(Santa with a cool IPA at the Amen Corner at Willow. Photo Socotra.)
Jerry B. Harvey was not at Willow last night. Jerry could have been, though, since he is a
professor of management science at the George Washington University right here in Your Nation’s Capital. He is a smart guy, and I thought about him in the context of the national drive to Abilene, Texas we have been taking in the American convertible driven by Thelma and Louise these last few weeks.
I will get to that in a minute, but you know how hot and dusty it has been down in Texas of late, sort of like Somalia, and it is not a place you would go to willingly if you had a choice.
But of course, we had choices, and we made them and drove on.
This has been a mostly Willow Week; it started with a business lunch with a colleague who is doing something I have been afraid of for a long time. He is venturing out from under the corporate umbrella and setting up his own company. It might be the best of times to do that, or the worst, but I was filled with admiration as we talked through some of the key milestones in the process.
Then, back for happy hour, and then a business social on Tuesday, and Santa was in town and made the effort to slog down in the afternoon traffic from his training session out in the wilds of Fairfax.
I had not seen him since he flew off the big gray boat in 1980, or thereabouts, making it 31 years since we had been more than a virtual presence in each others lives. Not that we were not in touch daily- and there were lives entwined, and lives gone by in the years between. So it was good, and I wanted him to meet Old Jim, and Jon-no-H, and Short Haired Mike and manager Deb and our buddy Holly and Elisabeth-with-an-S and sultry Nina and the rest of the cast of characters.
There was an air of merriment, since Jon-no-H has just rejoined the ranks of the employed, a signal accomplishment in this economy. He is going to be a lobbyist for the National Association of Associations, and develop opportunities for his industry, which used to be wind power, and now is hot hair.
|(Willow Neighborhood Bar Menu miniature fish and chips tempura. Photo Socotra)
It was good. We played with the Miniature Fish and Chips and the Spring Rolls off the famous Neighborhood Bar Menu and talked about old times and new ones. Santa has some new ink on his arm, an impressive work in tribute to a design done by his son, who left us just weeks ago. His bride the lovely Dawn got a stunning work done on her back as well, something to keep his son’s memory alive.
Anyway, there was that, and recollections of Uncle Snidely, who left us in December of 2004. Now there was a man who would have liked Willow. We still miss him a lot.
Anyway, we talked about a lot of things, and the road to Abilene came up, what with the stupidity happening downtown. See, I was at Harvard’s JFK School of Government through one of those government flukes, and they like the case-study approach to teaching public policy. The one I liked was Jerry B Harvey’s trip to Abilene. It went like this:
“It was a blistering July afternoon in small-town Coleman, Texas. The wind was blowing fine-gained West Texas dust through the house, fans were roaring and there was cold lemonade. I would have opted for the cool darkness of an air-conditioned bar, but that wasn’t the point. It could have been a perfectly fine small-town afternoon, spent inside out of the blast furnace, but Jerry’s father-in-law suddenly got a wild hair and announced the intention to drive fifty miles across the blasted brown soil to Abilene and have dinner at the Luby’s Cafeteria. In the family’s un-air-conditioned 1958 Buick, the model the Chinese consider the paradigm of auto art. Jerry’s wife, for whatever reason, agreed. Jerry hated the idea, but went along in the name of family harmony, hoping his Mother-in-law would inject some sense into things. It was not to be.
“Of course I want to go,” said his mother-in-law. “I haven’t been to Abilene in a long time.”
So into the car and off to Abilene they went. Jerry’s worst apprehensions were fully realized. It was hotter than bad sin, the sand and dust blew in the open windows of the stifling hot automobile and mixed with sweat and turned to sandpaper under sodden clothing. Luby’s, when they finally arrived, featured industrial-grade chicken-fried steak and wallpaper-paste potatoes.
Four hours later they were back in Coleman, exhausted, hot and hostile.
Jerry broke the silence, trying to loosen everyone up. “Great trip, wasn’t it?”
Dead silence. Finally, the mother-in-law said, with some irritation, “Well, to tell the truth, I really didn’t enjoy it much and would rather have stayed here. I just went along because the three of you were so enthusiastic about going. I wouldn’t have gone if you all hadn’t pressured me into it.”
“I didn’t want to go, either, said Jerry.
His wife looked at him in disbelief. “I only went because you guys wanted to.”
The father-in-law, the one who suggested the trip, scowled. “Hell, I only suggested it because I thought your guys were bored. You don’t come to Coleman very often.”
After the outburst of recrimination they all sat back in silence. Four reasonably intelligence people had just willingly taken a hundred mile trip across a godforsaken desert in a furnace-like temperature through a cloud-like dust storm to eat unpalatable food at a hole-in-the-wall cafeteria in Abilene, when none of us had really wanted to go.”
Santa had another Racer 5 India Pale Ale, which Jim the bartender had recommended after a brief survey of Santa’s taste. “I imagine it is hot in Abilene this July, too,” he said. “And who was driving, anyway?”
“I think it was Thelma and Louise taking turns,” I said. “Wild ride.”
(Thelma and Louse take a road trip. Photo Ridley Scott.)
“I imagine so,” said Jon-n0-H. “And three hundred million Americans just took a nice drive in the country to arrive at a place that no one in their right mind would want to go.”
“Yeah, screw that,” said Old Jim. “I never liked Abilene to begin with.”
“I prefer the Amen Corner right here at the Willow Bar,” said Jon-n0-H and adjusted his bow tie. He had to wear a regular tie while he was interviewing, and he is done with that.
“Amen,” I said. “It is a real freaking paradox, ain’t it?
(Old Jim at the Amen Corner. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com