The Black Box

Before Ben's inauguration becomes a distant spec in the rearview mirror I'd like to offer a memory.

From the moment of Ben's first assurance I'd be on his staff, until I first occupied a desk outside his office door, my attention did not belong to where I was. I may have occupied a few square feet in a liquor store on Miller Avenue, but my enthusiasm belonged to a future in a very different place.

It was an odd feeling of life suspended. Yes, I was excited, but there was also a growing sense of disconnection from my current circumstance.

I sent Ben a text begging for some small part in the transition, perhaps a bleacher seat from which to watch furniture being moved. Anything.

For a long while there was silence, then I got an e-mail from Donald Dunn. Joel Freston had the flu, could I assume his position on the inauguration steering committee?

Could I?... Where?! How?! When?!

BOOM! That morning I showed up at 9:00 for a 10 o'clock meeting at Rose Wagner Theatre.

The theater's lobby was almost empty. The one exception was a formidable young woman with the bearing of a fleet admiral. She was wedded to a cell phone. As my glance targeted her she turned toward starboard hoping my approach could be deflected.

As her conversation ended the phone returned to her palm like an exercise grip.

"Pardon me," I asked her, "are you here for a meeting about the mayor's inauguration?"

"Yes," she said, "and you are?"

"George, I'm here for Joel... Joel Freston."

"Oh," she replied, "there's a lot to get done. I'm Marla Kennedy, the event planner. Your responsibility is parking, the Ben Bus and the black box."

"The black box?" I wondered, unwilling to betray that I had no idea what "the black box" might be.

"Okay," I said with ersatz confidence, "parking, the Ben Bus and the black box."

She acquired my attention with a direct unwavering stare, "You and I, we'll do just fine if you remember two things."

"Which are?"

"Follow through, and keep me in the loop."

"Yes ma'am."

Then Marla Kennedy walked away and sat down at a long table stacked with folders filled with papers. She conducted herself as a no-nonsense woman with a sense of command and control. I felt like a dimwitted newbie at the top of a run with no experience and skis attached.

My mind ran through a rolodex of blank cards. "A black box? A black box? A black box? Could this be where we keep a list of emergency protocols? Maybe it contains a red button that instantly summons Sherriff's deputies. Perhaps the County has a secret fleet of ICBM's and the launch codes are kept in 'The Black Box'"

I had no idea, but I wasn't about to display my ignorance to Marla Kennedy.

After an hour of silent speculation, during which the Admiral reviewed and sorted papers, pausing only to text someone, the meeting got underway.

Marla Kennedy went around the table pointing at each of us, identifying us by name and announcing our responsibilities.

Finally she got to me. "George Pence, he's new, he'll be responsible for parking, the Ben Bus and... who's handling Market Street Grill?"

"Joel was," a woman named Kimi replied, "but I'll do that."

"Good."

The announcement of assignments appeared to be over, but nothing was said about "The Black Box." I gave way to a sense of temporary relief.

After a few beats of silence another woman named Vicki spoke up, "What about THE BLACK BOX, who's responsible for THE BLACK BOX?"

"Right, that's George."

"Oh," Vicki replied, looking at me with what appeared to be a new found sense of gravity.

A few moments of silence transpired while this announcement sunk in. Would I have to finally surrender and ask out loud, "What's The Black Box?"

"Oh dear Lord," I said to myself, "please pass this cup from my lips. Don't make me admit my unworthiness to all these fine people. Don't force me to confess that the 'Ark of The County Covenant' shouldn't be in my keeping."

I bowed my head and resolved to seal my fate, to let all know I was the joker in this deck of cards.

Then Vicki piped up, "Should George be responsible for the black box? I mean, we stuff it full of staplers, duct tape and Band Aids. Where's he going to get it all? He doesn't work for the county. He can't hijack them from a liquor store."

Admiral Kennedy looked at her briefly, "You're right, the black box is yours."

"Fine," she responded, "if that's all right with you, George?"

"No problem Vicki, besides, I wasn't sure what kind of duct tape the mayor preferred."

That remark describes the end of my first few hours with the McAdams' administration. How I longed for the feeling of certitude when a customer asked me the difference between a fifth and a liter.