THE IMPERIALS #11

From the Mouths of Babes

The Ambassador stood in front of the closed French doors looking out across the veranda, her back toward Bruno. She was somewhat uncomfortable much preferring to conduct these adversarial encounters in her office, sitting behind the big desk, looking down on her prey. “Why do you continue to act as an obstructionist to my policy goals?” she demanded as she turned to face him.

“Ma’am, my intention is not to obstruct. And I certainly do not desire to interfere with the implementation of foreign policy. But I cannot just blindly approve bills without knowing what they are for.”

       “Well, it is only one hundred euro. Hardly worth the time this conversation is taking,” was the haughty retort.

       Yes ma’am, I understand…”

       “Then why are you here?”

       “I was hoping that in order to avoid these time consuming discussions in the future we could to take a few moments to discuss the government accountability guidelines…”

“It’s a doctor bill,” she snapped.

“A doctor bill,” Bruno stumbled over the words. “I understand it is from a doctor, but what is it for?”

“That,” she exclaimed in an indignant tone, “is a matter of private concern.”

“Who is it for?” Bruno responded in exasperation.

“For me,” she continued pompously.

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Bruno could fake sincerity when he really needed to.

“It was not serious. I woke up with a headache the morning after the gala and called the doctor. But thank you for your concern.”

“Ma’am,” Bruno hesitantly proceeded. “Under these circumstances this would be considered a personal expense.”

“Why?” she snapped. “Because I’m wealthy? Due to my personal success in life am I expected to fully fund this entire Mission during my tenure?” she questioned sarcastically.

“No ma’am. It’s not that. We are all responsible for our own medical bills. Most employees turn theirs in to their insurance provider.”

“The tribulations I must endure,” she muttered to herself. “Very well then. Enough of these trivial matters. I have important work to do today. Give the bill to Lynn,” she said as she turned on her heel and marched out of the room.

The work was important. Among the most important of all important issues facing Madeleine Howell: restoration of bilateral relations between the United States and Nordeland.

 

She sat in the back of her limousine relishing her first official speaking engagement as ambassador. Situated on the campus of The University of Nordeland was the premier focus of American outreach in Nordeland, the American Corner. In the heart of the capitol city of one of the wealthiest countries in the first world, with a populace among the most well educated, there sat a library, fully staffed, stocked and funded by United States taxpayers. A library that a small town in America would be proud of, and have to fund themselves. This day The Ambassador was hosting the organization Nordeland International in the presentation of an award to the junior high student who wrote the best essay regarding international relations in the modern world. It was to be an inspiring event challenging the future generation of leaders to take an interest in the world outside their own borders. The embassy Public Diplomacy department co-sponsored the contest supplying the grand prize, a weeklong trip to Washington DC for the winner and a chaperone, including a meeting with the Secretary of State, followed by a week in Disney World. Nothing says “America” more than a mouse.

Gretchen Godbold mingled with the guests, a collection of teachers, students and parents, while keeping an eye on the front entrance for the arrival of The Ambassador. Seeing her approach through the glass doors, Gretchen scurried to greet The Ambassador and escorted her past the librarian’s desk and computer terminals to the sunlight filled arena beneath the glass rotunda where the ceremony was to take place.

Just as it should, all attention turned to The Ambassador. Many who observed Madeleine Howell thought her unorganized or witless as she was chronically behind schedule and late for everything. But it was more of a subconscious calculation than personality defect. By being late she was always the center of attention. And it was all too easy to lay the blame on her pressing schedule… The demands of ambassadorship!

Upon ushering The Ambassador to her seat alongside the other honored guests, Gretchen gave a nod to the director of Nordeland International that the ceremony could begin.

