Allegory of being eighteen years old

Allegory

Rites of Passage

The door leading into the recruitment center didn't really attract attention in any way. Nothing about the front of the office really stuck out as anything special or out of the ordinary; the wall of tinted plate glass and the black metal of the doorframe and handle matched the outer decor of all of the shops in this nondescript strip mall that took up the thirty-three block of Needham Avenue. Even the narrow strip of cardboard at the top of the window with the words "U.S. Army Recruitment Office" was rather bland, and the eye easily traveled from the bright yellow sign of the tobacco shop on the office's left side to the flowery script of the Indian restaurant to its right without even registering the militant presence in between. From all outward appearances, then, this office did not exactly demonstrate the pinnacle of marketing skill or effort, and passing into the air-conditioned and fluorescently-lit room beyond this storefront was less momentous than might have been expected.

There were three desks in the room. Two of them occupied the back corners of the room, flanking a door that was just as unstriking as any of the external features of the recruitment office and that at the same time had a greater aura of mystery as it was opaque, made of painted wood rather than tinted glass. Behind the desk to the right of this door sat an aging man whose long-greyed temples and wrinkled brow were off-set by the crispness of his olive green uniform and the sharpness of the shoulders that occupied it. Despite the severity of his posture -- his chest formed an exact right angle to the desktop in front of him at all times -- there was something paternal about this man. He cared for the children he sent off into battle, his eyes seemed to say, but he wouldn't take any nonsense from them either.

The desk on the other side of the door was at this time unoccupied, yet the medals arranged in a velvet display case in the wall behind this desk and the pictures of posts around the world arranged on the desktop and facing outwards gave faith that this was the seat of an important and influential personage, and one who could testify to the merits of serving one's country with a great deal of objectivity. His absence actually made his effect and influence that much stronger, as the visions of glory and honor that reflected in the eyes of the newly-entered observer were untainted by their association with any imperfect human form. The medals and photographs spoke for themselves of the intrinsic merit of service, and demonstrated the gap in conviction that dwelled somewhere in the twenty feet of space between the door leading out and the desk itself. Crossing to that desk, these artifacts seemed to say, required both submission and opposition, and both of them in extreme degrees.

Before that could even be attempted, however, the observer was met by the young man springing up from behind the third desk in the room, the one that sat only five or six feet back from the doorway and the tinted plate glass. This man was younger; certainly younger than the officer seated behind his right shoulder and younger than anyone ought to be before earning the medals and taking the pictures situated behind him to his left. He was unblemished, cheerful, and welcoming. The observer began to be replaced by a more active self, no longer simply viewing the scene and people before him, but ushered into active participation as a soft flow of patter and wisdom flowed from the young man in uniform.