Gaudy Patter

Gen. Colin L. Powell took the stage a few minutes after a harried server slapped down a plate of lollipop lamb chops before me. After his introduction, nearly everyone jumped to their feet, applauding -- except for me, Liz, and a grumpy-looking African-American fellow across our table.

The soldier/statesman dove into his 30-minute speech with his familiar air of strained relaxation. To me, Powell carries himself like an enlisted man who's just received an "at ease" order. He spoke in broad terms about the foundation and its work, related it to the larger issue of America And Its Place In The World, rolling in an anecdote about Brazilian exchange students who ran up a tab in a Chicago pizzeria that they couldn't pay.

I'd heard the story before -- Charlie Rose, Meet the Press? -- I wish I could remember. I nearly finished it for Liz, but decided that would be poor form on my part. (Spoiler alert: the manager told the Brazilian kids that their shortage was "no problem," and that he was just glad they were visiting our nation. Because as we all know, pizzeria managers are generous ambassadors who represent the best America has to offer.)

The speech wandered far afield, touching on the good work we're doing in Iraq, the enduring, albeit tested relationships with our international allies, and gibes about his latest gig as a partner with Kleiner Perkins, the SiliValley venture capital firm.

Throughout his talk, I stole glances at the black man sharing our table. In his fifties, he had the pained look of a person who would rather be elsewhere. A blonde who worked with the foundation vainly patted his arm, which only seemed to stir the pot. At different points in Powell's speech, our tablemate glowered, rolled his eyes, and even slumped in his seat, chin resting on his chest while he closed his eyes.

Other than me, the alienated guy across the table, two athletic, tuxedoed gentlemen framing the stage -- and, of course, our featured speaker -- there wasn't a lot of melanin in the room.

I listened to Powell's speech, though I did fantasize about what I might shout at the stage before being led away by security. It's hard to boil down years of outrage to a punchy rhyming phrase, so I let it go. Plus, it would have been awkward for our hosts if I were forcibly ejected.

I didn't feel anger at Powell or his presentation, just sadness. Looking at him, it was clear that public service is behind him, leaving him free to cash in on his persona and his Rolodex. The man seemed like a lost opportunity with legs -- a loyal soldier and a good organization man who sat on his hands while a cabal of ideologues led us into the biggest foreign policy debacle in our history.

The looped thought that persisted through his talk: So, this is what happens when good people do nothing.

Some recent reading suggests that Powell was unhappy with the way things played out while he was SoS, but I don't remember any public rebukes, just a resignation that left a vacuum for Condi to fill. (Dubya: "Look, I put two blacks directly in the line of succession! That's hard work!")

A person of conscience might have resigned earlier or convened a press conference over the sexed-up war intelligence. An honorable person might have decried an elective, pre-emptive strike on a nation that didn't pose a danger. Instead, a craven opportunist held up an ersatz vial of anthrax before the whole world and speak falsely. Powell describes that speech as a "blot" on his record, but I believe it will cast a pall over his entire career.

The crowd rushed to its feet again for another ovation at speech's end -- one captain of industry actually knocked over his chair in haste. As before, the three of us kept our seats. Liz looked at me as if to offer an apology, but I waved her off; she didn't organize the evening or book the speaker. I caught the eye of the man across the table and gave him a nod.

He just looked back at me and shook his head slowly.