Following a few kind words of welcome The Ambassador was invited to the lectern. She stood tall and proud, looking out across the small gathering. “I want to thank everyone involved in this truly inspiring program of education for allowing me as ambassador from the United States to participate. This is actually my first official speech as ambassador and I am thrilled that it is to acknowledge such an accomplishment. Especially the accomplishment of such a bright young woman. I am reminded of a time in my life when I was first challenged to consider a world outside my own. When I was about this young ladies age, maybe thirteen, I entered a similar contest sponsored by my family’s philanthropic organization. Winning that competition was the first step in a lifetime of inquiring, learning, leading and accomplishment. From my undergraduate studies at the University of Virginia through law school at Georgetown University I continued to question the status quo and push back the barriers that have traditionally held women back. After graduation I again expanded the boundaries that have restrained women by holding a series of positions of progressively greater influence, responsibility and authority in my family’s company until I was named the first woman CEO, and later the first woman chairman of the board. And so in keeping with my personal tradition of excellence and accomplishment it is with great pleasure that I present this first place award to Miss Tiina Pikkonen for her winning essay.”

Amid a round of polite applause Tiina, face beaming with pride, approached the podium in order to read her honored work for the audience to hear. In precisely articulated, text book English she began, “America: Slave Master to the World…”

 

I Am Woman

Bebe Buchanan was driven to achieve. Achieve what? Achievement for the sake of achievement. And achieve she did. An impressive biographical narrative is always useful. In her youth she excelled in school winning a ticket away from the poverty stricken family farm in the form of full scholarships to college. Never slowing down, four years later she graduated magnum cum laude. Following a similarly spectacular tenure in law school she accepted a position as the first female clerk for a justice on the Arizona State Supreme Court. It was in Phoenix that she first began making political connections. It was a formative time in her life. Before, she had been the poor girl from the farm on a scholarship. Somehow out of place. But she had earned Phoenix. She belonged there. She was determined to fit in with the power brokers.

She was smart. Smart enough to know it took more than just a good education to assimilate with the rich and shameless. She needed to belong. She needed to know what they knew beyond the classroom. She began a deliberate program of self-renewal taking gourmet cooking classes, attending wine tastings, visiting museums, and attending lectures and readings. As a girl she had always loved riding so she began to frequent the equestrian eventing circuit. She even learned to fly. In a few short years she transformed herself into a renaissance woman, effortlessly comfortable in the mountain states society circles.

Her realm of experience began to expand along with her opportunities. Exploiting her new found relationships she moved from court clerk into corporate America, climbing the ladder of success. Her extracurricular activities became more political as she volunteered in local campaigns. While her corporate stature increased, her sway in the local party increased. She became very influential. At least in certain circles. Before she turned thirty years old she was a dominate woman in a man’s world. And she was damn proud of herself.

As the years passed Bebe continued her upward progression: high profile jobs with Fortune 500 companies, political appointments to boards and commissions, and she even married well. Blake Buchanan was a self-made man having personally built his company by hand into one of the largest computer manufacturers in the world, and himself into one of the richest men in the country.

Together they became a political force in their own right. He ran for the Senate and won. She ran for Governor and lost. It was a stinging defeat administered by a MAN. A slight she would never forget. As their locus of power shifted to Washington her ambition and desire went national. In an attempt at rejuvenation she immersed herself in party politics. Storming the Washington DC cocktail circuit she soon had friends and contacts throughout the establishment. Leveraging Blake’s influence she was named to various federal advisory committees: NASA, FAA, the State Department, allowing her to boast expertise across a wide variety of issues facing modern society. But in Washington nothing breeds status like money. Not personal wealth but donations to the cause. Crisscrossing the country she held fundraisers in her Washington DC home, the weekend place in Virginia, her estate in Connecticut, her estate in Arizona, her thoroughbred horse farm in Kentucky, her ranch in Montana, her penthouse in Chicago, her private island in Florida, and the beach house in California. She asked, solicited, coerced, cajoled, besieged, badgered, bedeviled, beseeched, harassed, harried, and hounded until the coffers overflowed and she was named a Party Pathfinder. Success bought influence and influence brought appointments to ever more prestigious positions culminating in her current post as the President’s Special Envoy. She had risen from the depths of defeat. She was once again the alpha female shattering the bonds of oppression and expanding the horizons for women.

