(NOAA’s GOES-13 satellite took a stunning image of 4 tropical systems in the Atlantic on Sept. 8, 2011. Hurricane Katia in the western Atlantic; Tropical Storm Lee’s remnants are battering Arlington and Big Pink with a specific and credible amount of moisture; Tropical Storm Maria is well organized in the central Atlantic; and newborn Tropical Storm Nate is in the Bay of Campeche, Gulf of Mexico appears to be the only one that does not threaten to spoil the last dip in the Big Pink Pool for Season 2011. Photo NASA/NOAA GOES Project)
It is still raining, a persistent wet comforter slung over the capital, and as insistent as the jobs numbers. It down to the short-and-curlies on the big contract submission we have been working on. The time for good ideas is long past, and we are into the production phase, with only a few dozen hours until it is delivered to Alison, the nice young lady in the gray cubical in the big building on Joint Base Bolling-Anacostia across the river.
The proposal is filled with really cool stuff that will undoubtedly prove compelling to the anonymous reviewers in the government, this preserving my job and livelihood.
Maybe. Everything else seems to be going in the crapper. I got a note from my Swedish financial correspondent that indicated profound disquiet with the Euro-zone, featuring a schism between self-reliant North and Needy South, and the real possibility that Germany could pull out of the Euro in disgust and the whole continent will come down.
If Europe fails…well, there will be implications here. We were at Willow for an after-action session on the proposal and some other crap last night. The rain continued to come in bands, and I was happy that almost everything on Friday could be done by phone from the refuge of my- currently- dry office.
“So, did you see that there is a specific and credible terror threat for the anniversary?” I took sip of happy hour white, produced with crisp efficiency form the lovely Elisabeth-with-an-S.
Jim looked over at me, beetling his formidable brows. “New York or Washington, is what Napolitano said. Then she said we were safer than we were ten years ago. I have my doubts.”
“It won’t be a fortified target, I bet. Maybe the rain will keep the bombs from going off.”
“Oh, by the way, you blew the weather report yesterday. The storm has got a name. It is Tropical Storm Lee.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That is the problem with the first rough draft of history. My pal Dave called me up to tell me his Porsche Panamera is the Turbo model, the one with 500 horsepower. I should have known he would have the top-of-the-line. What a rocket.”
“Useful for getting away from the city,” he said firmly.
“I am staying away from public buildings for a few days,” I said. “Except for delivering the proposal on Monday.”
“You would be smart to do that,” said Jarhead Ray with a scowl. He took a pull on his second Flying Dog Double Dog Pale Ale. “Except THIS is a public building, of a sort, and suppose they targeted the Fish and Wildlife Service next door?”
“The only ones who would want to do that is the Gibson Guitar Company, who the Fishheads are trying to put out of business over exotic wood the use in their frets. Don’t know why they are doing it now. Makes my head hurt,” said Eric, a short-haired guy with a short goatee. He is a newcomer to the Amen Corner, a co-worker of jarhead Ray. I don’t know if he has the staying power to be a regular, but seemed like a good guy.
The vivacious owner, Tracey O’Grady, worked the crowd at the bar in her white chef’s coat. “Hi Vic,” she said, when she got to me. “What do you think of the changes?”
“What changes?” I said cleverly. “I have given up on believing in change.”
Tracey smiled. “We installed carpeting, fixed the floor by the maitre’d station so people won’t trip, and worked on Kate’s bakery. It should make things more quiet and a little more elegant.”
“You’re kidding,” I said, “That is huge. I love lunch here, but I can never hear what is being said around the table.” She smiled and grabbed my arm and walked me around the tall wooden divider that separates the bar from what is going to be the Bistro area by the entrance and the large dining room and the private rooms in the back.
“Look,” she said, gesturing to the pale tongue-in-groove oblong that smoothed the intersection between the Bistro area, the food service area, Kate’s Bakery and the large dining room.
