Artist’s rendering of the new Bob Peck construction site, which is kitty-corner from the window where I watch real workers work. The red arrow signifies the location of the faux accordion Chevy sign in classic Googie style. My pal Mac reports that Bob had dementia at the end. Photo Cooper-Cary Architects.
It was getting late in the day, the day being late in the week, and it looked beautiful outside. It tugged at me as I sat at my desk on the 8th floor of the building in the vibrant Ballston neighborhood of go-go Arlington. I face the window, which is a key violation of tradecraft. Wild Bill Hickok always recommended facing the door, but screw it. The view is too good.
If I go down in a drive-by, so be it. I like to watch the people who really work for a living hurl the concrete and steel toward the sky.
Wild Bill had a premonition he would die in Deadwood, SD, just as I have a premonition about Raven and the Little Village By the Bay. He can’t play poker anymore, but I an certain now he has drawn a five-card hand with a pair of Aces and Eights. That is the same hand that Wild Bill had that night at Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon Number 10. He usually sat with his back to the wall, and asked to change seats twice but was refused.
A former buffalo hunter named “Broken Nose Jack” McCall had some sort of dementia- alcohol induced or other- and walked into the Saloon and shot Wild Bill in the back of the head, killing him instantly.
The bullet emerged through Wild Bill’s right cheek, striking one Captain Massie in the left wrist. Wild Bill had been wiped out, and just borrowed $50 from the house to continue playing, sort of like Congress.
When shot, Hickok was holding a pair of aces and a pair of eights, all black. The fifth card’s identity is debated, or had been discarded and its replacement had not yet been dealt. That is basically the way I felt about the week- two pair, enough to open, but not enough to close. No way to tell if that fifth card would leave me with a full house, a flush or a bust.
The week had been eventful enough on several fronts. The Government, bless its pointy little head, had striven mightily and delivered what might be the last Task Order of the big IDIQ contract I allegedly manage for the company.
There were a dozen frantic e-mail exchanges from partners who wanted a shot at the action, and in between, I watched great silvery panels being hauled up the strange crenelated flanks of the new tower across the street where Bob Peck’s Googie-era flying saucer Chevy dealership once stood.
There is a quotation of the old futuristic façade bolted onto the front of the new building, which is so post-modern that I cannot quite figure it out. The internal pillars were poured on the bias, which I watched in amazement as the structure rose out of the pit of the parking garage. The shimmering sliver glass is being bolted on with strange protrusions and curves.
It is a strange building and these are strange times. In the midst of the ongoing construction and the volleys of e-mail, I shuffled through my parent’s mail. The taxes from last year had been deferred with an extension but the Federal piper had to finally be paid, and I had to scramble to find the money (or the credit vehicle) to bounce past the end of the month.
In between calls, I talked to Dr. B’s office in the Little Village By the Bay. Apparently he contacted The Bluffs nursing home over in the Springs as requested. I then talked to Mary, the admissions director at the facility- they had a very busy day with people coming and going from residences to lock-down, and to hospital and back.
She said she would get to Dr. B’s paperwork on Raven’s prospective admittance come Monday, and then we can talk about the availability of beds and the process that must be followed.
I had no idea how this all works. Apparently the milestones to lock-down include a visit to Potemkin Village by a Bluff’s Admittance person and a social worker to assess- presumably- Raven’s suitability for in-patient status. Admission is not a guarantee, since availability of a bed is the driving factor, but I think it is the best alternative at present.
I told Mary I would be there for the visit to assess Raven, since I don’t want Big Mama to get panicked. I kept the line of communications open to the grim detention facility a mile or so away from Potemkin Village. It is cost competitive with the Bluffs, though I shiver a bit at the prospect of seeing Raven in there.
Christ, he was the Mayor of the Village once. This is depressing.
I walked over to Willow when I could not stand it any more. Jim was anchoring the Amen Corner. Jon-no-H came by, and Jimbo the old bartender returned to drink at the civilian side of the bar. I pointedly sat with my back to the door.
Times are tough, and he is going to be back in the rotation at Willow. I am negotiating with Liz-with-an-S to enter into a fiduciary relationship with her as my lead Legal counsel. She is admitted to the bar in New York and New Jersey, and I am admitted to the bar at Willow all the time.
If we can figure out Raven’s eventual roost, maybe we move this whole thing forward. I am hoping to figure it out by the time that they mount the façade on the Bob Peck Chevrolet site.
In the meantime, he has been dealt aces and eights, and we just don’t know what that last card is going to be- or when it is going to be dealt.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com