**********

Also by E.C. Jacobs:

 

THE COAST

Evan Stanley is a disillusioned insurance fraud investigator. When a friend is savagely murdered while investigating a claim, he is drawn into a journey of intrigue and suspense from which he may not return.

Evan likes his work but hates his job. He is an experienced Special Investigator for National Insurance Company, but management doesn’t like his attitude. While investigating a routine personal injury claim on the sultry Mississippi gulf coast, he inadvertently uncovers a conspiracy of corruption and murder. Traversing the back roads and bayous of the Deep South, from Biloxi to New Orleans to Memphis, Evan follows the trail through a storm of events to an explosive conclusion.

THE IMPERIALS #10

The Art of Diplomacy

The gallery was a small one located in the heart of the trendy Taide District, along with a dozen others just like it, each competing to launch the next great talent. And there were many contenders all looking for a chance to enthrall the world with their vision.

The Ambassador’s limousine crawled through the narrow cobblestone streets of the old town. She had been asked to cut the ceremonial ribbon on a new exhibit entitled AMERICA and was ecstatic. It was her first opportunity to make a public appearance, and what an opportunity. As the American President’s personal representative to Nordeland she was being asked to participate in a ceremony truly symbolic of her hopes and dreams for the United States, Nordeland, and the world: a Nordish artist compiling a body of work as a tribute to the gleaming beacon of hope, the United States of America. Immediately upon receipt of the invitation she threw the entire effort of the embassy behind the momentous occasion, much as the gallery owner had hoped she would. The embassy press office had been furiously working to ensure as much exposure as possibly: newspapers, television, magazines. They had even gone so far as to hire their own photographer to ensure some control and positive coverage. And just to be on the safe side The Ambassador had personally hired a video team to fully document her achievements while in Nordeland. For maximum affect Madeleine had scheduled her “welcome” gala, held at her residence, to immediately follow the gallery opening and invited the proprietor, artist and numerous others from the art community. It would be a day of extravaganzas in which she would make a noticeable debut onto the stage of international diplomacy. All the gallery owner had hoped for.

As the limousine pulled to the curb the gallery proprietor stepped forward to open the door for The Ambassador. There was a short red carpet, lined by stanchions laced with velvet rope holding back the handful of art lovers and members of the press, leading to the giant red ribbon tied across the front door. Pausing momentarily to pose for photos, Madeleine stepped toward the ribbon then turned to face the crowd. Her comments were brief. She extolled the ability of artist to bridge the divide of oceans, nations, cultures, and religion to bring all the people of the world together with an uplifting message of beauty and hope. She concluded by emphasizing her lifelong support of the arts. Turning, she cut the ribbon to an enthusiastic, if small, applause. The thrilled gallery owner threw back the doors, and with a flourish of arms gestured for The Ambassador to be the first to enter.

Directly across from the front door was displayed a floor to cathedral ceiling collage of images: bombs raining down from American planes, rockets ripple firing from American attack helicopters, napalm flowing through a village of grass huts; cities left barren by bombings, hurricanes and earthquakes; starving children in African villages, the “highway of death,” refugee camps, The Gaza Strip, Nagasaki, Hiroshima, Darfur, Rwanda. Everything depicting disaster, war, famine and death. All arranged in a manner so if viewed from a distance they created the image of a large United States one dollar bill, complete with a smiling George Washington.

The Ambassador stood in stunned silence. The smile remained on her face but it changed from one of sincerity to a plastic façade hiding her shock. Accepting a glass of champagne from a silver tray she took a long sip, her eyes never leaving George. Forcefully breaking her morbid fascination with the introductory piece she perfunctorily made her way through the entire exhibit which was composed entirely of similar images of despair, each with the shadow of a red, white and blue mushroom cloud hovering over the misery.

 

I Love ME!!!

No expense had been spared. Lobsters from Portland, crabs from Baltimore, barbeque from Memphis, etouffee from New Orleans, TexMex from San Antonio, California Roll from Los Angeles, coffee from Seattle… Chefs each with their own fame. The freshest ingredients. An Americana culinary tour worthy of royalty, or at the very least, The Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States. No extravagance had been spared, and all paid for with The Ambassador’s ample personal fortune.

