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One does not, ordinarily, grow wealthy in the
service of one's country. I exclude, for this discussion, supply corps officers.
No - the best that one can hope for is a sort of shabby gentility, much like
that which adheres to a respected university professor, for example. And while
one may never challenge the Astors at shuffleboard, neither will one go looking
for the next meal. It's a comfortable life, if not a routinely luxurious one.
And too, they are not trivial, the rewards of service - just non-remunerative:
There is the satisfaction of an important job, done as best as one can, often
under difficult circumstances - these are the psychic rewards of service, and I
wouldn't trade them for all the tea in
China.
Not everyone in my immediate
family feels that way though...
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One member of my family is a lobbyist, in D.C.
Our Nation's Capital. She makes her living, so far as I can tell, selling
democracy. Which let me tell you, there is apparently
damn
good money in.
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But even though she grew up with me in what can
only be described as a middle class environment, she has taken to the life of
luxury as one to the manor born. I find myself surprised at times, with the airs
she can put on, in some fancy restaurant. But she clearly enjoys her success,
and so I celebrate it with her. Plus, she sometimes invites us up to places
which we would not otherwise get to go.
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Like the Ritz-Carlton, in San Francisco. Which is
very nice, if you ever get the chance to visit. Try the concierge deck, if you
can swing it - the caviar and vodka are comped. As is that tribune of the
aspirations of the common man, the New York
Times.
Which makes a kind of bizarre sense, when you wrap your noodle around it. It
helps to have some vodka.
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We drove up from the central San Joaquin valley,
where we were stationed at the end of the last age. The five of us in my dusty,
bedraggled '96 Dodge Caravan. It had once been blue, beneath the patina of
agricultural dirt, and maybe one day would be blue again. Hope springs eternal.
There were five of us in the vehicle, suitcases of course, and any number of
McDonald's wrappers littering the deck. It had been a long trip.
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We pulled into a parking lot filled with Benz's
and Bentley's and Aston-Martin Lagondas. The doorman didn't quite know what to
make of us - Were we lost? Had we made a wrong turn? How could he be of
assistance?
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The bags, Smedley. To room 512. And
double-quick.
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Oh, we spent a long weekend there imagining we
were other people, enjoying the northern city comprehensively: Restaurants, wine
tasting, culture. Lolling about the commons, sipping cocktails and remarking on
the market. Oh my, very couth. Very couth indeed.
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But all good things come to an end of course, in
time. And soon it was time for us to leave. Our bags were sent down to the
lobby, and I gave the lot attendant the claim check to the ancient Caravan. He
jogged off heartily, unsuspecting. The bell hop stood there patiently, waiting
for the driver to return with our carriage. I was dimly aware that all about me
was and eager an expectation of gratuities, everywhere I looked. I fumbled in my
wallet for a fin, hoping it would be enough.
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Our car pulled, up, looking for all the world as
though it had driven up from the set from a Mel Gibson movie. I swear the
McDonald's wrappers followed close behind, fluttering in the slipstream, for
maximum effect. As I passed my suitcase to the bellhop, the handle came unhinged
at one end, and all dangled awkwardly from his hand as he dropped to his knees
to avert some more serious, even more incredible and unforeseeable disaster. His
eyes stretched and started, as he wondered apprehensively what new thing might
arise following such a terrible omen of the end of the world. At just that
moment, the driver exited the van, showing every sign of wanting to throw
himself into the showers for a long, hot soak after his exposure to our milieu.
I tried to salvage the situation by passing out five dollar bills to anyone who
would take one, but in doing so, a card fell from my wallet to the ground
between the bell hop and the parking lot attendant. Both bent in kind
consideration to your humble scribe, and picked the card up, turning it over in
their hands, searchingly, curiously. I tried to snatch it away from them, but to
no avail.
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Yes. Yes, it was - a Subway sandwich card. Buy 10,
and you get the 11th one free. I only had four more sandwiches to
go.
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The driver and bell hop looked at me as though I
had crawled out from underneath a rock. I got my Subway sandwich card back and
told them firmly, "I know. We don't belong here. It's OK. We're
leaving."
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They seemed relieved. Truth be told, so were
we.
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