios had been staggering. The victory
there had not been achieved by brilliance of tactics or of leadership. It had
been achieved by a handful of soldiers and Marines with a dogged
unwillingness to die. Most people preferred to forget that the esteemed
architect of Ixion, General Wierick, was also the architect of Demios, which,
but for those few men and women on planet, could well have been a defeat
beyond the definition of humiliation.
About half of the table was thinking that this Colonel, who was unknown to
them, had really stuck his foot in it. The thought struck about half of that
half, with a tinge of regret, that the man had just shot his promising career
in the foot. About a third of the rest were smirking to themselves - the tank
would go no farther in the Corps, having just buried himself up to his
nippled neck in Chig guano. What only about a half-dozen people knew was that
McQueen had been at Wierick's side for both battles. What even fewer people
knew was that there had only been eight people in the room when the decision
had been made to pull out of Demios and move on Ixion, and that McQueen had
been one of those eight. What even those people did not know was that only
two people had agreed with Wierick and that one of those two had been the man
who had just offered the toast, McQueen. And what only two men seated at the
table knew was what the decision had cost them both personally: Only Wierick
and McQueen knew how bitterly the decision had been accepted. Only they knew
how often they had seen one another prowling the passageways of the Saratoga,
each lost in his own thoughts. Things had passed between them that even
Commodore Ross knew nothing about. Only they remembered sitting together in
silence on the observation deck, watching the stars shoot by as the fleet
made its way back to Demios. It was a bond that the two men shared. The
crushing weight of command had been felt even more keenly by Wierick. It had
been a suffocating - if clear - decision. A decision that could have been
soul destroying. It was a bond that they shared. Both men knew that if they
had it all to do over, they would do the same again.
Most people mistakenly thought of Wierick as a hard-charging,
devil-take-the-hindmost, Patton type. Most people did not realize that he was
cut from the more personally involved and devoted Schwarzkopf mold. Far from
being insulted, General Wierick was grateful to McQueen. The Colonel had said
things to which the General could not give voice. Wierick had never been able
to publicly voice his feelings about Demios. He had never been able to put
his overwhelming emotions into words. The respect that he had - the love that
he felt - for those grunts who had held the planet for him. Those men and
women who had refused to give up. They had given him courage to continue the
fight at Ixion when he had thought they were again facing defeat. They had
inspired him. They had inspired the entire fleet. Wierick felt deep in his
heart that the victory at Ixion was the direct result of the actions of a
handful of Marines on a planet lightyears away. Demios. They had retaken the
airfield on that godforsaken piece of rock, and that had saved the fleet at
Ixion. They had the right to claim victory. Wierick reached across the table
to shake McQueen's hand.
About half of the table thought Wierick to be extremely gracious and
forgiving. About a quarter of the table thought that Wierick had just counted
coupe against McQueen, who he would bust down to at least major at the first
opportunity. A handful of people thought that Wierick had finally snapped
under the strain of the last few months. About a half-dozen reflected on the
remarkable brotherhood they shared as members of the Marine Corps. Two men
shared each other's grief.
The toasts were clearly finished, and coffee was then served. Conversations
restarted and became more relaxed. After about fifteen minutes, the
Commandant dismissed the party: "Ladies and Gentlemen, will you join me in
the bar?" With that time-honored phrase, the formal part of the evening came
to an end. The atmosphere almost immediately changed.
Kylen was about to be introduced to one of the many paradoxes on which the
Marine Corps is built:
Tonight's lesson was straight out of the mouth of former Commandant John A.
Lejeune.
"On social occasions the formality of strictly military occasions should be
relaxed, and a spirit of friendliness and good will should prevail.....We are
all members of the same great family."
After the very formal dinner and the even more formal ceremony of offering
toasts, Mess Night always continues with "drinks at the bar." A peculiar
switch occurs. The air of informality that follows carries with it a sense
that people were almost "getting away with something." The feeling that the
air has been let out of the balloon.
Kylen and McQueen left the dining hall together and were almost immediately
joined by General Green. "Come with me, children," she said, as she walked
past them on her way to join Captain Armstrong, who was standing against the
wall. They obeyed.
"I love these nights," the General admitted to her charges. "We haven't done
this in quite some time. And you." She pointed at Kylen, but the General was
smiling openly - clearly amused. "You are a surprise. Did Ollie tell you to
offer that toast?"
It had been a surprise that Kylen had stood to offer a toast. To have it be
for the 5-8 did stand to reason: General Green had been given to understand
that the girl had connections there. But to be aware enough - mature enough -
to include the other rescue squadron in the toast? It showed considerable
aplomb, as well as insight into the assembly's sensibilities.
