Lion's Lair - 24. Will This Trip Ever Get Here

With my move-in with Clayton complete, the weekend and following few days of the workweek seemed to be just normal days, nothing extraordinary. Little did I know how wrong my assessment of the week would be. But at this point, the most notable thing of the week was a phone call I got from Maria, my Pentagon liaison, first thing on Monday morning.

“Good morning, Ryan! It’s Maria Schmitt. Did I catch you at a bad time? Do you have a few minutes to chat?”

Since it’s only 9am on Monday, and I’ve really not gotten my workday going, easy enough to chat. Plus, no one’s near my desk to overhear the personal data of the call—still haven’t told my boss or work team about the Medal of Honor award and trip to D.C. “Nah, I’m in good shape, Maria. How can I help you?” Glad I got a cup of coffee before the call started.

“I’m just confirming that I received your email, and it all appears to be complete. I’ve also talked to your … uh, partner? Husband? I don’t know what title you use with each other, but I’ve talked with Clayton and gotten his confirmation of the flight arrival and lodging arrangements. I do have a couple of questions for you.”

“Shoot.”

“First, what do you call Clayton? I’ll use your preferred title in any press releases with his name.”

This is new territory—something we’ve not discussed. Partner? Too business-formal. Lover? Too intensely personal. Husband? We aren’t married yet. He’s just the other half of me that I needed ….

“How about ‘other half’?”

“Perfect. So it’s safe to assume you’re gay?”

“Yes.”

“Ok. Now, is it possible to perhaps get you here a little earlier in the day on Thursday, the 9^th? I’m afraid you won’t have time to get from the airport to the luncheon at 1pm with your noon arrival.”

The luncheon is on the 9^th?

“The memo from the Secretary of the Navy mentioned the 10^th, and the documents we got from your office started on the 10^th. Although we didn’t examine them that closely, we assumed that was accurate and included the luncheon …. “

“Just a moment, Ryan, let me check something.” Maria is gone for thirty, maybe forty-five seconds. “I’m so sorry, Ryan, we’ve had some kind of snafu here. The packet you received from the Secretary of the Navy is missing the first page of the tentative itinerary, as is the attachment I emailed you. Somehow that page is missing from the scans we did. Do I need to talk with Clayton about the travel schedule?”

“Please do. I’ve left all of that in his hands. He’ll be the one to make those changes. In the meantime, can we get the revised, complete itinerary?”

“I’m so sorry about this, Ryan, and I’ll send you an updated—and complete—itinerary to both you and Clayton. Here’s a quick overview, though: We’ll be sending press releases to the New Orleans, Baton Rouge, Biloxi, and Slidell newspapers on Wednesday. The same press release will go out to television stations in those areas. It will include a copy of the photograph you provided when you returned your questionnaire back to me, and include information about the luncheon with the President and awards ceremony itself.”

“Ok, Maria, that’s simple enough. So we should expect all of this to become public by, what, Friday of this week?”

“Yes, but there’s more. On Thursday, that local press release will also go nationwide, to all the major TV networks, the AP, USA Today, the top 50 television markets, etcetera. That also includes media in your home town of Omaha. Although we’ll try to get as many press interviews done as possible on the day of the award ceremony, based on previous award recipients, you’ll probably want to plan on Friday the 10^th being dedicated to interviews with TV journalists and big name newspapers like The New York Times, The Washington Post, The Dallas Morning News, The Los Angeles Herald. I’ll be handling those booking requests for you, and won’t make any confirmations without your approval. And, since it’s August, and Congress has adjourned, and it’s a slow news cycle in DC, you can count on a lot of attention.”

Wow. I’d seen TV interviews previous Medal winners had done, but had no idea of the level of preparation that goes into it all. “So what do I need to do to prepare for this? I’m just a Marine, not a press guru.”