Limousines transporting Nordeland’s decision makers and attitude shapers, both present and future, along with full representation of the world’s diplomatic corps pulled to the curb at the Embassy’s front gate. Standing under an ornamental gas streetlight (installed just for the occasion) Ben and Marten greeted the guests giving each and every one a small lapel pin of crossed American and Nordelandian flags before directing them through the grand entrance arch constructed of oak boughs and ivy runners accented with pear blossoms.  A stringed quartet playing chamber music was positioned on the front lawn serenading party goers as they made the short candle lit walk from the gate to The Ambassador’s front door.

Madeleine performed dutifully as hostess, manning the reception line single handedly (why share the limelight?) shaking the hand of every one of the hundreds of guests. But never alone. Stationed one step behind and to the left (the position of subservience) was Gretchen Godbold, always ready with The Ambassador’s cell phone, a business card, or a “Yes, ma’am.” “That is correct, ma’am.” “I believe so, ma’am.”

The party spread through the house, outside across the rear veranda and filled the back yard. A small jazz combo, flown in from New Orleans just for the occasion, filled the evening with music. After having greeted all the guests The Ambassador moved to the rail of the veranda and looked out over the masses gathered on the lawn below, much like Caesar from the steps of the ancient Roman senate. Her welcoming comments were brief and narcissistic. It is an extraordinary person who could have conveyed more self-aggrandizement in fewer words. Coincident with the delivery of her final line the sky filled with fireworks, explosions reverberating down from the heights of The Hill across the rooftops of the city. As the last spark floated to earth, a giant red, white and blue hot air balloon, in the pattern of the American flag, rose from beneath the cliff top ascending into the sky above the heads of the guests, glowing brightly in the twilight sky. A chorus of oohs and aahs from the delighted crowd carried the vessel away.

Nordelandians had always been amused, and sometimes perplexed, befuddled and frustrated, by the American custom of patronage appointments to key diplomatic posts. But one thing they came to presume: anyone with enough money to buy an ambassadorship normally threw exceptional parties. As if there were no problems for which canapés and champagne were not the first step toward solving.

THE IMPERIALS #9

The Bonds of History

There are no official records, but family tradition holds that the first of the Martenson line landed on the shores of America around the year 1720 and settled in the area of Bucks County, Pennsylvania. His name was Marten Vartiainen. Born in the western district of Nordeland, he was the first son of Timo and Karrina Vartiainen. A precocious and mischievous child, Marten grew into an impetuous young man for whom trouble was always just around the next corner. He possessed a fondness for committing practical jokes and a zeal for adventure. These traits would combine to serendipitously tear him away from his homeland for ever. There are many versions of the story. The prim and proper ladies of the family recount a mournful tale of unrequited love that tore a couple apart. The men, over a jug of corn liquor, preferred bawdier versions. Though the exact details may vary, and after a couple of generations no one knew the exact truth, all versions shared a common theme: Marten Vartiainen, the revered elderly mayor of the village, and the mayor’s much, much younger wife. Regardless of which version one chose to believe young, Marten abruptly set sail for the new world, a new life, and a new name.

Finding a country still wild managed to temporarily quench Marten’s wanderlust. He started a small farm, got married and fathered five children before disappearing again, never to return. Everyone assumed he pushed further west, across the mountains.

Marten’s sons did not inherit their father’s feckless ways, but instead at an early age shouldered the burdens of caring for the farm and family. And they were successful eventually buying the adjacent land, clearing it and expanding the operation. The second son, Timo Martenson, married and moved his new family to the site. Over the following years the families expanded, grew, and overcame their checkered beginnings to become prominent members of the local community.

The years rolled by and a third generation of Martensons came of age. As the land grew the aspirations and dreams of the people turned toward independence. Though the Martensons were not great political agitators, not being of English descent they tended to lean toward the side of the Continentals, but remained out of the fray until December 1776 when Washington’s defeated and demoralized Continental Army retreated across the Delaware River and took up position in Pennsylvania.

