A little damp snow is all we got at Big Pink, but snow it was, on the 29th of October. Photo Socotra.
I am still a little surprised to be here, in the safety and comfort of Your Nation’s Capital, and that I managed to avoid the storm.
It swept through Arlington all day; steady rain to start, and then the temperature plummeted and the wind picked up. I made a sentimental pilgrimage to the Navy Exchange Gas Station at Quarters K- the automated teller machine is the only thing still working. The sign taped on the door said the last day was Friday, and peering in the window I saw the shelves were bare.
An institution has passed.
Nothing for it but to adapt to the new reality. So I flogged the Bluesmobile up the hill, past the great mustard-colored bulk of the future former Navy Annex to the entrance on the Marine side of Joint Base Myer-Henderson-Hall to visit the Commissary to re-stock the larder and the gas station to restock the Vodka Locker.
The wind was brisk and the rain was turning into something solid, and I had to draw my hands into the sleeves of my pull over. Damn, I thought, it is going to snow.
There was only a dusting of soft heavy snow when it was done, confined to the cars and rooflines and outlining the mounds of fallen leaves, but snow it was.
The people in New York will sniff at what we got- there was over an inch in Central Park, and it does not bode well for the coming season.
The earliest I recall getting hammered here was the highly unusual Veteran’s Day shellacking we got in 1986 or so- a one-two punch that dumped a couple feet on the capital and provided my first experience with how vulnerable the metro area is to ANY disruption, much less the catastrophic.
When I eventually got home and unpacked the groceries, I got back to the main event, which was sorting through the mail. Aha! I said, finding the $600 surprise of the month. I wondered what was going to conspire to ruin my planning, and set up the payments for that, and looked at the books for the folks. Now that we are going negative in cash flow (like Social Security) it is going to be an interesting race between the end of the money and the end of Raven and Big Mama.
I preferred to think about Willow, and the Halloween party. Back before the phone call that announced Raven’s coming eviction, the party that Tracy O’Grady and Kate Jansen were going to throw seemed like the perfect pivot to the season. Now, the day was at hand, snow was falling, and it was time to climb into my costume and get uptown to Willow.
Genghis John (with H) was waiting at the Amen Corner, his MP3 ear buds screwed into his ears. In front of him was a bubbling caldron of hard cider that sent a wave of intense apple and cinnamon smell over our end of the bar. He plucked the buds out of his ears, and I noted that he was in the seat reserved for the Dean of the Willow Barflies.
“Old Jim is not going to be here,” he said. “He is contemplating a boycott.”
“Crap,” I said. “How come?”
“They charged him for the actual number of beers he drank the other night and he took offense.”
“I don’t blame him,” I said. “I would hate for that to happen to us.”
Tinker Bell was working the bar and was channeling her N’awlins roots in dreadlocks and a bustled skirt. Her eyes were dark with kohl.
Liz-with-an-S made an impressive statement as the Wicked Witch of the West, complete with broom. Genghis John gave an appreciative whistle- “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” he asked.
Liz-S just smiled. I offered this: “If she is the Wicked Witch, she is wicked good.”
My pal Mac had his family in the dining room, and I thunked over in my lederhosen and clunky Alpine hiking boots to say hello.
After that, I just went back to the Happy Hour white, and watched Jeff flirting with Kate’s party of witches and the Viking princess. He had been an Army Foreign Area Officer in his day, and did not dress for the occasion.
“I was in a costume drama for almost thirty years,” he growled. “Enough is enough.”
“I dress like this only once a year,” I said. “Otherwise I would be invading Poland regularly.”
Satchel and her Boyfriend showed up as Bacon and Eggs, deviled eggs, I presumed, and very stylish. I think they took second place.
As it turned out, the food was great as usual, and the prize for best costume went to Ann Boleyn, the unfortunate bridge of Hank-the-8th. Her get-up featured what appeared to be her severed head held in artificial hands. It was legitimately creepy.
It turned out that my modest Tyrolian effort was good enough for third place, and a $25 gift certificate redeemable for food or drink.
“Does this wine make my nose look red?” I asked Satchel.
“Only if you drink it, Vic.”
“Bottoms up, then.”
Everyone, to my knowledge, got home safely and without untoward incident. It was nice to not have to think about anything serious at all.
Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com