“Just be yourself, Ryan. If you get hit with a question, answer it honestly. If you field a personal question you aren’t comfortable with answering, just say you’re not comfortable with it. They’ll respect you for it. And keep in mind, these are going to be more of a ‘human interest’ storyline instead of hard-hitting news, so they’re going to ask what you think, what you feel, how you’re reacting. So just relax—you’ll do fine!”

Totally uncertain on how to handle this shit, but guess she’s right—just tell the truth and be myself. “Ok. Anything else I need to know at this point?”

“We’ll be vetting Clayton and your other 4 guests this week; you might want to let them know I’ll be calling each of them today to get their full legal names, social security numbers, and other information for their security clearance. I’ll have their security ID’s delivered to the hotel when you all arrive. And, I’ll call Clayton right now to clear up the mess that missing page on the agenda has caused. We’ll be fine, Ryan; you’ll see.” And with that, Maria said goodbye and ended the call.

By now, the rest of the staff at the Cadillac store is here, and the store is buzzing. Productive morn; got appointments made for the remainder of the week, got some materials prepared for the technology class I’m doing on Tuesday night. Actually picked up a walk-in customer around 10am; they’ll be back late this afternoon or tomorrow to drive my car—they specifically wanted the V-Sport version. It’ll let me move up to a CT6 sedan. And moving the hand controls from one car to the other will be easy enough.

By Wednesday, I’d made a couple of sales—another good month underway!—called Clayton, and arranged to go to The Bar for a quick drink, then dinner. Clayton confirmed earlier that Barry would be there, so if there’s any finalizing of travel plans to be done, we can do it then. Called Joe, who was already at home, freshly showered from his job; excited at the offer of a cold beer, he’ll call Rex and include him in the evening’s plans.

Pulled up to The Bar, Barry’s Chrysler parked off to one side of the parking lot. Dave’s black Ford pickup is parked next to it, with Dave climbing out in black jeans and boots and white dress shirt. He waves, heads over my way.

His walk across the parking lot is interrupted, by Joe, blowing the horn and weaving his van like a crazed man. Clayton’s behind him, the Mercedes slipping into the space next to mine.

“Is this a convention or something?” Dave is grinning as he says it, and it’s clear it’s gonna be a fun night; everyone is already in a good mood.

Once inside, Joe gets the first round of drinks for everyone, Rex joins the group as the drinks arrive, everyone’s laughing, cutting up.

Clayton grabs one of the small ashtrays, clacks it three times on the tabletop, and with an officious-sounding voice almost breaking from laughing announces, “I hereby call this meeting of the Fun and Games travel group to order. Is there any old business?” He barely gets the last words out before breaking up in laughter. Yeah, it’s a boisterous group and great to see Clayton relaxing like this.

“Having no old business, let’s take up new business—our trip to D.C.” With that Clayton informs the group that the lodging has been confirmed, along with flight times, and that everyone needs to be prepared to leave in two weeks from tomorrow from the Slidell airport at 9:30am.

“Ok, we’ll be set to leave on time, but are we going in a travel bus from the airport to Armstrong International to get a carrier to D.C.? And how much do we owe for the hotel reservations and airline tickets?” Rex is still in business mode, ready to whip out a checkbook or credit card to square things away.

“Ok, guys, really didn’t want to talk about this now, but might as well …. “ Clayton smiling, but his voice has a serious tone. “You’re all a part of our family, and, in honor of my other half’s service, this trip is on me—it’s important that you’re all there.”

“Other half”! Clayton used that term on his own. Is this fate, or what?!

The entire table goes silent. Each man was fully prepared to pick up their own costs to get to D.C. to honor Ryan; Clayton’s generosity has caught them off guard as each man realizes the size of the gift, a cost of several thousands of dollars for the trip each.

“Clayton, that’s not fair or reasonable, “ Dave starts to protest. “We can handle our costs—it’s our privilege to be there.” Heads nod agreement around the table, with looks of surprise at the unexpected move.

