Baker.”
“Hello, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand. “Art told me that you might drop by.”
He took a step back and looked at me, as if trying to mesh what he’d been told about me with my appearance. Then he glanced around at the reading room. “My understanding is that you’re working until three today.” He looked at his watch—a stainless steel affair with a black face and luminous dial. When I was a kid, we called them skin diver watches. Every man of action had one. “If you’re free, I was wondering whether you’d like to come with me.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Where to?”
“A martial arts demonstration,” Baker said.
“Right up my alley,” I told him.
Baker had a car waiting on the street. It was a late model Chevy sedan with white government plates. It looked like it had just been washed. My tax dollars at work. A sergeant opened the back door for us without a word and then got in behind the wheel. We took off.
“This is Sergeant Hanrahan,” Baker told me.
“Hi,” I told the back of Hanrahan’s head.
“Pleasure, sir,” the driver said. But he didn’t turn around. Hanrahan’s hair was cut so close as to be almost invisible. He had a neck, thick with muscle, that bunched up where it met the base of his skull. He kept his hat on in the car.
The Saturday afternoon traffic was manageable. Hanrahan took us up the East Side to the 59 th Street Bridge and into Queens.
I looked at Baker.
“You’ve been told a little bit about me, Dr. Burke?” he asked, and then continued before I could answer. “I’m involved with the development of unarmed combat systems for the Army. There’s a big martial arts tournament at a local high school today. As part of our recruitment activities, a demo team is going to be participating.” He looked out the window at the passing cars, the buildings. You got the impression that he was a man who watched things carefully. Then he turned to look at me. “I thought it would be a nice way for us to meet and for you to see some of what I’ve been up to.”
The expression on his face was pleasant enough, but I felt that he didn’t really expect a response. I didn’t give one. People like Baker don’t do things on a whim. It may have been true that he wanted me to watch his people perform. But I knew that Baker wanted to watch me. This wasn’t just an excursion on a Saturday afternoon. We were on our way to a contest, and I was the one being judged.
I sat back in the seat and relaxed. I’ve spent more than a decade with a teacher who could probably show Baker a thing or two. I’m used to being tested. It happens every time I walk into Yamashita’s dojo .
The high school was a big box. The brick was an ugly mustard yellow that told me it was built sometime in the early ’60s. The windows were covered with metal grilles. The halls were washed in fluorescent light and lined with metal lockers. It smelled like a school—the air had an aroma shaped by equal parts disinfectant, paper, and resentment. And the gym was full of people.
We walked in and made our way to the recruitment table, draped with a black and gold banner that simply proclaimed “A Force of One.” There were two sergeants there, wearing the same sort of distinctive blue uniform as Baker.
“I thought the Army wore green,” I offered. There hadn’t been much in the way of small talk up until now.
“The Army’s always had blue dress uniforms,” Baker stated, “as well as white and green ones. Class A’s were green, but command has decided to simplify things and they’re phasing the other out in favor of the blue version.”
A steady flow of kids fingered brochures tentatively while the soldiers went into their recruitment pitch. You could see parents hovering in the background, some apprehensive, others encouraging.
“How’s the fishing at something like this?” I asked the Colonel.
He smiled. “In the all-volunteer service, recruitment is always a challenge. But
“Hello, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand. “Art told me that you might drop by.”
He took a step back and looked at me, as if trying to mesh what he’d been told about me with my appearance. Then he glanced around at the reading room. “My understanding is that you’re working until three today.” He looked at his watch—a stainless steel affair with a black face and luminous dial. When I was a kid, we called them skin diver watches. Every man of action had one. “If you’re free, I was wondering whether you’d like to come with me.”
“Sure,” I shrugged. “Where to?”
“A martial arts demonstration,” Baker said.
“Right up my alley,” I told him.
Baker had a car waiting on the street. It was a late model Chevy sedan with white government plates. It looked like it had just been washed. My tax dollars at work. A sergeant opened the back door for us without a word and then got in behind the wheel. We took off.
“This is Sergeant Hanrahan,” Baker told me.
“Hi,” I told the back of Hanrahan’s head.
“Pleasure, sir,” the driver said. But he didn’t turn around. Hanrahan’s hair was cut so close as to be almost invisible. He had a neck, thick with muscle, that bunched up where it met the base of his skull. He kept his hat on in the car.
The Saturday afternoon traffic was manageable. Hanrahan took us up the East Side to the 59 th Street Bridge and into Queens.
I looked at Baker.
“You’ve been told a little bit about me, Dr. Burke?” he asked, and then continued before I could answer. “I’m involved with the development of unarmed combat systems for the Army. There’s a big martial arts tournament at a local high school today. As part of our recruitment activities, a demo team is going to be participating.” He looked out the window at the passing cars, the buildings. You got the impression that he was a man who watched things carefully. Then he turned to look at me. “I thought it would be a nice way for us to meet and for you to see some of what I’ve been up to.”
The expression on his face was pleasant enough, but I felt that he didn’t really expect a response. I didn’t give one. People like Baker don’t do things on a whim. It may have been true that he wanted me to watch his people perform. But I knew that Baker wanted to watch me. This wasn’t just an excursion on a Saturday afternoon. We were on our way to a contest, and I was the one being judged.
I sat back in the seat and relaxed. I’ve spent more than a decade with a teacher who could probably show Baker a thing or two. I’m used to being tested. It happens every time I walk into Yamashita’s dojo .
The high school was a big box. The brick was an ugly mustard yellow that told me it was built sometime in the early ’60s. The windows were covered with metal grilles. The halls were washed in fluorescent light and lined with metal lockers. It smelled like a school—the air had an aroma shaped by equal parts disinfectant, paper, and resentment. And the gym was full of people.
We walked in and made our way to the recruitment table, draped with a black and gold banner that simply proclaimed “A Force of One.” There were two sergeants there, wearing the same sort of distinctive blue uniform as Baker.
“I thought the Army wore green,” I offered. There hadn’t been much in the way of small talk up until now.
“The Army’s always had blue dress uniforms,” Baker stated, “as well as white and green ones. Class A’s were green, but command has decided to simplify things and they’re phasing the other out in favor of the blue version.”
A steady flow of kids fingered brochures tentatively while the soldiers went into their recruitment pitch. You could see parents hovering in the background, some apprehensive, others encouraging.
“How’s the fishing at something like this?” I asked the Colonel.
He smiled. “In the all-volunteer service, recruitment is always a challenge. But
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