How to Become a Public Official Without Really Trying
Chapter 2: Mr. President
This is Chapter 2 of my series Club 44, my true story of having the world’s craziest prison job.
Prologue | Chapter 1: Club 44 | Chapter 2: Mr. President | Chapter 3: Big Tuna | Chapter 4: Cheeseburger | Chapter 5: Blowing Off Your Arm
It was the end of a session for the airmen on base, which meant that it was time for the annual replacement of all the furniture in the dorm buildings. Our team of red suited federal inmates was pulled from our mowing work to do the actual moving. It was a pair of great big dorm buildings, hundreds of rooms, all getting brand new furniture to replace the exact same like-new furniture they’d just been using. Some of the rooms had been vacant and the furniture was untouched, but it all gets replaced anyway. Your tax dollars at work.
We worked under the direction of a group of noncoms, alongside a number of airmen. While a lot of the rank and file airmen were boneheads, most of the senior noncoms we met, and the few officers, were all good professionals. My impression was that you weren’t likely to advance in the Air Force unless you really earned it. Chief Master Sergeant Crabb was one of these. She was obviously smart, capable, and confident, and directed our work in a way that showed she’d been well trained in motivating people without being a slave driver. We liked her.
For some reason, CMSgt Crabb only ever addressed me as “Mr. President.” I had no idea why, but I was fine with it. I liked that there was a jovial atmosphere that included fun nicknames. Her name was Wendy, but we weren’t supposed to use their first names when there were other airmen around, so I called her “Mrs. Constituent.”
On the second day, while I was on the lower ass end of a sofa being carried down a stairwell, and pretty much right at my breaking point, CMSgt Crabb had to flatten herself against the wall to leave room for me and the sofa to get by. “Do you know why I always call you Mr. President?” she asked.
It was not good timing. I was seriously about to break in half, but managed a “No, why?”
“It’s because you look like a politician. And you have this great speech-giving voice.” She looked genuinely amused and excited. Sometimes the little girl showed through.
I probably grunted an acknowledgement, but really it was the sofa that had my attention.
Nevertheless, for the rest of the week, she called me Mr. President, and I reciprocated by promoting her to Campaign Manager. “Hey Campaign Manager, where are those new bed frames?” “On the second floor, Mr. President.”
On Friday the job was completed, and we were running just a tad over time. As we were wrapping up, I noticed CMSgt Crabb standing a distance away, talking with Mike. Mike was our lead guy, he’d been rocking the red jumpsuit for several years and knew a lot of the Air Force personnel pretty well. He’d been on base longer than some of their whole assignments there, and had been friends with CMSgt Crabb through any number of jobs. As Mike told her something, she clapped her hands over her mouth in shock, and almost dropped to her knees. She put her hands on top of her head, walked in a circle, then did an about-face and jogged off in the opposite direction. Whatever he said must have really put the zap on her. I never saw her again.
Later I had the chance to ask Mike “Hey, what did you say to Wendy out in the parking lot?”
He put on this great crooked smile he had and snickered. “I told her, ‘Hey, you know who that guy is you’re always calling Mr. President, don’t you?’”
“And?”
“I told her you’re the governor of Ohio, here on some corruption thing. It really freaked her out.” and he broke into laughter as he walked off.
It sank in, and I laughed too. No harm done. If nothing else, she’ll have the best story to tell at every cocktail party for the rest of her life.
Prologue | Chapter 1: Club 44 | Chapter 2: Mr. President | Chapter 3: Big Tuna | Chapter 4: Cheeseburger | Chapter 5: Blowing Off Your Arm