“Nonsense. I can afford this, it’s my pleasure, and I’ll hear nothing to the contrary.” Clayton’s voice is firm as he eyes each person, emphasizing that there’s no room for discussion on this. “Just be prepared to relax, have fun, and, oh by the way, dress a little upscale for the flight up and back. No ratty gym shorts, ok?” His smile carries the humor of the line, but he’s made his point—this is something special.

“Ok, so where are we staying? What carrier are we flying on? Are the dates firm? Not only am I nosey, I need to let Mrs. Sheldon know so she’s got a contact point to reach us if there’s a problem with the kids.” Rex’s concern is valid.

“I’ll give you that information the morning of our departure, ok? She’s got your and Joe’s cell numbers as a primary contact points—and we all know as a realtor that you have your phone with you at all times, even when naked. So we really know you are being nosey! Besides, don’t you like surprises?” Clayton gently kids Rex, and the group’s earlier happy mood is back.

Another round of drinks and the group starts to break up. Rex has some paperwork he swears he’s got to get done tonight, so he heads home to that and the kids. Barry’s working the bar, since it’s karaoke night, and he’s expecting a big group in for the start of singing at 9:00pm.

That leaves me, Clayton, Joe, and Dave. And we’re all hungry. Chat outside the bar for a few minutes, decide to go to the Pontchartrain Beach Café and Marina. Great all-American food, heavy emphasis on fresh seafood and fish, since it’s built overlooking a working marina. Good steaks, great grilled veggies, and homemade desserts made by the owner’s wife.

Get to the restaurant and it’s packed to the rafters, every table occupied. Get to look around, apparently the owner is a Marine, fought in Nam. The place is decorated with personal local memorabilia, family and public photographs, heavy emphasis on Marine stuff—think Appleby’s or Bennigan’s, except military stuff. Finally, a table opens up, we get seated, and go ahead and order.

The place is noisy as hell even under normal circumstances, but tonight the volume is ratcheted up—can hardly hear yourself think. But even with the noise of the crowd, the undercurrent of background music, the clink of glasses and tableware being cleared and reset, there’s a distant murmur. Kinda mumum-is-that-him-mumum-he-must-be-the-one-mumumum. And I’d swear there’s a few people checking me out. Maybe it’s the wheelchair, I dunno.

After a couple of minutes, and just as the meal is being served at our table, a chunky older guy, maybe 70’s, comes up to the table. He’s bald on the top of his head, there’s a jagged scar running just above his right ear, he’s got a full mustache, walks with a limp, but supports himself without really using the cane in his left hand.

“I’m Daniel Gleason. I’m the owner of this dump.” He smiles as he refers to the place as a dump, extending a hand with mild tremors to shake mine. “Are you Marine Gregory? Uh,”….he starts snapping his fingers, “Robert, uh … Roger … no, that’s not it … Ryan. That’s it! Ryan! Are you Marine Ryan Gregory?”

At this point, the restaurant has gone on total mute—no sound from anything or anyone. Everyone’s looking at me. No I’m not paranoid—I don’t think. “Yes, sir, I’m Ryan Gregory. How can I help you?”

“Son, the editor of the local paper was in here for dinner earlier tonight. Got a press release from the Pentagon about a Ryan Gregory, a Marine, who lost both his legs serving his country and who’s being awarded the Medal of Honor in two weeks. Are you that Ryan Gregory?”

“Yes, sir.”

Shit, forgot about the press release going out today.

“Marine, I’d like to shake your hand. Tom read us the press release about what you did. You’re a real, honest-to-God hero, and we’re all so damn proud of you.” He’s pauses for a minute, then yells across the deafeningly quiet floor toward the kitchen, “Barbara, it’s him.”

Don’t really know what to do now. There’s the sound of a chair scraping across the hardwood floor, then another scrape. The sound of a slow clap mixes in with more movement of chairs, and more applause.

