When the Smoke Clears

Rush. Rush. That’s all my days off for relaxation have been.

But in a good way. It keeps me from dwelling on too many things. And I still owe emails to a number of people. Really, you all were incredibly supportive. It was only Basic Training, but it was an interesting endurance race for an old guy like me. Teresa made an excellent point in the comments in the previous post. Normally, one goes through advanced training where one is weaned off the extreme discipline over a period of weeks. I went cold turkey. The adjustments are a little strange, movement halting, thoughts staccato.

One of my best friends, the one who took on the onus of handling the legal affairs while I was away, was celebrating his birthday last week. I was invited along with a few of his other choice friends to one of his favorite restaurants.

When we sat down I realized that with the time change difference exactly 7 days prior I was sitting down to my last dinner in the chow hall with my platoon. The chow hall was nearly empty, we were the last of the companies to go through that evening. The other platoons in my company were back in the barracks having pizza. My drill sergeants did not plan for anything like that, and, in fact, we were grateful. It was just our group, and the desserts were fully stocked, no one to compete with. The food was the usual choice of “fish, chicken or beef”-like food, mostly some sort of a casserole type mixture lain out in a giant pan tray and slopped onto plates as we moved down the line, shoulder to shoulder, heels together, toes against the baseboard. I instigated a moment when I “encouraged” one of my platoon at the end of chow to do everything wrong. He walked right up to and past the drill sergeants’ table (you’ll definitely get yelled at) going in the wrong direction (there’s only one way traffic in the chow hall… you make a circle…), holding his cup with only one hand (HUGE no-no), cup full of soda (which we were not allowed), with his headgear (cap) on, and his other hand in his pocket. Since it was only my platoon’s drill sergeants present, they just smiled as they didn’t have to put on the show for anyone else.

Contrasting with a week later, I think the reason this is a favorite restaurant is as much the interior design and architecture as the food. Frank Lloyd Wright would have been proud of all the horizontal lines of mahogany and large windows. Minor celebrities dotted the landscape. Out front a few Lamborghinis were parked on the curb so as not to be scratched or turned over to Valet parking. Apparently they took heed the lessons from Ferris Bueller. We were seated right away in a commanding corner booth.

I was reminded that this type of thing used to be a part of my life many years ago when I lived and worked in the city, but even had I not been freshly back from training, it would have been like returning to an old house from which one had moved a long time ago. Familiar, but with new rules, new people, and no longer yours.

But the familiarity still slipped into place as I chose an excellent wine from the list, and was promptly told they were out. Amateurs. If it is so good, stock more.

And for a moment I felt out of place as I looked at the table setting for a spoon, the only utensil we were allowed to use until the last week of Basic. I caught myself grabbing my drink with both hands, finishing the entree and looking around for plates to stack with mine before we took our trays up.

The food was good, in that snooty, “we only use fresh ingredients” (though not as fresh as mine), not quite enough portions, caramelize it and call it a sauce, way. It was like a piece by Chopin entered into a computer program: technically correct, but absent character. It’s not to say the food was not good, it certainly was.

The company was much better, being with people I care so much about on an evening to celebrate, truly the highlight, as was the variety of clothing on all present rather than digital camo. One woman walked directly by our table, early 60s but fighting to remain in the late 30s, bright blond hair high up to Jesus, dress sparkling with black sequins. Another at my table commented, “Oh, love the hair. I’m sure she’ll win.” You just don’t get that level of cattiness in a chow hall. It was nice for a moment, as was being with old friends around whom any pretense was not only unnecessary, it became an immediate target.

And in that moment I held on to the smiles and looks of relief, of kinship from a week earlier of having endured and struggled through something together and being one of the ones who remained, both groups a part of who I am.

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