by Don McNair
A young man stepped into Norman Strickland's office, and he glanced up from his desk.
"I'm—I'm looking for a Mr. Strickland," the stranger said.
"You found him." Norman smiled broadly as he closed the CLOSET Proceedings manual he'd been reading. "Are you Bob Jackson?"
"Yes sir." The visitor looked around the large posh office, then back at the broom closet he'd just passed through.
Norman chuckled. "You're in the right place. I figured that broom closet might fool you. It also fooled that other visitor I had back in the early 70s."
The young man stared again at his surroundings. "But why—"
"Be careful of your thoughts. They may break into words at any time. CLOSET Convention, Munich, 1939. Coffee?"
Norman limped to his Mr. Coffee machine and poured two cups. Old age was taking its toll. His hair had already turned white, and his joints were getting stiff. His limp was noticeable now, and being noticed was professional death to a man in his business. He eyed his visitor. It was time to train a replacement. Would this be the one?
He returned to his desk, handed the young man a cup of coffee, and studied him as he sipped. He'd been about the boy's age when he took this job back in 1946. He'd grabbed it because it was a good idea to go out on a limb, because that's where all the fruit was. Time flies, but he was the navigator. CLOSET Convention, Amarillo, 1955 and Trenton, 1938.
"Williams over in advertising tells me you're a good man," Strickland said. "Says you might have a good future in the O.S. Department."
"O.S. Department? He didn't tell me where I was going. He just drew this map." The young man held out a crumpled piece of paper.
Norman nodded. "Standard operating procedure. If the other employees knew we existed, pretty soon outsiders would know about us. Remember, there's nothing wrong with having nothing to say, unless you insist on saying it."
His visitor looked puzzled. "But I don't understand."
"You will, in time."
Norman leaned back and threw his right arm out in an all encompassing sweep of the room. "This is the Old Sayings Department. I've done a lot of important work here."
"But I don't recall ever seeing it on the organization chart," Jackson said.
"Oh, and you won't! We're top secret. I assume you've heard of—of Cost Overrun?"
"Sure. That's when a program costs twice as much as we told Congress it would, and they pay for it anyhow."
Norman beamed. "Exactly. I report directly to the people over at Cost Overrun, our biggest profit center. Remember the Cold War? When we doubled the A 12 Navy bomber cost to $52 billion? I was partly responsible!"
Jackson smiled. "Gosh, that's important stuff, all right. But just what is it you do?"
Norman tented his fingers and touched them to his chin and frowned. "It can be complex sometimes," he said, slowly. "Anybody can grab a tiger by the tail. You only survive by knowing what to do next."
He stood and walked around the desk and leaned against it. "You see, buyers in Washington must maintain a positive attitude as a Cost Overrun escalates. They call me in at critical times to tell the customer old sayings that convince them to keep funding the program. Almost every Government supplier has someone like me on staff. We operate best, of course, when no one knows we exist."
He looked at his visitor and decided he liked what he saw. Jackson was non descript. Average height, average features, apparently average intelligence. He was very forgettable. Norman decided to take him a step further into the fraternity.
"It's time for lunch. Come with me, young man, and I'll show you what we do."
Norman led Jackson through the dark broom closet and a cluttered furnace room, into a dark hallway. They walked up two flights to the main floor and into the cafeteria, where they filled their plates and sat among a half dozen employees.
A short, blond man named Jim was complaining about his boss's attitude. Norman quietly and professionally slipped into the conversation and nodded and frowned in all the right places. Suddenly his time came. He nudged Jackson under the table and turned to Jim.
"Of course, Jim, you know what they say," he said. "Before you have an argument with your boss, take a good look at both sides. His side and the outside."
Jim looked at him for a moment. "That's a good point," he said. "I'll have to remember that."
The conversation continued and soon shifted directions. Norman and Jackson finished their lunch and left the cafeteria.
"See that?" Norman said. "In and out quickly, then move on. That's the sign of a professional."
"You're good, Mr. Strickland," Jackson said. "That was just the right thing to say!"
"Oh, I could have used any of a number of old sayings there. For example, when he got angry I could have said, 'Anger is never without reason, but seldom a good one.' I picked that one up at the 1969 CLOSET Convention in Ontario."
