By Doug Wallace
Martin had been lying awake in bed for at least an hour before his wife Jenna’s cell phone alarm began its pleasant harp-like tune.
“Morning, babe”, Jenna said to Martin with a yawn. “Last day.”
“Yep”, Martin replied with a forced smile and a sigh. Martin had been anticipating this day now
for a couple of weeks. A month earlier though, he never would have guessed that this would be
his last day as a Fed.
“Just popping out for a jog. I’ll be back before you leave”, Jenna said. She squeezed Martin’s
hand. “Everything will be ok”, she said, and then grabbed her running outfit and left the
bedroom.
Martin heard Jenna close the front door. He stretched out in bed and let loose a primordial
growl. He felt his old injured vertebrae produce a satisfying ‘click’, and he smiled in the
afterglow. This ruckus alerted their old dog Jasper who came sauntering into the bedroom to
check on Martin.
Martin looked into Jasper’s loving eyes and thought about how refreshing it must be to be a dog, especially when all hell is breaking loose in the human world. He weighed for a moment whether it would be better to be ignorant and happy, or informed and worried.
“I wish I had your life, Jaspy, ole feller”, Martin declared as he got out of bed clutching his lower back.
Martin turned on the coffee pot and made himself a piece of toast. As he waited for the coffee to brew, he grabbed his PIV card and looked at his USG badge. Martin St. Claire. Director. US
Trade and Investment. Clearance Level: Red.
His tribe friends used to joke that he was their Indian Nation mole within the Deep State. Martin chuckled and said to himself, “Not anymore.”
As he filled Jasper’s bowl with kibble, Martin reflected that he never really wore his heritage on his sleeve, especially at work. Whenever he was filling out his security clearance paperwork or other myriad U.S. government forms, he always clicked “I do not choose to answer” when an ethnic identity question came up. It wasn’t that he hid from his roots. Thanks to grandma, he knew his heritage and he was proud of who he was. But for Martin, every American had a special ancestry that they were more or less proud of.
He slowly dressed in front of the mirror, and for the last time he put his U.S. government lanyard around his neck holding his ID. A brief sense of nostalgia overcame him. Then he had an idea. He searched in his drawer for the old bead necklace his grandmother gave him when he turned 16, and put it on alongside his lanyard. He smiled again at the sort of double life his friends joked he’d been living for the better part of 30 years, and walked into the kitchen.
He was almost done with the morning dishes when he heard Jenna returning from her run. He
rinsed off the final bowl especially slowly so that she would see him in the act of cleaning. She
saw him. Point scored, he smiled to himself.
“Hey Mart, I found a good cardboard box you might want to use to bring back your stuff. It’s in
the garage”, Jenna said.
“Thanks!”, Martin said. The idea of going to work with a cardboard box on his last day struck
him as sort of a cliche, but on the other hand it would come in handy.
“We’ll have drinks when you get home”, Jenna said as she hugged him.
“Let’s make sure they’re strong”, Martin smiled to Jenna as he turned to the car.
Martin threw the box into the trunk and reversed his white Crown Victoria out of his garage. As
he made his way towards the train station, Martin waved at his neighbor Doug.
The old Crown Vic was standard at any U.S. embassy motor pool, and over the years Martin just
got used to its dependability and handling. Big engine. Roomy interior. Also its ability to not
stand out in traffic fit his own style. Embassy pals used to joke you could throw a couple of
bodies in the trunk and still squeeze in a week’s worth of groceries.
After the accident in Serbia, Martin was convinced the Crown Vic had saved his life. But since
then he always kept a fire extinguisher hidden under the passenger seat for just in case. His motor pool driver Stefan didn’t survive, and his laminated photo hung from Martin’s rear view mirror. Back in those days, Martin was running the Baltic gauntlet trying to cover three countries at once due to budget cuts. The morning of the accident, Stefan said to him, “Mr. Martin, you are like the full moon. We see you once every month.”
Those were crazy days, Martin thought as he pulled onto the freeway. He and Jenna had just
married, and his job uprooted her to join him abroad. She was a budding art teacher and had just got her first real job. He had to leave her sometimes for weeks in Bulgaria in an unfamiliar city with no friends, as he flew around and put out fires for the Department.