"No, Ma'am. Captain Armstrong had reviewed the order of business and it
seemed to me that not only was I allowed to offer a toast, but that, as a
guest of honor, it was sort of expected. I felt that it needed to be said,
and I realized that Colonel McQueen really couldn't say it without sounding
self-congratulatory. I'm sorry, General Green, but I couldn't catch your eye.
I did receive permission from the Commandant before I stood." Three-star
General Green just referred to Four-star General Radford as 'Ollie,' Kylen
realized with a start.
Green had actually been quite taken with Kylen's gesture. The General found
her intriguing. She smiled again and patted the young woman's shoulder. "And
speaking of standing ... Colonel, your hand." McQueen offered his hand, and
the General used it to steady her balance while she hoisted her long skirt
and stood on a chair. Becca Green turned into the renowned General Green in
front of Kylen's eyes. Even though she was standing incongruously on a chair,
the woman exuded confidence and undisputed leadership. The General spoke in
her command voice. There was music and conversations, but no one in the room
had any difficulty hearing what she had to say.
"Attention, Ladies and Gentlemen. It is not, I believe, as he would have
preferred. I imagine he would rather be on the Saratoga. But please, let us
take this opportunity to "wet down" T.C. McQueen's promotion. Well-deserved,
Colonel." She held out her hand to McQueen. He was self-conscious, and was
terrified that she would pull him up on the chair next to her. Terrified that
she would expect him to say a few words. He swallowed hard and felt his brain
go into overdrive to come up with something appropriate to say. He took her
hand.
General Green looked down into his face and read his reaction. "No. Don't
worry," she said quietly. "I'm not going to make you say anything." General
Green stepped off of the chair. "Well, that ought to get things rolling.
Thank you, Colonel. Captain Armstrong, I know that you have seen to the
necessities."
"Ma'am, the cigars and the candy are behind the bar," Armstrong replied.
"You heard her, Colonel. Go forth and be magnanimous. We can get more, if
needed."
McQueen hesitated. It was true that since it was his promotion that was being
"wet down" he should pass out cigars and candy, but he really didn't like
doing it. It made him feel vaguely foolish. He debated about leaving Kylen
alone in this crowd, but was forced to remind himself: She is going to be
working with at least four of these people in a couple of weeks. That's
undoubtedly part of the reason that she is here. I'm not going to be around.
She has to learn. I can debrief her later. He turned on his heel and left
the two women. Angela Armstrong trailed after him.
"Cigars? Candy?" Kylen asked.
"The officer promoted always passes them out," Becca explained.
"Cigars? Wait. It's tradition right?" Kylen asked with a smile.
"I have quite a collection," Green admitted. "Some people collect shells.
Some people collect stamps, or pens, or postcards ... whatever. Almost
everyone collects something. I collect meaningful cigars."
Kylen was half-tempted to ask if the general had a special case for her
collection, but decided against it. "Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?" she
asked, only half in jest.
General Green caught the lob - the oft-used quote from Freud - and expressed
her amusement openly. "Yes, indeed. I don't save every one, but there are
meaningful cigars."
"And tonight's?" Kylen asked.
"Oh, I think it could be very meaningful. The Colonel is on track."
"Is he where he should be?" Kylen asked quietly, almost to herself. Let the
general ignore the loaded question it if she wants to, she thought.
"Where he should be?" Green picked up the bait. She wasn't caught unaware,
but rather she was curious to see where the thread would lead.
"General, may I ask you a frank - and probably impolitic - question?" Kylen
asked directly.
"Oh, I love impolitic questions."
"I meant in his career. Has the Colonel come as far as he deserves?"
"You are asking me if he has been the victim of discrimination." The general
paused. There was nothing to lose by being forthcoming, and probably much
more to gain. "He was in the InVitro platoons. That is a bit of history that
no one is particularly proud of. And he has probably had to do more - to
prove himself more - I'm afraid to say. Why? Has he expressed this feeling
to you?"
"No, oh no. But I know that members of the Fifty-eighth have wondered why he
isn't a general. They feel he might not have been promoted as he should have
been."
General Green gave a small cough. "Rumor has it that you cut to the chase,"
she said to Kylen. I wonder how much truth there is in the rest of the
rumors?
Kylen needed and very much wanted her job as an analyst in Marine
Intelligence, but she hadn't been selected for the colonial program because
she was a shrinking violet. She spoke with a shaded tone of voice - it could
be a question - it could be an apology or an acquiescence. "Ma'am," was all
she said. Let the general decide how she wants to answer.