"CLOSET? What's CLOSET?" his young friend asked.
"C L O S E T. The letters stand for Confederated League of Old Sayings, ET cetera. It's a secret society I belong to."
Jackson scratched his head. "How'd that go now? Before you have an argument with your boss… wow, that was good."
He looked at the pro with admiration as they walked back through the furnace room and the broom closet and into the office. Norman sensed the fledgling’s admiring glances, and knew they were well deserved. He had, after all, learned his craft well. From his early lean years he knew firsthand that, from the time an infant tries to get his toes into his mouth, life is a continual struggle to make both ends meet. CLOSET Convention, Brussels, 1921. Since then he had achieved the pinnacle of his success in Cost Overrun.
And now it was time to pass the gauntlet on.
They sat. Jackson frowned, and Norman waited for him to think through his troubled thoughts. After all, there's nothing wrong with having nothing to say, unless you insist on saying it. CLOSET Convention, Paris, 1971. Finally, Jackson spoke.
"Mr. Strickland, I don't get it. I've heard old sayings all my life. How can you make a living out of saying them?"
"Ah! Quickly—can you think of just one old saying?"
"Well, no, not offhand… "
"Exactly! Everybody's heard old sayings, but they don't remember them. They're gone like the wind. Speaking of which, you know we cannot direct the wind, but we can adjust the sails. CLOSET Convention, Tokyo, 1965."
Jackson considered that nugget of wisdom. "That's right. I don't remember. But somebody had to say them for me to hear them. Somebody knew them."
"Ah, yes!" Norman exclaimed. "Somebody did know. But do you remember anyone actually telling you an old saying?"
"No, I guess not."
"That's right. Because it was probably one of us! An O.S. Diplomat, we call ourselves, or OSD for short. That's the designation for those who reach the profession's highest level."
The younger man looked bewildered. "But I still don't understand. You hear old sayings everywhere, not just in big companies. In the streets, in crowds, in stores—everywhere."
"Yes, and we're very proud of that," Norman said. "That's what makes it all worthwhile. We do our work in the big companies, it's true. We all have to make a living. After all, God gives every bird his food, but He doesn't throw it into the nest. CLOSET Convention, London, 1912."
His glanced skyward, his eyes glistening "But the true professional does pro bono work. We do it for free for the public. If we can throw in an occasional cliche or truism and make someone else's life just a little better…why, we're proud to do it!"
"You mean, every time I hear an old saying, it's from one of your people?"
"Most of the time. Oh, once in a while a civilian will remember one a day or two later and pass it on. But that doesn't happen very often."
Norman went to the door and looked out to make sure no one was there. He closed it tightly and came back and sat in his desk chair and looked at his guest for a long moment.
"There's one other thing,” he said softly. What I’m abo
ut to tell you is highly secret. Can I trust you to keep it that way?"
"Oh, yes. Yes!"
"The truth is, old sayings aren't old at all. They just sound old. CLOSET invents them throughout the year, then reveals them to members at our annual conventions."
"My goodness!" Jackson sat up straight and grinned as if he had just found an answer to something that had been bothering him for his whole life. “Wow, I'm really impressed. This is the source. The motherlode! And I—I can tell you something, Mr. Strickland. I want to become an O.S. Diplomat, too, and—and I want to be the best darned OSD in the whole wide world!"
Norman smiled at his youthful exuberance. He looked exactly as Norman himself must have looked, oh, so long ago, when he'd been selected to tutor under the sheltering wings of a master. It was now time to pass the baton on, and Jackson seemed to be the perfect choice.
"We have a lot of work ahead of us," he said. "You have to learn hundreds—no, thousands of old sayings. And then you have to learn how to say them so people hear them but don't see you. Are you up to the task?"
"Yes, I am, sir! I'll do whatever it takes to become an OSD, just like you!"
"Good. Let's just start with some easy ones, then you go home and get some sleep. We have some long days ahead of us. How's this one? 'Before you borrow money from a friend, decide which you need more; the money, or the friend.’ That was CLOSET Convention, Honolulu, 1939. Or this? 'If you can't be kind, at least be vague.' Or here's a good one. 'If it goes without saying…let it!'"
The Green Bridesmaid Dress
That dress was sure purty and all.
But would it do what it was supposed to?