After a string of battlefield losses, being chased out of New York, across New Jersey, and into Pennsylvania, the army’s ability to defend the capital of Philadelphia was in doubt. The Continental Congress abandoned the city and fled to Baltimore. The cause appeared to be faltering on the brink of total collapse. It was time for a bold and daring stroke.

A call was put out for volunteers. Experienced men were needed to help ferry the army back across the Delaware River. Marten, son of Timo, grandson of Marten Vartiainen, made his way to the assembly area at the water’s edge. An experienced helmsman, he was chosen for the lead boat. It was a cold and dark; no way to spend Christmas night. The boat was filled, rear to front, with heavily laden fighting men. With a push off from shore, Marten and his oarsmen turned the nose of the boat toward the opposite bank and began the journey across the icy, forbidding river. Other boats quickly joined up them. As they entered the main channel the stiff current worked to scatter the tiny flotilla. The more distant craft were barely visible in the blackness. As if to act as a beacon for the other boats to guide on, someone stood up in the bow of the boat, a dangerous act in swift currents. 

“Hey, down in front. You’re rocking the boat,” Marten’s voice rang out in the wintery night.

The Princess Goes to Court

Madeleine Howell stood on the front porch posing for candid photographs. The video crew and still photographer performed opposing orbits around her under the brilliant summer sky with the close supervision of the Public Affairs staff. The Ambassador motioned for Gretchen to join her. The two performed a rehearsed greeting at the top of the stairs as Gretchen joined The Ambassador in the charade.

“Is this all the press that showed up?” The Ambassador quietly asked out of the corner of her mouth.

“Ma’am this is not the press,” Gretchen answered sheepishly. “They all declined our invitation, but the Nordean Daily News advised they will run the press release in the World News Section of tomorrow morning’s edition.”

“Well, who is this?” The Ambassador demanded.

“These are the people you hired, Madam Ambassador.”

“I can’t believe the local press is not interested in The American Ambassador. We will have to correct this. We need to proactively generate positive press coverage.”

Bob stepped forward, motioning to his watch. “Madam Ambassador, we need to leave or you will be late.”

Ben and Marten waited patiently in the warm morning sun, though they were beginning to perspire in their heavy, period attire. Flies began to gather around the horses as did the crowd of on-lookers. They were a bit of a spectacle. An 18th century horse and carriage complete with costumed driver and coachmen, with Ben Franklin and Marten Martenson in full colonial regalia waiting in attendance.

The Ambassador’s limousine pulled to the curve just behind the carriage. Her driver was quick to open the door and Madeleine Howell, Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary from the United States of America, emerged with great delight to a small crowd. As the Grande Boulevard was a favorite of tourists there was an ample supply of curious photographers. The commotion even attracted a reporter and her cameraman. “Madam Ambassador,” Ben said as he took her hand and kissed it with great flourish.

“Mister Ambassador,” Madeleine beamed.

“Your carriage awaits,” Ben continued with dramatic flair.

The crowd quickly grew and the sidewalks became clogged with onlookers as the spectacle progressed along the Grande Boulevard, around the Fountain of Freedom and onward to the palace entrance. Madeleine was finally receiving the attention she so desperately deserved.

After a brief negotiation at the front gate with the security and protocol offices the entire cavalcade was granted entrance to the palace grounds. The horses pranced flamboyantly to the palace steps where the Chief of Protocol waited in shocked bemusement. A serious woman, dedicated to her job and the King’s schedule, she was not pleased that The Ambassador’s showmanship had placed them five minutes late.

She was all business as The Ambassador alighted from the carriage. “You will be allowed one guest. The two colonials will remain with the carriage.” Looking around she saw no other attendants. “You will be alone.” Turning on her heel she marched up the stairs and through the towering front doors as she delivered the instructions likes bullets from a machine gun, “We will enter the room. I will introduce you to the King. He will extend a brief welcome. You present your credentials. The palace photographer will take a picture. It will be used in the official press release. A digital copy will be forwarded to the embassy. We leave. We are behind schedule and the King only has a few minutes. There will be no conversation unless the King initiates it.”

