"I approached him and said, "Please, may we go into your office? We need to talk privately."With a loud antagonistic voice he said, "Anything you have to say may be said right here. You and me, we don't have any business together."I handed him my card, it read: Charles M. Johnson, Senior U.S. Deputy Marshal, Senior Supervisor, U.S. Law Enforcement.He looked at the card then back at me and dropped the card on the floor. "What the fuck is a Senior Supervisor of U.S. Law Enforcement? The only guy between me and the director is some faceless D.C. bureaucrat, John Scott. The only time I hear from him is when I have a problem, or if my budget is fucked up." You have a problem. His private number is on the reverse side of my card. I would suggest you call him right now."The man's eyes began flickering with recognition that he might have made a mistake. He looked at me, down at the card under his foot and back up. I was still standing in the same spot, looking at him. It took him a billion. All you had to do was follow every order you were given, as soon as you got them, read and remember all the rules and regulations they told you to, and hustle at all times. Oh yeah, you had to yell a lot. That's where I ran into trouble.The physical stuff I could do easy, as long as I was well supplied with sun blocker. The mental stuff was so easy it was laughable. I even managed to fake the teamwork part they loved to endlessly talk about.But I couldn't muster up enough emotion to yell, and that drove the D.I.s absolutely crazy.So, on top of everything else, I had to undergo a serious barrage of medical and psychological testing. Come to find out I was just fine, except for not being emotional enough to yell on command.Apparently red flags went flying up all over the damn place.I had just finished basic training when I received word my mother had died. I was granted emergency leave and I went... home.Mom was buried in the family plot, next to her parents. They'd died just after.
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