"Yes, and no. It is the best answer I can give you."
Becca Green silently reviewed the history she had so recently been studying.
Colonel McQueen is a mustang - an officer up from the ranks. As an enlisted
man he had a rather checkered course for his first four years. A
court-martial that could have easily resulted in his execution - saved only
because he had done the right thing, and executing him would have raised too
many questions. One battlefield promotion that he had lost - being busted
back one stripe - for again doing the right thing and pissing people off. The
man had had no political savvy, but uncanny judgment. McQueen had busted his
chops and regained his rank. And when, again with another battlefield
commission, he had finally won his butter bars - he had held on tight.
There was a world of information that Becca could give Kylen, but she had
second thoughts. Frankly, it was none of the young woman's business. Ask
him yourself, she thought.
Usually the orchestra was dismissed after dinner and a drink with the
president of the mess, but tonight they had been asked to stay. The Finnish
Ambassador and his wife were both fine musicians, and the Marine Corps had a
music department of which it was deservedly proud. The orchestra began to
play. General Green whipped around to survey the scene.
"Now I wonder just who requested that they play that?" she asked. I doubt
it was McQueen. It was probably Brad Wierick, or maybe even Armstrong. Our
uptight little Captain seems to have taken a shine to McQueen. She watched
McQueen working his way around the reception area, passing out his cigars.
"What is it?" Kylen asked.
"It's a song that the 127th claimed as their own years ago - long before
McQueen was a member. An old song by John Prine. "Angel From Montgomery."
Mobile is closer to Loxley than Montgomery, but the song belongs to the
127th. The Angry Angels.
"It sounds like such a sad song."
"It is and it isn't," Becca said softly, almost to herself and then turned to
regard the young woman beside her. "You expected fighter pilots to choose ro
ck and roll - balls-to-the-walls, love 'em and leave 'em, didn't you?"
"Yes, I guess that I would have," Kylen admitted.
"For all their bravado, fighter pilots are, by and large, a rather romantic
group of individuals - or rather they have a romantic view of their place in
the scheme of things."
Kylen made a little noise in her throat.
"What?" Green asked.
Kylen leaned in almost whispering to the general. Obviously she was sharing
something of personal importance with the older woman. "Colonel McQueen knows
my family. He has visited our house. One night he needed to think and he went
outside by our pond. All alone in the dark. Just a little bit of light. He
sat on the bench in the dark, alone for at least an hour." Kylen did not tell
the General that the reason that McQueen had to get away from her family had
been Kylen's fault. Kylen believed that he had had to get away from her. She
had had a particularly vivid flashback and McQueen had been the person to
bring her out of it. It couldn't have been pleaant for him. Kylen was sure
that she had upset him. He had never mentioned the incident ... and neither
had she. "My sister and I watched him from a window upstairs. My sister asked
me if I thought that Colonel McQueen had ever read any of the Bronte novels.
He seemed to her to be so brooding and separated - like a Bronte hero. I told
her that I hoped not - that I thought he already had a surprising romantic
view of his place in the cosmos."
Becca Green stood transfixed by Kylen's little confession. Several members of
the crowd started to sing the song. It was a slow, rather sad tune that was
filled with regret, but also had a strange air of defiance. The crowd sang it
with feeling. It had been a while since Green had heard it and a while since
she had heard it sung so honestly.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
General Becca Green decided at that moment to change her position. She would
share at least some - but only some - of what she knew about McQueen's
career with this young woman. Hell, in a couple weeks, if she really wants
to know - if she wants to risk betraying his trust - she'll probably have
access to McQueen's records anyway.
The singing continued around the two women.
"I am an old woman. Named after my mother,
"Generally speaking, Kylen, it takes about fifteen years for an officer to
move up through the ranks to full colonel. There are rare exceptions.
Sometimes a scientist or someone with special skills will come in at advanced
rank, but it is rare. In wartime things move more rapidly. McQueen got his
first commission to second lieutenant only nine years ago. Would he be a
brigadier if he was a natural-born? Not impossible, but highly unlikely.
Only one in sixteen colonels will ever move up to brigadier. I don't know if
he feels that he has been passed over for promotion, but I've seen his
records - he hasn't. No, that type of prejudice would be too blatant." He
just had to do it in the most difficult ways possible. That's all. She
paused and listened to the chorus of the song.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
Green again spoke to Kylen. "In the Marine Corps, officers move along a
career path. We move around and have different postings. We attend different
classes and can attend different schools to further our careers. There are
certain billets and schools that can put a person on the "fast track."