Madeleine struggled alongside carrying a large wreath. Without breaking stride the Protocol Chief asked, “Exactly what is that?”

“A gift for the King.”

The Protocol Chief looked it over curiously.

“It’s a wreath. The oak leaves stands for strength, exemplifying the power and grandeur of our two great countries. Ivy symbolizes eternal fidelity, as in our commitment to freedom and democracy for our friends, allies and all the peoples of Nordeland. The pear blossoms…”

“I understand,” the Protocol Chief interjected curtly. With a quick gesture she signaled a passing staffer to carry the enormous wreath.

The great oaken double doors opened to reveal a large office reminiscent of a library. Book shelves filled with leather bound volumes reached from the floor to the twenty foot ceiling. At the far end of the room, in front of the open French doors that lead onto the balcony, King Jani sat behind his most impressive desk. Upon the interruption the King stood, crossed to the front of the desk and extended a hand of greeting. The ceremony was short and perfunctory.

As a final parting comment, purely as a rhetorical statement intended to be polite, the King said, “I trust that your tenure in our country will be filled with achievements that bring our ever friendly nations even closer together.”

“Oh, Your Majesty, there are so many pressing issues I would like to discuss with you,” The Ambassador eagerly responded.

Slightly stunned by Madeleine’s earnest answer to his benign remark the King quickly recovered and replied “Perhaps the opportunity will present itself,” and turned back to his desk.

“In regards to expanding educational opportunities for girls…” Madeleine obliviously continued.

“We too are interested in education. That is why Nordeland has gone to great lengths in establishing a fine educational system, open to all children, and boasts the highest literacy rate in the world.”

“… In Afghanistan…” Madeleine stumbled on.

“A laudable goal. I believe the appropriate office to contact is the Office of Global Women’s Affairs at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs.”

“Global warming,” Madeleine countered.

“The Office of Environment and Climate,” the King answered without missing a beat while giving the protocol officer a stern look.

“Water,” Madeleine continued.

“The Office of International Development.”

“Madam Ambassador,” the protocol officer interrupted. “His Majesty has a very tight schedule and is late for a flight.”

“Open skies…” Madeleine persisted.

“Madam Ambassador, this way please,” the protocol officer insisted.

“Perhaps you can come to the embassy for dinner some night.”

“Perhaps,” the King graciously replied.

“All invitations should be submitted through the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,” the Protocol Chief interjected as she escorted The Ambassador through the door.

Madeleine exited the palace doors to join the adoring throng of two, Ben and Marten. Marten was quick to capture the moment with a snapshot before she descended the stairs. With all once again mounted in the carriage the trio made as grand an exit as they had an entrance much to the delight of the mass of tourists crowding around the gate.

For Ben and Marten the trip to see the King was just the first of many journeys vitally important to national security. They were to spend the next weeks demonstrating to the world the United States’ commitment to freedom and democracy by delivering to every diplomatic mission in Nordeland a wreath made of oak leaves, ivy and pear blossoms.

Just call me Clark…

Presidents and Indians

I first learned of of the Crazy Horse Memorial as a boy when I saw a documentary about it.

 

    (Artist’s Concept)

I decided at the time that when I was grown, and it was finished, I wanted to see it.  That must have been about 40 years ago. Now I’ve seen it.

THE IMPERIALS #8

Household Matters

Bruno sat in his sunlight filled office above the motor pool busily pushing paper to feed the ravenous appetite of government bureaucracy when The Ambassador marched in at the head of her formation of personal assistants. Being caught off guard he jumped up offering a respectful, if awkward, greeting.

Madeleine stood silently in the middle of the room, head turning slowly from side to side carefully inspecting each memento that hung from the walls. Having fully experienced the highlights of Bruno’s pedestrian life she crossed to the window. Standing to the side and holding her head just right, she was able to glimpse the city skyline and the sea beyond. Turning on her heels she faced Bruno directly. Titling her head back, squinting over her nose directly into his eyes she demanded, “I need appropriate office space for my personal staff.”

