“And which one is that?” he asks. “You’d know better than me.”
She doesn’t respond to his barb. “Just remember that what happens today could define your future.”
“And yours,” Cam points out.
Roberta sighs. “Yes. And mine.”
General Bodeker and Senator Cobb are already at the table. The general rises to meet them, and the senator also tries to slide out of the booth, but he’s foiled by his copious gut.
“Please, don’t get up,” says Roberta.
He gives up. “The burgers win every time,” he says.
They all settle in, share obligatory handshakes and obsequious niceties. They discuss the unpredictable weather, raining one minute, sunny the next. The senator sings the praises of the pan-seared scallops, which is today’s special.
“Anaphylactic,” Cam blurts out. “That is, I mean, I’m allergic to scallops. At least my shoulders and upper arms are. I get the worst rash.”
The general is intrigued. “Really. But just there?”
“And I’ll bet he can’t do any brown-nosing on account of his nose is allergic to chocolate,” says Senator Cobb, and guffaws so loudly it rattles the water glasses.
They order, and once the appetizers arrive, the two men finally get down to the business at hand.
“We see you as a military man, Cam,” says the general, “and Proactive Citizenry agrees.”
Cam moves his fork around in his endive salad. “You want to make me into a boeuf.”
General Bodeker bristles. “That’s an unfair characterization of young people who are military minded.”
Senator Cobb waves his hand dismissively. “Yes, yes, we all know the official military opinion of the word—but that’s not what we’re saying Cam. You’d bypass traditional training and go straight into the officer program—and on the fast track, to boot!”
“I can offer you any branch of the military you like,” Bodeker says.
“Let it be the Marines,” Roberta says, and when Cam looks at her, she says, “Well, I know you had that in mind—and they have the crispest uniforms.”
The senator puts out his hand, as if chopping wood. “The point is, you would float through the program, learn what you need to learn lickety-split, and emerge as an official spokesperson for the military, with all the perks that come with it.”
“You’d be a model for young people everywhere,” adds Bodeker.
“And for your kind,” adds Cobb.
Cam looks up at that. “I don’t have a ‘kind,’â??” he tells them, which makes the two men look to Roberta.
She puts down her fork and composes her response carefully. “You once described yourself as a ‘concept car,’ Cam. Well, what the good senator and general are saying is that they like the concept.”
“I see.”
The main course arrives. Cam ordered the prime rib—a favorite of someone or another in his head. The first taste brings him back to a sister’s wedding. He has no idea where, or who the sister is. She had blond hair, but her face did not make the cut into his brain. He wonders if that kid—if any kid inside him—would have ever been offered a crisp uniform. He knows the answer is no, and he feels insulted for them.
Brakes in the rain. He must apply them slowly, so as not to set this meeting fishtailing out of control. “It’s a very generous offer,” Cam says. “And I’m honored to be considered.” He clears his throat. “And I know you all have my best interests at heart.” He meets eyes with the general, then with the senator. “But it’s not something I want to do at this”—he searches for a suitably Washingtonian word—“at this juncture.”
The senator just stares at him, all jovialness gone from his voice. “Not something you want to do at this juncture . . . ,” he repeats.
And, predictable as clockwork, Roberta leaps in with, “What Cam means to say is he needs time to consider it.”
“I thought you said this would be a slam dunk, Roberta.”
“Well, maybe if you were a little more elegant in your approach—”