Look over at Clayton, then Dave, then Joe. Certain my face shows my total confusion about what’s going on here. Clayton nods toward the bar at the back of the room. “Look.”

The entire fuckin’ restaurant is standing and applauding. The entire restaurant!

What the hell do I do now?

Shit, I’m useless on stuff like this, so just look at the table for a couple of seconds. Finally look up, wave an acknowledgement to the crowd. A few minutes later, the applause starts to die down. The owner is still there.

“Marine, do you mind letting me get a picture of me and the wife shaking your hand? I’d like to get it printed up, and framed to keep here in the bar. Maybe at some point, you can come back and autograph it?”

“Certainly, sir.”

A waiter appears, pulls out a cell phone, and then a flash goes off. There’s several other flashes, too. When the pictures are done, Daniel leans in toward the guys around me, looking at Clayton, but talking to all. “I’m sorry we interrupted your meal, and if it’s cold, we’ll prepare fresh and hot for you—just let us know. Regardless, your tab is on the house tonight. Thanks for putting up with an old Marine, but thought this was important.”

Clayton smiles an easy smile. “Not an issue, Daniel. We appreciate your recognition of our guy. And thank you for your hospitality.” Clayton stands, shakes the grizzled Marine’s hand, then sits as he moves away.

Clayton’s perfect social skills strike again.

“Let’s eat guys.” Joe’s suggestion is a good one—stomach’s growling.

We’re done in a few minutes, roll toward the door. Daniel, the owner is standing there, holding the door open for me. “Thanks for coming out tonight. It’s an honor to have you here—hope you’ll be back again, soon.”

“Certain I will. Thanks again for the hospitality.” Clayton’s line is easy enough to remember and seems to fit well here.

We all head to our respective homes. Certainly been an interesting day.

If Wednesday was interesting, Thursday jacked things up by a factor of 10. Arrived at the dealership at 7:30am. Sales Manager has already been by my desk, a copy of the local paper face up, headline reads, “Local Man Awarded Medal of Honor”. My picture is underneath the headline, followed by a text description of the events outside Fallujah that day.

Before folding the paper up and putting it in my desk drawer, notice the small article on the back page. It covers an attempted robbery in a local bar, said the assailant was arrested after being foiled by “local bar patrons”. Thankfully, no names were used—for either the bar or Joe and me, but certain it’ll cause local interest. Hell, it’s almost like a “teaser” article.

Pull out my phone, load the screen with my calendar to start the day. I’m ready to check office voice mail when I hear the sales manager yell for me. Roll to his office.

“Ryan, first of all, congratulations on the award. It’s a big deal. Secondly, when the fuck were you gonna tell me about this? And, third, we’ve already been hit with a slug of calls, since the dealership is mentioned in the article. Some of ‘em are customers of yours, offering well wishes. Quite a few are from local media outlets requesting interviews. When we open at 8, our switchboard isn’t gonna be able to handle it and the regular day’s business. Do this: go record a voice mail, thanking customers for their congratulations. If they’re new customers, have ‘em call you on your direct line; they should have that number on your business card. Then explain you’ll call media outlets back later—after the end of the business day—and schedule something with them, or however you want to handle it. You can check that new voice mail throughout the day and keep it cleaned out—and our switchboard will just put all calls through to it.”

“Ok, I’ll get it recorded now. And thanks for the congratulations. Sorry I didn’t tell ya about it earlier—you were busy at the time, and later, just didn’t seem to be that big of a deal. Guess the public views it bigger than what I expected they would. I’m sorry about this.”

“Nothing to be sorry about, Ryan. It gives the dealership free publicity, you may make a few new sales from it, too. And yeah, if you did the kind of stuff the article describes, it is a big deal. Now, go record that new voice mail, and let Elaine at the switchboard know when you’re done—otherwise, she’s coming after you.” He smiles as he says it, and I head over to a vacant office to record a message.