Stuttering over his answer Bruno replied, “Well, ma’am, we can certainly look around and see what is available.”

The next hour was spent touring occupied offices amid murmurs of color schemes, positive space, natural light, vibes and flows, finally finding themselves in a darkened storage room in the basement behind the furnace. Dust danced in the lone shaft of light that penetrated from the window mounted high in the wall above. The Ambassador gingerly made her way across the room, stepping around the clutter of boxes and old equipment long dormant from use, to a point under the window. Standing on her toes, looking straight up, she could see a small patch of blue between the security bars. With a sense of resignation she proclaimed, “I guess this will have to do.”

 

The Diplomacy of Flowers

Madeleine Howell had always been a lover of flowers. As a small girl she had spent countless hours at the elbow of her family’s Mexican gardener as he tended to the many varieties on their estate. She always insisted her house, whichever of the many she may be at, be filled with fresh cut flowers on a daily basis. All new arrangements each morning. With an ever magnanimous spirit, the previous day’s cast offs were donated to the local offices of charitable organizations in order to brighten the inevitably dreary days of the commoners. For The Ambassador, flowers and greenery are integral requirements for a fruitful living and working environment. The bright colors, pleasing fragrance, and life giving oxygen all combine to provide a more positive, upbeat ambience, stimulating creativity and productiveness. The love of flowers had grown beyond a simple personal preference and become somewhat of an ideology. An ideology that exemplified the faith, hopes and dreams that are America. An ideology around which she would build her diplomatic campaign.

The first round of diplomacy began when the delivery truck from a local florist, along with an army of delivery people and a jungle of exotic plants, arrived at the front gate unannounced. Ray Hoffman was the first to respond to the commotion. Lynn Nguyen was in a heated debate with the guard regarding his refusal to allow the delivery people to enter the compound without a proper clearance. Raymond’s efforts to explain the process were futile leaving him in a state of complete bewilderment.

Lynn continued to repeat, “These plants were ordered according to the express wishes of The Ambassador. These plants were ordered according to the express wishes of The Ambassador. These plants were ordered according to the express wishes of The Ambassador.”

“I’m just saying… I’m just saying… I’m just saying…” he attempted to interject whenever she would pause long enough to take a breath.

Soon he was surrounded by The Ambassador’s entire personal staff, all vociferously demanding he allow the admittance of the plants.

Under most circumstances Raymond had the appearance of an animated snowman: pasty pale skin with a little round head perched atop his round body, but with patience wearing thin and frustration levels running high, he began to turn a brilliant shade of red.

Broom in hand, Bruno stood under his new window looking up. Through the grid of security bars he could see a small patch of blue. It had been a busy morning converting the dungeon, as the room behind the furnace had always jokingly been referred to, into an office for him and his colleagues while The Ambassador’s personal staff occupied his old office. The bare brick walls had been given a coat of paint and some make shift shelves were constructed and mounted on them. Desks that had been pulled from the trash heap and repaired now sat waiting to be occupied. As he took a short break from the clean up the phone rang, a frantic voice on the other end.

By the time Bruno arrived on the scene a second delivery truck had arrived with reinforcements. The sea of color flowed off the sidewalk and engulfed the street.

“Mr. Hoffman, I must insist the street be kept clear of all obstructions,” the Royal Nordelandian Policeman on duty advised.

“Who is going to pay this bill?” a short, fat man waiving papers demanded.

Lynn grabbed the papers and handed them to Bruno. “Here, pay this.”

“Mr. Hoffman, we must keep the street clear,” the policeman insisted.

“Who authorized this?” a confused Bruno asked as he read over the bill.

“The Ambassador!” Lynn haughtily proclaimed.

“What’s going on here?” the Colonel challenged as she waddled through the gate. “This is a serious security situation. Why are these people being allowed to congregate here? Where did all these plants come from? What if we were to need to get out of the compound? What is being done about this? I demand to know!”

“Do you need to get out of the gate?” Ray asked.

“No,” the Colonel snapped. “But what if I did?”

“Mr. Hoffman,” the Royal Nordelandian Policeman insisted.