"When I was a young girl, I had me a cowboy.
"I have to admit that I noticed that your friend did not have a lot of luck
in getting billets or schooling that he requested - that he was qualified
for." More than qualified for. It is an embarrassment to the Corps.
McQueen had been granted far fewer of his requests than was normal. It was
obvious discrimination. It made Green sick to think of the time and
opportunities that had been wasted. It was also obvious to her that, while
McQueen seemed to have had one or two mentors along the way, no one had
really focused his intellect along the career path. No one had appeared to
work with him on what billets to request and in what order he should go after
them. McQueen had always been exceptionally good at any assigned job. He
performed. He won medals. He always made his C.O.s look good. It had been in
their own best interests to keep him around for as long as they could.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
"Who makes these decisions?" Kylen asked. Clearly her temper was rising.
"The monitors," Green answered.
"The monitors!" Kylen almost choked. "Well, isn't that an unfortunate little
choice of terms," she spat.
"They have been called 'monitors' for centuries. Long before the InVitros
were ever even thought of." The General paused. "But I do take your point. In
the Corps, being a monitor is a part of a fast-track career. It is a rotated
billet."
"And McQueen, of course, was never a 'monitor.' It also could be a way of
knocking out your competition, couldn't it?"
"That is one of the reasons why the position is rotated," Green said.
"There's flies in the kitchen. I can hear their
buzzin'.
Kylen looked around the room with new understanding - with new rather shocked
eyes. "And you invited him here tonight? How many people here would love to
see him fail?"
"A few wouldn't shed any tears," Green admitted. "But he has more champions
here than you realize. And, I am sure, far more than he realizes. No one
was ordered to sing this song, Kylen. Your friend may - and I certainly do
hope that he does - think it is a kind gesture. But there is more behind it
than that." T.C. McQueen has just been very publicly dropped into the fast
track.
"Make me an angel that flies from Montgomery.
"General Wierick appears to think highly of the Colonel," Kylen observed.
"Oh, Bradford? Yes, yes, he is an honest fan of McQueen's," the general said.
And Bradford is my competition, she thought. "We both have plans for your
Colonel, Kylen. I'm disappointed to say that I think Brad is going to win
this one, but not without some concessions and not without some safeguards.
She would get what she wanted out of young Bradford, which was how she often
still thought of the four-star general, who had actually - during one of his
rotations out of the infantry - served for a short time as a member of her
staff. Far from being jealous, Becca Green took enormous pride that former
members of her staff, aviators or no, seemed to move ahead gracefully in
their careers. Besides, she wouldn't want Wierick's job. Not on your life.
The strains of 'Angel From Montgomery' faded away and the orchestra started a
different tune. McQueen had finished passing out the cigars and began to
cross the room toward the two women.
General Green's mind raced as she watched his approach. Kylen hasn't picked
up on it yet, but have you? Do you feel it, T.C.? Do you feel the bidding war
going on around you? Are you be flattered? Or, more likely, does it piss you
off? Do you feel, as a former slave, like you were on an auction block,
stripped naked - all of us circling you, determining your relative worth to
us? Checking your teeth - testing your muscle tone - 'Turn your head and
cough, Boy.' I honestly don't think you have any idea. You are almost too
self-effacing for your own good, Colonel T.C. McQueen.
McQueen reached the women. General Green nodded a greeting to him, but spoke
to Kylen. "Ah yes, ... General Wierick. Well you know what they say, my dear:
"The measure of another man's intelligence is the extent to which he agrees
with you." And because they often do agree: When McQueen does finally
disagree with Brad - and I'm sure he will - Brad will listen. Yes, Bradford,
the brat probably does need McQueen more than I do, mused Green.
"Nietzsche," said Kylen.
"I beg your pardon," said Green, not immediately following Kylen's train of
thought.
"No, it's Mark Twain," McQueen said to Kylen. Both were trying to place the
author of the quote Green had given.
"Do you think? I'm not really sure," Kylen said to him.
McQueen shrugged. He wasn't willing to bet on it either. "It's what I
thought."
General Green was confused to be left so totally excluded from their
conversation. It was unsettling. She determined to regain control, and
addressed McQueen.
"Where is my cigar?"
"Captain Armstrong told me to save one for you," he said, patting the inside
pocket of his jacket.
"Well, all seems to be forgiven for your rubbing a few noses in it," General
Green noted, scanning the room, and then she trained the full weight of her
gaze on McQueen. "You thought some of the guests were just a little too
self-satisfied, did you?"
