7 February 2010

The Chief Master Sergeant walked in and immediately began scanning the room. Another Master Sergeant followed closely, then another. They huddled in the corner and spoke quietly as they discussed their findings. The cleaning crew was just finishing up with the final mop-down of the floor and Andrei was shoveling the last bit of snow from the back steps and sprinkling them with the ice melting chemical. We were expecting what the Air Force refers to as a “D.V.” or distinguished visitor and the place was alive with activity. I’d already been through the building several times, pushing in the chairs and picking up the trash from the booths—crumpled notes, empty water bottles, hats and gloves—the things that soldiers tend to leave behind. The rooms were filled with members of the Bulgarian Army who were passing through the base in addition to our American military. The television screen displayed the latest “Ultimate Fight Championship” from the Mandalay Bay Hotel in Las Vegas and the soldiers crowded around the screen to watch the action.

Our distinguished visitor, General Donald J. Hoffman, a four-star general was still an hour away from his visit with us, but the Chief Master Sergeant kept looking down at his watch and then looking up at the clock on the wall, as if to confirm that the universe was still moving in its ordered manner. He glanced up one more time at the clock. “I’m going to call Lt. Colonel Janaros and let him know that we’re ready to go here.” The two Master Sergeants were silent. It was as if the Chief just needed to hear the words aloud to give himself enough confidence to make the call. A few minutes later Lt. Colonel Janaros walked in and began scanning the room with a smile. “This looks outstanding. Good job, Chief. I just spoke to the NCOIC at the Pax Terminal and it looks like the General is running ahead of schedule.”

It wasn’t more than five minutes later that Jeff, my boss, walked in. It was only the fourth time that I’d seen him in two weeks but he was ready for this visit. He was wearing his newest, crispest company uniform, complete with sweatshirt. He looked down at his arm to make sure that his I.D. holder was straight. His hair was freshly trimmed. He came to where I stood at the front counter and shook my hand. “Did you make a full sweep of the exterior of the building? Have you cleaned off all of the snow? Are all of the transformers on ceramic plates?”

His questions were answered by a nod of my head, but he could have made the short walk himself if he had really been curious. He stood next to the Chief and waited, almost at attention. I looked back up at the television and watched the big fight in progress.

“Get ready in the room!” The Chief Master Sergeant barked out the orders. “Room! Atten-Huh!” The distinguished visitor had arrived and was making his way into the building, but ahead of him strutted a parade of two-star Major Generals. The first one in the door came directly to me at the front counter and shook my hand.

“Jed Clark, Ma’am,” I introduced myself.

She looked me in the eye and returned, “Kathleen Close.” Then she moved to Rysbek and shook his hand. The other four two-star generals milled around a bit before they moved into the theater room for a briefing while Major General Close continued to shake hands and introduce herself to the troops.

Jeff stood waiting for General Hoffman to come in, ready to brief the General on the operation of Liberando’s, and I watched him as he silently mouth his recitation over and over again as he stood silently by the theater door.

Major General Close paused at the opposite end of the room where there were a few donated items. She picked up a small bag of oatmeal raisin cookies and said, “How much fiber is there in these things?” Then she answered herself as she read from the ingredient panel, “Less than 1 gram.” She set the bag down and walked back to the theater.

Finally, the General entered and walked straight into the theater. The door was shut behind him and everyone still crowded in our room continued to watch 46 year-old Randy Couture dance around the octagon, jabbing and ducking as he dominated his much younger opponent in the world heavyweight championship for Mixed Martial Arts.

Wearing a total of fourteen stars, four eagles and six oak leaves, the General’s party of officers abruptly poured through the theater door, stampeding into the room where all of the computers and phones are located. The herd huddled near the door and talked among themselves as Jeff hugged the Chief Master Sergeant’s backside just in case they needed him to recite his statistics. But, just as abruptly as they had come in, they strode out, leaving a startled and speechless Jeff behind.

One of the original Master Sergeants who had preceded the General on his visit came to me at the front counter and quietly commented, “This place really looks outstanding, but I came over the other day and it looked good then, too. Good job, sir.” She shook my hand and left.

A disappointed Jeff, who hadn’t been able to give his brief to the General (and who hadn’t received a coveted General’s coin for his excellent work), shook my hand, too.

“Good job. The place looks good.” He was subdued as he walked quietly out into the snow just as an aging Randy Couture clamped a choke hold around the neck of his young opponent, Mark Coleman, and won the UFC main event by submission, raising a loud whoop from the soldiers who had packed themselves like Vienna Sausages around the television screen.