Get the recording done, and give Maria’s number as the scheduling contact for press interviews. Notify Elaine, and she smiles, glad to learn the voice mail will make her life easier.

The rest of the day was non-stop interruptions, either from other people at the dealership to customers I’d sold a vehicle to stopping by to give well wishes—and even a few people who circled through the parking lot apparently hoping to get a glimpse of the hero in a wheel chair. I cleaned out the new voicemail three or four times during the day, each time getting rid of 20 or so messages. Nutty enough that I didn’t get a bunch of shit done, and almost forgot about my standing therapy session.

Barely made it to the session on time, but took the paper, showed Dr. Patton and the rest of his staff so they’re up to speed on it all. They did their congratulations, but stayed focused on the workout, thank God. Left the session exhausted, and grateful for some sense of normalcy.

Friday was even more insane—the press release went nationwide. Why do all these people want to talk to me? There’s nothing special about me; I’m just a Marine who did his job. There are thousands of Marines and other service people who do their jobs and never get noticed. I’m honored by the Medal, and humbled by the attention, but I’m just a grunt who did his job. When I read the stories of previous Medal of Honor winners I’m blown away by their courage and sacrifice. Hell, I just did what any Marine would have done!

Maria called at the end of the day just as I made it into the den at home after changing clothes. Thank God I’d gotten out of the work clothes and into a pair of shorts. Shit, everyone wants a piece of me. CBS, NBC, ABC, Fox have all booked interview time, with NBC, CBS, and ABC wanting to do an hour-long session to be condensed down into 15 minute segments to be featured on their weekend news shows. All the expected newspaper outlets are there, too, in 30 minute increments. One surprise is an interview with the Advocate, a gay newsmagazine, apparently, based out of Los Angeles. They, along with a New Orleans gay publication, The Ambush, want to interview both me and Clayton.

Huh? Why Clayton, too?

Clayton walks into the den as Maria explains. “It’s the gay thing. As far as we know, you’re the first Medal of Honor winner in history who’s been openly gay. They all want to ask about that, about what it was like to serve during ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’, they all want to know how being gay plays a role in your service record. And as far as Clayton, certain they’re gonna ask what life is like living with a hero, as well as the standard-issue, “How’d ya meet,” “What do you do for fun,” “How’s life changed,” that sort of thing. Standard human interest questions.”

“Hi, Maria, it’s Clayton, I just walked in on this conversation. Absolutely, positively do NOT schedule any interviews with me. This isn’t about me, it’s about Ryan, and my presence would be a distraction.” Clayton’s red-faced with anger; I’ve never seen him so perturbed before.

“Ok, Clayton, I’ll say ‘no’ on your behalf—but think about it, will you? Seeing you and Ryan in a solid relationship could be a great role model for a lot of kids today.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll think about it,” Clayton grumbles.

Front doorbell rings as I finish up the conversation with Maria. Clayton’s changing clothes, so roll to door to see who it is. Open it, blinded by a flash. After the dots clear from in front of the eyes, a guy is there with another guy holding a camera. “Hi, I’m Stan Whadley with The National TattleTale. We’d love to get a view of how a real American hero lives … can we come in?”

“Call Maria Schmitt, she’s at the Pentagon office of Public Information Services, she’ll book an appointment.” I close the door and roll back in. Clayton’s standing there, and ends up open-mouthed in astonishment as I tell him of the audacity of the reporter.

“Guess it may be time to get security for the place, at least until after the interviews are done.” Clayton’s depressed tone conveys a sadness—kind of a recognition that the lion’s lair been invaded.

“Clayton, let’s talk with Maria, maybe she’s got an idea on this. In the meantime, the weekend’s here; let’s relax and enjoy ourselves. How about a pizza, find a movie on HBO, maybe spend some cuddle time tonight—I can sure use it.” Clayton leans in to hug on me as I say it, and I know it’s a solid plan.

Will this damn trip to Washington ever get here?!?!