Meanwhile, his career soared while hers withered. “Not a great way to start a marriage”, Martin grimaced to himself as he pulled into the fast lane. Since they transferred back to the States a few years ago, Jenna found a good teaching job. But that had always been an unhealed wound in their otherwise solid relationship.
Just then, a black Ford 150 pulled into the middle lane with two flapping U.S. flags and a ‘Trump Victory 2024’ bumper sticker. Martin slowed down and gave the truck space to avoid an accident, then put on his indicator and took the next exit to the Metro station.
Martin parked his car and grabbed the cardboard box. As he approached the station,
Martin wondered when the precise moment was when he recognized there was really something wrong at work? Like a cancer patient probing his memories for that first inkling.
It was probably in early January when he noticed that his request for clearance on a routine press release was taking so long. Martin first thought, well, it’s the new year. After more time passed, Martin figured well, there is a transition taking place. After a month of delay from colleagues who were normally so on top of things, it dawned on Martin that something was broken. Martin remembers frowning ever so faintly and raising an eyebrow.
Then his approved travel order to Hong Kong was canceled. Soon after, several stalwart pillars
of his agency resigned. Leadership in Washington went uncharacteristically silent. Then all of the field offices were told to scour their websites and metrics and excise anything highlighting successes with minority-owned companies.
The tone of Office of Personnel Management messaging, for decades the kind that cures
insomnia, suddenly took on an aggressive, accusatory tone. “The federal workforce should be
comprised of employees who are reliable, loyal, trustworthy, and who strive for excellence in
their daily work. Employees will be subject to enhanced standards of suitability and conduct as we move forward.”
Martin thought about the ethics declaration he had had to make every year, diligently detailing his assets, liabilities and family sources of income. Last year when Jenna started working at Cherry Blossom School, the Department’s ethics attorneys advised him that he was not to show any “favoritism” to the school in his official capacity. This level of scrutiny was how good the U.S. government was. The current President was now using the White House as a Tesla showroom. How are we not trustworthy, Martin asked rhetorically?
Then came the red exclamation point emails from OPM in their inboxes. That’s when the tidal
wave crested and everyone in the Department suddenly became experts in human resources.
There were daily calls with our HR department which outlined the consequences of a deferred
resignation, voluntary early retirement, reduction in force and getting fired outright.
“They just want you all gone. As quickly and as easily as possible. You need to decide what is
best for you and your family, and act”, HR cautioned.
Like taking a loved one off life support, Martin submitted his resignation later that day.
Martin had been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t even realized that someone had sat down next to him on the train. He gave a quick smile and hoped that he hadn’t been cursing under his breath unconsciously. Martin looked out the window. He noticed yet again a dark cloudy-like shape in the corner of his eye. He’d been noticing it off and on for the past few weeks. He only saw it when he didn’t look right at it. It was probably nerves. Or lack of sleep.
The irrepressible gaeity of the cherry blossoms passing by the train seemed incongruous against the palpable gloom that had descended on the capital. Pink was valiantly countering the solemn gray, much like the encouragements offered to him by family and colleagues over the past month.
Stay strong.
Hang in there.
Thank you for your service.
The spectrum of emotions that Martin had been running through on the metro – anxiety,
depression, nostalgia, relief – had now turned to red: anger and defiance. He made his way from the Metro Center down to Department headquarters with his cardboard box in hand. There, near the main entrance, a young man with a crew cut and U.S. flag draped over his shoulders lay in wait for him.
“Nice necklace, hombre”, he smirked. “Looks like another DEI employee to me.” The man’s
smile revealed a crude bit of metal dentistry which was strangely familiar to Martin.
Martin stared at the man in silence, his adrenaline pumping.
“Hey!” a security guard bellowed from the top stairs of the Department’s main entrance. “You
gotta be at least 20 feet away from the entrance, or I’ll report you. Last warning.”
“Fine”, the young man sneered as he shuffled away. “We live in Trump’s America now. I’m just
the welcoming committee.”
“Sorry about that, Marty. Is this it? Last day?”, the security officer asked Martin.