“What are you doing about this?!” the Colonel virtually screamed.

“We didn’t budget for this,” Bruno exclaimed. “This cost would feed a small African village for a year.”

The delivery men continued to unload more and more plants: ficus, zinnia, Norfolk pine, orchids, African violets, roses, chrysanthemums, petunias, palms, marigolds, Boston fern.

“Oh, the flowers are so lovely!” Gunnery Sergeant “Gunny” Andrews effervesced as he marched smartly through the pedestrian gate attired in his crisp dress uniform. His many passions that were considered somewhat uncharacteristic for the Marine Corps had earned him the nickname “The Queen Marine” years before. “Who are these for?” he asked as he picked an arrangement, holding it up to the sun for closer inspection. “There are so many. Can I have some for my office? Plants do so much to brighten a dreary space.”

“The Ambassador wants it. And by the way, she also wants to rent a carriage,” Lynn continued.

“A carriage?” Bruno questioned.

“A carriage.”

“What for?”

The Colonel, tired of being ignored, turned and stomped back through the gate.

“The Ambassador would like to use it when she presents her credentials to the king at the palace.”

 

“Now Bruno, plants are important,” The Ambassador explained. “They are symbols of life, birth, rejuvenation and more. The oak leaf stands for strength, exemplifying the power and grandeur of our great country. Ivy symbolizes eternal fidelity, as in our commitment to freedom and democracy for our friends, allies and all the peoples of the world. The pear blossom represents lasting friendship characterizing the United State’s commitment to the relationship with Nordeland. I want this place to be full of plants, flowers and greenery. It will be illustrative of the revitalization of the relationship between our two countries.”

Bruno figured The Ambassador was spreading it deep enough to regenerate a desert. He sat in a chair, situated in the middle of her office, trying not to stare at the walls on which were displayed her tribute to herself. Harnessing his will power and restraining his curiosity, he instead focused his efforts on the task at hand, appearing to be interested in what The Ambassador was so passionate about, plants. The Ambassador sat at her desk flanked by her personal staff. Their shared demeanor was that of an inquisition. He would make sustained eye contact with The Ambassador for ten seconds, and then shift to Lynn, whose look of disdain was so intense Bruno felt as if she was holding him personally responsible for all the world’s injustices since the beginning of time. He couldn’t take ten seconds from Lynn so he moved on to Bob, whose expression was his usual one of shocked disbelief. Bruno always felt as if he at least had Bob’s sympathy, if not his support. Unfortunately even his support wasn’t much use against the juggernaut of determination that was The Ambassador. No cause was too trivial for her to mobilize all her considerable resources. And if she wanted something Bob wasn’t going to be the one to try and dissuade her.

Roberto was next in line. Bruno wasted little time on him. Roberto stood there with his ever present vacant smile, as if lost in imbecilic thought.

Roberta stood shoulders squared back, arms crossed in front, staring intently as if trying to intimidate. It wasn’t quite working.

“Now Bruno, in the future, I want you to cooperate with Lynn. She is a representative from my office. Did you know she is an immigrant?”

“No ma’am, I didn’t,” he answered looking up at Lynn. She stared back through dark, steely eyes with a look of righteous superiority.

“Well, she is. When she was a baby her parents set out from Vietnam in a small, rickety, leaking, boat with nothing more than the hope of freedom and a better life for their daughter. Now, in just one generation, she is the personal attorney for an Ambassador Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary of the United States of America. Only in America.”

“Yes ma’am,” Bruno tried to interrupt. “It is not that I am trying to be uncooperative. We just do not have money in the embassy budget to pay this bill. After the recent cuts our finances are strained.”

“It’s Congress. All their wasteful spending on pork barrel projects. Tax and spend. Tax and spend. Big government waste. Yet they cannot provide the precious resources we so desperately need in our struggle against extremism. Don’t they realize our work is vital to national security?”

“I don’t know ma’am, but the fact remains that we don’t have the funding for this.”

“Well then, give the bill to Bob and I’ll pay it.”

Just call me Clark…

Road Trip Across America

A venerable citizen: