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1998 - 2003© Copyright From The Wilderness Publications
The Long Dark Night by Theodore Marcus So in a year or two or three . . . You're at a party. Dressed well, teeth white, freshly pressed, optimistic but nervous. The usual. You're there to see friends, meet new ones, celebrate something, re-connect, re-invigorate, you know, do the thing. A buzzing group meets the eye upon entry, already you see faces you know, faces you've seen, others you haven't. The conversation is mixed, appropriately loud. You've been here before, it's familiar, but it isn't. One of your chummier colleagues is there, with her husband; these are folks with kids your kids' age, going to gym class, the same summer camps, the basics. There's much in common. She says they have a relative they want you to meet; you're for that, new connections, new outlets on life. "Barry, I want you to meet Elle. She's from your alma mater, just graduated magna cum from the law school, just moved up from Atlanta." "hi, how are you", you say, eager to make this acquaintance. So you're a Wildcat?" "Yep, what year'd you finish?" "Oh, too long ago to tell, but we had computers by then (ha ha)." (She chuckles along, she hadn't actually considered that there was a time that computers didn't exist, but that sounds right . . . right?). As the crevasse of Mount Not Much in Common opens between you, you take one more plunge toward a safe conversational perch: "so, what brings you to the big city?" At this, she perks up (thank heavens, you think, this is warming up), eager to field this inquiry: "I'm starting a fellowship with the government!" "Ah, excellent," you counter, with what agency, the White House, Congress, State?" "No, no, I've got a Ridge Grant -- I'm doing the next two years with Homeland Security's Terrorism Response Analysis Unit, and after that, I'll be a Poindexter Fellow with DARPA for a year." "I'm on track," she continues as you begin to detect the not-so-subtle taste of your own stomach acid warming the lining of your esophagus, "for an AGC-HSD/TIA (*Assistant General Counsel-Homeland Security Department/Total Information Awareness -- the joint legal counsel's office for the two agencies) at the end of the 3 year commitment, but I might be able to cut it to two-and-a-half if I decide to take the slot at DARPA's GC's First Amendment "Enforcement" Branch." "What First Amendment Enforcement Branch?", you stammer. "Yeah, if I decide to go First Level dot 6 Classified, which is a pain when you think of how long the multi-state allegiance and security awareness portion of the exam is, but who cares, right, it's the right thing to do, right?, anyway, if I do the dot 6 and go Justice, I can skip rotation through the Social De-brief Unit at DARPA (it's not as if we didn't get plenty of that first year in Professor Ashcroft's class, I mean) -- and all that squalid "First Impression Privacy and Civil Liberties" docket stuff the Guantanamo crowd keeps bringing to the Supremes' new "comet" docket (*from initial pleading through cert petition in two days, but if cert granted, final judgment within three days -- a new docket, the brain child of Justices Olson and Holder). "Why?", which is all you can verbalize from the deep, dark well of the nightmare that now engulfs your spirit. "Are you kidding?", she asks, with pure sincerity. "I've been blessed with God-given ability and love from family and friends all my life. I feel like it would be a grave sin if I didn't give something back to the community. When it's all said and done, you know, money can wait. Doing my part is more important than anything I can think of right now while I'm young, eager and ready to work. One day, if God wills it, I'll have kids. What better example for them than a Mommy who's dedicated to public service. No, this isn't so much a sacrifice, as a privilege and an honor. By the way, I'd love to keep in touch. Do you have a card? What's your name again?" She reaches into her transparent "Visi-tek" Louis Vuitton shoulder bag for a pen. Her glance averted, you slip away into the crowd, and out the door, collar turned up to the cold, or to her glance, you're not sure. A taxi ambles forward: "hey, buddy, need a hack?" says the driver, proudly displaying his Operation World Freedom -- Pakistani Division jacket. The cab is immaculate, the on-dash Security recorder clicking your image in the darkness. "No, thanks," you mutter inaudibly, "there's nowhere for me to go." "No problem, sir", he replies, "have a blessed day." And into the evening you turn. -- Theodore Marcus is an Atlanta area attorney with prior service with the U.S. government.
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