“Yep”, Martin said as he pressed ‘2’ on the elevator. “Thanks, Kevin, for everything.”
“Lemme know if you need anything”, Kevin replied.
When Martin stepped out of the elevator, he took a moment to take in the beauty of the
Department with its impressive marble pillars and walls. It was always a point of pride for
Martin to bring visitors into the building, many of whom sought selfies with the flags and
portraits of past Secretaries.
Suddenly Martin remembered where he had seen that kind of dental work before. His
grandmother sported the same copper-colored metal band across her right front tooth back on the West Coast. He noticed it when he was a boy when she first took him and his cousins to the redwoods to spend the afternoons and later on overnight camping trips. Gramma wanted her grandkids to know their roots and their native land.
Martin, now leaning against one of the pillars, set his cardboard box down, crossed his arms and thought of that time. He remembered his grandmother showing him the hundreds of concentric circles on a cut-down redwood tree. She pointed to a ring about two inches in from the bark and explained that that was when their people lost their land. Martin looked at the deeper rings before that spot, hundreds of them filling up the three-foot radius of the cut-down tree, which spiraled out from the core.
The trees throughout their land resonated with and recorded the singing, the stories and the
laughter, ring upon ring of countless generations. The wrinkled, crevassed bark of each redwood, year upon year, literally absorbed the smoke of thousands of his ancestors’ fires, and bore witness to his people’s origin stories which would evolve into the folklore and the legends that built and bound his culture.
Martin bent down and grabbed his cardboard box. He glanced at the marble pillar he had been
leaning against, and thought of the stories it too could tell.
Oh yes, Mother Department had her legends and culture too.
There was our famous commercial officer in the ’80’s who actually managed to sell American
sand to Saudi Arabia. There was Deputy Assistant Secretary Henry Steingatz was purported to be the love child of former Department Secretary Molly Steingatz and an unpaid summer intern. Then of course there was the case of Barbara Flannery from the policy bureau. She was working late in her office on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. At some point, poor Barbara died. She was not discovered until the following Tuesday. But that’s not all. Following her passing, there were at least three independent eye witness accounts of seeing Barbara walking through the State Department, the Department of Energy and the NSC.
There were also of course the thousands of after-work happy hours. These cemented the social bonds of the Department family for generations. Which gave rise to actual families. How many weddings of Department colleagues had Martin attended over the years? Four at least. Martin wondered how many people throughout the years owed their actual birth to the Department. In addition to DAS Steingatz of course.
As Martin walked down the cavernous marble hall to his office, he listened to his echoing
footsteps. He was reminded of an old self-deprecating Department joke: Why did they paint a
white line in the middle of the Department’s hallways? So that the people arriving late for work didn’t collide with the people leaving early.
Who would recount these stories once the Department closed, Martin wondered. Martin stopped at a drinking fountain to get a drink of water. As he was drinking, he heard a toilet flush in the bathroom down the hall, and suddenly the water pressure in the drinking fountain dropped a bit. A vague sense of unease took hold of Martin as he looked up to see Barney exiting the men’s room towards him hand outstretched.
“Marty! I was wondering if I’d see you before you left”, Barney bellowed as he shook Martin’s
hand.
“Sorry, that’s a good wet. Not a bad wet”, Barney reassured.
“Hey Barn. Good to see you. Yep, just cleaning out the old office”, Martin said wiping off his
hand on his pants.
“Given the places you’ve been, I’m sure you’ve got tons of cool stuff to bring home. Not to
mention a skeleton or two from the closet! Hopefully your box is big enough”, Barney jested.
“Hey let’s get together over a beer once the dust settles. Do you have my number?” Barney
asked.
“Sure thing. Lemme just make sure I have it”, Martin said as he felt around for his phone. He
suddenly felt something twitching in his back. Is that another muscle spasm coming on, Martin worried.
No, it was his phone vibrating: Reminder! Fun Fiesta Friday at the Grill! 5-7pm – See you there!
A death jerk in the form of a text message, Martin thought as he took a mental note to cancel the office’s weekly happy hours at the Grill. Like a dying animal, the Department still showed signs of life. With the sheer momentum of thousands of tasks, routine meetings, and announcements still in progress, it would still take awhile for the body to go completely cold.
