Jersey’s laugh was rich and warm, as friendly as Jameson had come to expect from most everyone he’d met in Alexandria, Virginia. “You got this, boss man. I ain’t worried about you. Maybe you oughta be the one bringing me cigars once you’re rich, pushing pencils, and flirting with all your secretaries.”
Jameson cocked his head, listening as the blue-line approached on time from the northwest. “Keep your fingers crossed that I get this job, and I might just do that. Remind me. When’s your interview?”
“Day after tomorrow.” The excitement in Jersey’s voice reminded Jameson of a little boy on Christmas morning. “After all the school I’ve been choking down, I’m finally going to intern.”
“Which hospital?”
“Not hospital, dummy. I’ma goin’ into law, remember? Powers, Brooks, and Haggerty. Smack in the middle of DC.”
Jameson smiled. “I remembered. Just making sure you did. You and me, bro. By the end of this week, we’re going to be gainfully employed and on our way to the top.”
“And famous!”
Jersey, maybe, but Jameson doubted he’d make the front page anytime soon. Fame had never been a goal, even when he’d been sighted. “You have a great day, buddy. Say hi to Portia for me. And stop calling her a watermelon! Be nice to your wife. Women have feelings, Robin.”
“Will do, Batman. See you tomorrow.”
“Same bat time, same bat channel,” Jameson replied as he took five steps forward and boarded the train that would take him to King Street, a six-minute ride away.
He took the vacant seat three rows inside to his right and stood his cane upright between his knees where it wouldn’t bump anyone. It was interesting how Jersey had started calling Jameson Batman the first day they’d met. He’d said Jameson looked like a bat the way he’d cocked his head and listened as if he had radar ears. Only it wasn’t radar, not at all. It was concentration, focus, and balance. It was an inner determination to succeed, to be in the world, but not of the world. It was the daily decision Jameson made to remain positive in the face of the stark negativity that same world offered.
In the last five years, Jameson had chosen to adapt. Instead of stoking rage for what life had taken, he’d filled his mind with the light of discipline and his body with the calm of the still living. He could’ve died that day in Iraq. Others had. But he hadn’t, so he let their sacrifice become his decision point. Kind of a ‘what would Derby and Shakespeare say if they saw me today?’ philosophy. Would they be proud because of how he lived or ashamed to call him friend because he’d turned to despair? He’d opted to make them damned proud.
Once the train braked to a slow stop at King Street station, Jameson disembarked quickly to the platform, along with the early morning rush of tourists, vendors, and business types. The TEAM building was located directly west from the station on Diagonal Road, another short walk.
“You can’t miss it,” Walker had said. Easy for him to say.
“We’ll see about that, buddy,” Jameson muttered to himself as he made his way down the escalator to the lower level, then went with the flow out the station’s east exit, his cane tapping his way forward.
In minutes, he’d crossed the parking area due east, then maneuvered across Diagonal Road. Twenty-three steps from curb to curb put him on the opposite sidewalk, and, hopefully, right where he was supposed to be. Probing his cane forward, Jameson located the massive metal handle of the heavy glass entrance door, shoved it open, and entered the reverent, silent space Walker had told him about. A magnificent mosaic of America’s flag occupied the entire opposing wall. Jameson took a moment to reflect on the symbol he loved but would never see again.
But regret never got a man moving, and he was convinced there was still good work to be done, that he was just the man to do it.
Next stop, the elevator. It was as easy to locate, more so because Walker had described this place thoroughly. Made Jameson smile. Sighted people tended to forget that the Americans with Disabilities Act provided wheelchair access to all public places, as well as readily available Braille markers for the visually impaired. But that was okay. Walker had always been sensitive to Jameson’s needs after the incident. As expected, he found the Braille-coded button for the floor he needed, and waited anxiously for his chance to prove he was still a productive member of society. To hell with being good enough. He was going to be great!
Once the elevator announced his arrival with a cheery ping, Jameson veered to the right and straight into his newest adventure. He aimed his stick over a carpeted walkway that dissected the circular configuration of work areas Walker had described. The work bay was designed like a wheel, its spokes the aisles between segments where agents’ desks were located. He’d been told to speak with a woman named Mother at the customer service desk in the center of the wheel. Interesting name for a secretary.
But damn, this office was quiet. Where was everyone?
Stepping up to the counter, he cleared his throat, shifted his cane to his left hand, and announced, “Jameson Tenney here for an interview with Mr. Alex Stewart.”
A much younger sounding voice than he’d anticipated replied, “Hi, Jameson. I’m Mother.” She reached over the counter and shook his free hand. “I’m sorry but Alex isn’t in today. We’ll have to reschedule.”
Well, damn. Not again. Jameson had been to more job interviews where, once a prospective employer knew he was handicapped, somehow, mysteriously, the job offer disappeared or the perspective boss came up with some excuse about it being filled, or something just as lame.
“Sure, I understand,” he answered stoically, gripping his stick a little tighter. “I’m available at his convenience. What’ll work best for Mr.
