No Such Thing

 

They say there is no such thing as a free lunch, but I am not sure that is true. You know they used to put out a big spread of pickles and salty food “for free,” to encourage the working stiffs to come in and get really thirsty. The additional sales of adult beverages more than made up for the cost of pickles and chips.

They treat us pretty well at Willow, but the working principle is the same. We use the Amen Corner as a sort of auxiliary office. I was pleased that Mac is feeling well enough to get out as the season changes, and I dodged my way across the rush hour traffic on Fairfax Drive just a few minutes late.

Old Jim had his regular seat. John-with-and-H and Jon without were there, along with Jerry the Power Lawyer and Tarek from the office, looking imperially slim. Mac was seated one down with an open stool next to him, which I took with alacrity. “You are late,” he said.

“Sorry, late call at the office. “ I frowned. I had a pen, but forgot my notebook. Mac slid a stack of napkins across the bar with a smile.

‘You are looking good, Sir,” I said. His eyes were clear and his mood was merry. He was wearing a tan sport coat and sand-colored Aloha shirt and a glass of Happy Hour Red was in front of him.

“I feel great,” he replied. “It is good to be out again.”

Down the bar, Old Jim and John-with were working steadily on their Buds and Reds, respectively, and Liz-with-an-S was depositing an iced tea with vodka in front of Jon-without. His bow tie was an assertive power red.

“I wanted to talk about your third career, Mac. How you became a coordinator at Arlington Hospital for the support group.”

Mac took a small sip of wine. “Which one?” he said. “I was involved in several.”

He placed the glass carefully back on the bar. I notice that just having the there and available is as much part of the excitement as actually drinking it.

Liz-S topped up my white wine as she cruised past to re-stock the Bud locker behind the bar.

“Well, I understand that we are not going to deal with my time on the Intelligence Community Staff. Still some issues there. I told you how and when I retired in order to be a caregiver when Billie started to fail. The timing wound up being a net positive, since the Iran Contra affair unfolded quite without me.”

“Right,” I said, the point on my pen ripping a hole in the napkin.

“But Billie was still at home when I was diagnosed with prostate cancer in February of 1990.”

“Holy crap,” I exclaimed. “You have had cancer for twenty years?”

“More than that. We all get it, if we live long enough.” He described the process, and the drugs they prescribed to keep the spread at bay. “But that is how I got involved with the support group. There was a prostate cancer group at Walter Reed- there are three approaches to the disease,” he said, ticking them off on his gnarled fingers. “Surgery, Radiation and hormone therapy. I was in the latter group.”

“Man,” I said. “Those are all pretty hard options.”

“Or not hard, considering the alternatives,” he said with a smile.

“Right,” I said with a grimace.

“I thought Walter Reed was too far to drive, and started going to Georgetown, but the group there was more of a lecture thing than a discussion or support group, and with Billie still at home, I looked around and found a gent from NSA and some other gentlemen in Arlington on the hormone regime. I started a group that met at the house.”

“That must have been a busy time,” I said. “You founded the Naval Intelligence Professionals around the same time.”

“1986,” he said. “You have to stay busy. That is the key to things.”

Katiya the new girl was working as a server this evening, and will replace our buddy Holly who got a promotion at her other job at the Sports Bar down the block.

She slid an order of stuffed mushrooms in front of Mac and almost curtsied. Her dark hair is too short to be pulled back in a ponytail like the other bartenders, and accordingly was wearing a sliver tiara-like band on her head. “Complements of the kitchen,” she said, and moments later, Tracy O’Grady herself came out to work the crowd.

I felt a tap on my shoulder, and Ensign Socotra was there to collect on an obligation. He was wearing a green Spartan pullover and a fresh crew-cut.

“You tracked me down,” I said, reaching for my wallet.

“Not a tremendously difficult intelligence problem,” he said. I smiled and introduced him to the Admiral.

“Mac is more than an award for the top graduate at the Naval Intelligence Basic Course,” I said with a wave. “He is a real man and he is still here.”

Jon-without was walking back from the head and he stopped to touch the fabric of Mac’s jacket. “Nice coat,” he said. “Who is going to get it when you go?”

“Jon, WTF?”

Mac smiled. He is beyond that. “Might not fit,” he said.

“What size?”

Mac positively beamed. “Perfect 42 Regular,” he said. “I have had it for years.”

“That is my size exactly,” said Jon. “I will stay in touch.”

The conversation wandered back over some of Mac’s Navy career, since I wanted my son to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, and Jasper the Guamanian bartender was surprised to find that Mac spent the better part of 1945 on Nimitz Hill on his own island. There was an immediate rapport- though Jasper was quick to point out that he was not a Chamorro, but of Philippine ancestry, which caused us to lurch off into a discussion of the way things were, back in the day in the wild-west Philippine Islands, and some of the other half-forgotten islets of the western Pacific.

“Johnson Atoll is nothing but an airfield,” said Mac. “That is all there is to the place.”

“They built a facility to incinerate chemical weapons there later,” I said. “End of the line for a lot of things.”

Mac nodded. “We stopped there flying with Admiral Nimitz’s staff on the way to Guam. Coming back, we stopped at Kwajalein for fuel and breakfast.”

“How was it?” I asked, and Mac laughed.

“I was headed back to Makalapa Crater and six months as the acting Fleet Intelligence Officer. The war was over, we were all going to live, those of us who were, and Wendy Furness was left at the Combat Intelligence Center up the street with the charter to get rid of all the Japanese captured material, lock up the building, and walk away.”

“Amazing,” I said. “One moment there is one thing going on, then, ‘Poof!’ the whole thing is over.”

Liz-S appeared in front of Mac and asked if she could top up his glass. Mac nodded affirmatively. “Put it on my tab,” I said.

“One other thing,” said Liz-S, topping him up. “I am headed for Maine in the morning, but I wanted to let you know that from now on, you drink for free here at Willow.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Mac.

“Not yet,” she said, her chestnut ponytail swaying.

“What about me?” bellowed Old Jim from down the bar.

“No one is that crazy,’ said Jake, sliding onto an open stool next to Tarek. “But I think we should formalize that commitment.” He produced a pen and began to write on a napkin. When it was done, it looked like this:

“Nov 15, 2011

To Whom It May Concern:
Given this day, under my hand, and on behalf of the establishment, the aforementioned (or not fore mentioned,) Willow, do attest to the fact that for life, RADM “Mac” Showers, USN-Ret, Will drink for free.”

He slid it across to Liz-S along with a dollar bill to serve as consideration and make it a legal contract. She signed gravely, not only tending bar but having been admitted to one in New York and New Jersey.

Mac was positively beaming. “Who said there was no such thing as a free lunch?” I said.

“The hell with lunch,” said Mac. “I will take the wine while I can.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com