Chapter 3 - The Custodial Penance
The banquet hall emptied with agonizing slowness. Officers and non-commissioned personnel filed past Jason without offering a single word of comfort or camaraderie. Friends who had laughed at his crude jokes an hour earlier averted their eyes, rushing toward the parking lot to distance themselves from the disgraced lieutenant. The brotherhood Jason had taken for granted vanished the moment he revealed his lack of character.
Jason stood alone in the center of the vast, quiet room. He stripped off his tailored service jacket, folding it clumsily and placing it on an empty chair. He rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, walked down the dim basement hallway, and found the custodial closet.
The mop bucket was heavy, the wheels squeaking loudly across the linoleum as he wheeled it into the hall.
He dropped to his knees. The floor was sticky with powdered sugar, blue food coloring, and crushed vanilla sponge. As he picked up the paper plate fragments by hand, his fingers touched the tiny sugar American flag that General Brooks had set aside earlier. It was cracked down the middle, the white stripes smudged with blue.
A hot tear spilled down Jason’s cheek, splashing onto the floor.
He wasn't crying because he was remorseful; he was crying because his career was over. He was twenty-five years old, the son of a wealthy defense contractor in Virginia, accustomed to private prep schools, easy recommendations, and fast-track promotions. He had joined the military not out of a deep calling to service, but because his family considered a four-year officer commission an impressive addition to a corporate resume. He had viewed the enlisted ranks and the aging veterans as background scenery in his personal success story.
"The corners need extra water," a raspy voice called from the doorway.
Jason jerked around, wiping his sleeve across his damp face.
Harold Mitchell stood leaning against the wooden doorframe, holding two paper cups of black coffee. He had taken off his heavy coat, revealing the service pins gleaming under the fluorescent lights.
"Sergeant Mitchell," Jason whispered, hurriedly scrambling to stand up. "Sir, you... you shouldn't be here. The General ordered everyone to clear out."
Harold shuffled into the room with his slow, deliberate gait. He set both cups of coffee on the head table and pulled out a metal folding chair, sitting down with a small grunt of effort.
"I’ve spent fifty years ignoring orders from people who thought they knew what was best for me, son," Harold said, gesturing toward the floor. "Sit down for a minute. Your back looks stiff."
May you like
Jason swallowed hard, his head hanging low. "I don't deserve to sit, sir. Not in front of you."
Harold looked at him, his gaze piercing through Jason's remaining defenses. "You're right. You don't. But you're going to sit anyway, because pride won't clean that floor any faster, and we have a conversation that is forty years overdue."