“Let’s see, Barney. 202-499-8790?”, Martin confirmed.
“That’s it. Keep in touch, Marty”, Barney said. His footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Inside his office, Martin placed the cardboard box on his desk and looked around. He slumped
into his chair and looked at his laptop. Fresh emails had come in marked urgent. “Emergency
Staff Planning Update”, “re: Your SF3107 Retirement Form”, “Working after USG: General
Counsel ethics guidance”. It was time to put an end to all this.
Martin typed in the email addresses of his 10 closest colleagues and typed out:
“I am retiring from the U.S. Government today.
Our Department has bestowed upon me many blessings since that day in June 1997 when I walked into HQ wearing my $5 tie. She let me explore my fascination with the Middle East and the Balkans.
Getting to know each of you, though, as friends and colleagues, suffering in the trenches and triumphing in our glories, has been my single greatest blessing. I won’t forget you. Please keep in touch with me at [email protected]
Blessings to the United States of America –
Marty”
It would have to do. He then entered in a brief out-of-office message referring people to the
Department website for further assistance, and he shut down his computer for the last time.
Martin then began taking off his certificates from the wall and placed them into his box face
down. There was a Bronze Medal award he had received in 2011 for helping two U.S. companies win major contracts in Algeria. There was his certificate signed by President Trump in 2017 recognizing Marty’s ascension into the Senior Foreign Service. Then there was a smaller framed certificate. “For outstanding leadership and management ability under extreme circumstances.”
Martin looked at his chipped Starbucks Saudi Arabia coffee cup and indulged in a brief trip down memory lane.
It was December 6, 2004. Martin was an up-and-coming diplomat on his second tour. He already was a Principal Commercial Officer managing the Department’s staff at the US Consulate in Jeddah. It was a very dicey situation in the Kingdom back in those days. Saudi forces were openly battling Al-Qaeda in the country. Western residence compounds were frequently being attacked and bombed. Needless to say, U.S. diplomats were on high alert.
Martin remembers waking up that morning stepping outside and noting the strangely enjoyable smell in the air which is common after a sand storm. Dusty rain. He heard the security gate to his compound opening up indicating that his driver Yusuf was entering to escort him to his first morning meeting. Martin drained his coffee, the first of many that day, grabbed his Blackberry, Consulate ID, shades, business cards, and trotted outside to great Yusuf. As he slipped his right shoe on, he noticed a scuttling sound in his left. He tapped it with his toe and out emerged a small scorpion.
“Sabah al-khayr Boss!”, Yusuf greeted Martin.
“Sabah al-ward wal yasmeen”, Martin replied cheerily still recovering from the sight of the
scorpion. He heaved the Crown Vic’s lightly armored passenger door open. These old work
horses needed constant maintenance what with the hundreds of pounds of armor and the added burden this put on the brakes. Then there was the near constant use of the A/C. This is the time when Martin’s admiration for the quiet, hard-working Crown Vic began.
Yusuf navigated Martin through the busy morning streets to his first meeting at the Jeddah
Chamber of Commerce & Industry. Looking back at the meeting years later, Martin remembers
more about what did not happen than what did happen at the Chamber. He recalls giving the Chamber a rather routine update about a US-Saudi business event he was planning. Martin
picked up on subtle nuances that told him the Chamber’s CEO was a little pressed for time. The office tea boy did not come with the Arabic coffee, usually a ritual.
Back in the Crown Vic, Yusuf and Martin were heading back to the Consulate for the morning
staff meeting. They were stopped at a red light two blocks away from the Consulate entrance.
Another white Consulate vehicle was just ahead of them at the light.
“Is that Jenny from Econ?”, Martin wondered aloud.
“I think so, sir”, Yusuf replied.
Martin suddenly recognized the cause for his mid-morning energy dip that had overcome him.
No coffee at the Jeddah Chamber! Martin remembered that there was a Starbucks nearby.