“It looks a little like a bowling alley,” I said.
Tracey shook her head. “They had to do it on Sunday when we were closed, and they swear they are going to get the color right. At least people won’t trip. I can’t believe no one sued us over that hump.”
“I have stumbled myself,” I said. “But I suspect there may have been external factors involved.”
She pointed to the dining room. “The carpet will absorb some of the noise, and we are going to replace the sheer curtains that are on their last legs.”
“That is the sort of jobs program that keeps things going. Would you mind turning on the television to hear the President tonight? He is on at seven, so he doesn’t confuse the Packers and Saints fans with his employment initiative.”
“I suppose,” she said. “But Willow is not a sports bar and it goes off right after the speech.”
“I will stay for that,” I said. “Look at those darn cupcakes!” I said as she guided me past the bakery counter. “Kate is an incredible artist.”
There were people in the private dining area and I snapped a picture of the new rug covertly, in keeping with the best practices of my old tradecraft.
“It looks wonderful, Tracy,” I said. “And if I can hear myself think at lunch just imagine what we might be able to accomplish here.”
“I think it is gong to work out,” she said, and waved as she headed back to supervise the line. Walking into the bar, I saw Jake and Melissa concluding some business and Elisabeth-S scaling the bar to turn on the television. She is a graceful person, I thought, and waved at Jasper to signify a low-wine warning light was starting to flicker. He is working on full-sleeve tattoos, and the art is progressing nicely.
The compromise on the television thing was that we had to read the speech without audio. Seemed to make it better, in a way, and more focused.
The words crawled along the bottom of the screen. Apparently Mr. Obama was urging Congress to “stop the political circus and actually do something.” The only time those blockheads scare me is when they do that, but never mind. The times are desperate, and someone ought to do something, don’t you think?
I took a sip of wine as my eyes widened. The package was larger than expected, coming in at $447 billion. “That is half of the last stimulus,” I said to no one in particular. ”That is about what the Department of Defense used to cost before we lost our collective wallets.”
“Or minds,” growled Jim. “It is a specific enough plan, but I don’t know how credible it is.” Jim’s lovely wife Mary rolled her eyes, and a server delivered a half Willow flatbread to Robert, the unemployed jazz musician and the Miniature Fish and Chips to the couple next to him.
Jim growled that FDR would have ended the Depression sooner if he had not chickened out with the Republican gains in the 1938 Congress. “FDR tried to target selected Republicans for defeat, kind of like Mr. Obama is tee-ing off on that jerk Cantor.”
“Didn’t work though,” I said. “The Conservatives said the same tired policies had failed and they gained seats. The Depression-era equivalents of the Blue Dog Democrats aligned with Republicans to prevent FDR from completing the New Deal. It is a lot like the attacks on ObamaCare.”
“The recession of ‘37 and ‘38 weakened the Administration and made the New Deal more vulnerable to attack.”
The President’s words continued to scrawl across the bottom of the screen above us. There were initiatives for Teachers, and for Payroll tax reductions, and a hundred billion for roads and bridges. “He says it is all paid for,” I said. “I wonder how that works?”
“It is the 2012 campaign, you moron,” said Jarhead Ray. “This is never going to fly with the House, at least not all of it, and the President just wants to have something to beat Eric Cantor over the head with.”
“Pass it right now, is what he said. Figure the odds. Maybe they just ought to do it, and see if it works.”
“They are just going to say this is a tired re-hash of the same tired bullshit.” Said Ray. “I am going to go outside and get wet.”
I contemplated the level of wine in the tulip glass. I waved at Elisabeth for the check, and wondered if somewhere out in the darkness there was some specific and credible jerk wiring something up in a Ryder truck or large sedan.
“See you tomorrow, Vic?” she said brightly, shaking her chestnut ponytail.
“God willing and the creek don’t rise,” I said, reaching for my wallet. “But it is still raining. I can’t get any more specific than that.”
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com