Kylen was a bit jolted by the change in the conversation. She had momentarily
forgotten just who General Green was. Kylen had the dreadful feeling that she
was overhearing something that she had no place in hearing, but something
that the general wanted her to hear - or rather that the general wanted to
have McQueen know that Kylen had heard. It was a not too subtle
chastisement. Kylen had the feeling that she was suddenly sinking underwater
- very deep water - and she could think of no graceful way out of the
situation.
McQueen was silent. Becca Green circled an arm through one of his. The act of
familiarity softened her message to the Colonel. "It is a useful function.
One that is needed on occasion, but I caution you on attempting to build the
rest of your career on your skill in acting the Roman slave."
McQueen stiffened. Kylen stood paralyzed, with her mouth slightly open -
wanting to say something, but too shocked to speak. It was beyond her
comprehension that the general had called an emancipated InVitro a 'slave.'
She saw the muscle in McQueen's jaw begin to twitch, and she saw his eyes
narrow.
"General, I am no one's slave," he whispered tersely.
"Of course you are no one's slave," Green said as she gave his arm a little
shake. "You just heard what you have been waiting to hear all evening, didn't
you? An insult - open or veiled. You have been waiting for it, haven't you?
It is true that you will, unfortunately, have to steel yourself against them
for the rest of your life. I'm sorry to say that I don't believe they will
ever disappear entirely. I just decided that I would get it out of the way
for you so that you would be able to concentrate on other things. And you are
now thinking that I was testing you - and you are correct. I apologize to you
and to our guest here," she said, taking Kylen's hand. "Forgive me, T.C.,"
she said, using his common nickname with its implied intimacy. "It was a
seventy-percent solution to one of my problems."
There were a few moments of silence. Kylen could see that McQueen was
processing the general's statement.
Green allowed her explanation to sink in. He doesn't have to like it. But
it is the truth and I need him to believe it. Sorry, young man, but I don't
have a lot of time for the pleasantries, she thought.
McQueen directed his attention to Kylen. He had been able to calm himself,
and spoke in their accustomed hushed tone of voice. "I don't know what the
general felt was her problem. But what General Green means is that it is
often better to decide quickly on an imperfect plan than to spend the time
required to develop a perfect plan that would come too late to be of any use.
Marines call it the seventy-percent solution."
"Thank you, Colonel," said Green. "Now, before either of you come to think of
me as being irretrievably lost ... the Roman slave. The Romans liked to name
things, and there are entire books about their slaves and the names they had
for them, but in all those books I have never found the name, term, or title
for this slave. Perhaps, given the Roman sensibilities, it was a taboo. In
any case, during a Roman Triumph - the parade for the hero - a slave stood
behind the hero ..."
"A slave stood behind the hero ..." McQueen interrupted. The light had
dawned. He understood the general's reference. "And whispered into his ear.
'Remember you are mortal. Remember you are mortal.'"
"Precisely." General Green smiled up at him, and then turned to Kylen. "By
reminding us all of Demios, the Colonel dumped a load of reality on what was
in danger of becoming an orgy of 'who is better than we are.' As I said -
necessary on occasion - but it does not endear one in the hearts of others.
It is a skill - a spice - that one should use sparingly."
Becca Green cast her eyes around the room and found Major Howard, who she
gestured over to her group. "Major, I need to speak with the Colonel for a
few moments. Please attend to Ms. Celina. After all, she is your coup, and
you probably want to show her off."
She did not wait for a response - in the Corps a superior officer's request
carries the weight of a command. She gave Kylen a smile and a little pat.
With her arm still linked with McQueen's, she led him away.
Footnote: An illustration of a field grade officer in Evening Dress with boatcloak can be viewed at www.tecom.usmc.mil/mcub/library/images/URFigs/Fig2-1.gif
Next : Holding Up The Sky Book Two Pt 8-11
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Back : General Fiction
Washington DC, USA
Washington DC
1815 hours
Eighth and I
Washington, DC, USA
1900
Center House
Washington DC,
USA
2100
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
My old man is another child who's grown old.
If dreams were thunder and lightnin' was desire,
This old house would have burned down a long time
ago."
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
Weren't much to look at just a free, ramblin' man.
Well, that was a long time but no matter how hard I try,
The years just flow by like a broken down dam."
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."
And I ain't done nothin' since I woke up today.
How the hell can a person go to work in the morning,
and come home in the evening and have nothing to
say?"
Make me a poster of an old rodeo.
Just give me one thing that I can hold onto.
To believe in this livin' is just a hard way to go."