“Hey Yusuf, turn left here and let’s grab coffees for the office before going to work”, Martin said. When the light turned green, Jenny’s car continued towards the Consulate and Yusuf turned left towards Starbucks. One minute later, Martin was getting out of his car when he heard explosions and machine gun fire around the corner near the Consulate. Martin had to pull Yusuf back who was instinctively running down the street to try to protect the Consulate.
“Yusuf we have to get off the ‘X’. Let’s get out of here!”, Martin exclaimed.
Armed Al-Qaeda terrorists had been waiting in a car for a Consulate vehicle to enter the
compound. When Jenny’s car entered, the delta barrier was lowered and the terrorists used that moment to shoot up the Crown Vic, attack the security guards and invade the grounds. Martin and Yusuf watched the attack play out on CNN at a colleague’s home nearby. Five friends and colleagues were killed that day.
Martin’s car would have been crossing that delta barrier at the time of the attack if it wasn’t for Starbucks.
Martin stood up and placed the Starbucks mug in his box. He placed a small pile of work papers into a red plastic bin marked “Shred”. In the corner of his office leaned a broken flagpole. Late one afternoon the previous year, Martin had been leaving the Secretary’s control room at Marriott Hotel. The big boss had been leading high-level trade negotiations in town, and he had lent the Secretary’s team a printer and a couple of US flags from his office.
Martin was riding up the escalator holding up one of the US flags on his way back to the
Department. A standard USG-owned US flag consists of the flag itself, a wooden flag pole, a
metal eagle ornament, and a heavy, round base. Martin was tired that day, and he did not notice that the ceiling above the escalator was getting closer and closer. Suddenly Martin heard a loud ‘crack!’ He looked up and saw that the eagle had harpooned the metal ceiling above. The flag pole instantly cracked and the heavy base went bouncing down the escalator like a boulder. Instinctively, Martin rescued the falling flag in his hands so it did not touch the ground, and he got hit on the head by the metal eagle ornament which had broken off the pole.
Smiling at the comical memory, Martin threw the broken eagle into his cardboard box, his small trophy for his government service. He then opened all his drawers and noticed some dollar bills amidst a few paper clips, pens and old business cards laying in the back of one of his drawers. The aborted office collection effort five years ago for Marjory’s retirement gift. Covid hit, Marjory retired and they never saw her again. Now Martin was left with $7. He sheepishly pocketed the money.
With his box in hand, Martin scanned his office one last time and closed his office door. He then walked down to the Security Office and handed over his PIV card, work cell phone, and office keys. He then handed over his closed laptop, which was still warm to the touch. Martin signed the inventory form and went down the elevator to the main entrance. After saying farewell to Kevin, he left the Department building.
As he made his way towards the train station, he heard a familiar voice.
“D.I.E., D.E.I.! D.I.E., D.E.I.!”. It was the young man from earlier in the day.
He can spell, Martin smiled to himself.
“End government waste!” the young man shrieked at a passing car.
Then Martin had an idea. He walked up to the man and said, “Hi, remember me?”
“Oh yeah. Our diversity employee of the month!” the young man jibed. “Did you rip off the tax
payer today?”
“Actually, I’ve come to give you a refund”, Martin replied. Martin handed the man the $7 he had
in his pocket. “The amount you contributed to my agency. 25 cents for each year I worked for the United States. It’s yours.”
Martin left the man speechless – at last – and turned again towards the station.
Martin pulled into his driveway, looking forward to sharing a drink with Jenna. He popped his
trunk, gathered up his box and walked towards his front door. His neighbor Doug was passing by and said, “Hey Marty, happy Friday!”
“Dougie, hey!” Martin replied from over his shoulder.
Doug noticed Martin’s cardboard box and said, “Wait, whoa. Did you just leave your job?”
“I not-so voluntarily retired”, Martin replied. He held up his broken eagle from his box for Doug
to see and said, “But not before taking what’s mine!” Martin said with a laugh.
Doug stood staring at Martin for a moment as he entered his house. Martin reappeared at the
doorway after a moment and raised a large glass towards Doug.
“This is just the beginning”, Martin said cryptically as he took a big sip from his drink. and then
disappeared into the house.
Doug frowned ever so faintly and raised an eyebrow. Then he continued on his way.