(Katia, the almost former Willow bartender. Photo Socotra.)
The office was quiet, with the exception of that Maxim the Russian who is desperate to build his business and who came to talk to me with his eerie pale blue eyes. He looked a little like Vladimir Putin, and I told him I missed the old Soviet Union a little bit.
“They were a great and worth adversary,” I said, buying some time and trying to figure out if I could use his company in the team we have assembled to work the new huge contract that hasn’t been awarded yet. “Not the regime, of course, but the people of the of the Soviet Union were indomitable in adversity.”
The contract is a topic of periodic unease- I mean, I think we are going to win. There is no indication that we won’t win.
“I have Top Secret clearance,” Maxim said. “You can check in JPAS.”
“There is no reason you wouldn’t qualify, if they conducted the background investigation properly” I said. “That war is over. I like Russians.”
Still, talking about plans for the future is a little strange, since the long wait for the award has combined with everything else to make life a little surreal. The Russian eventually beat everything to death, and I assured him I would be happy to have the non-disclosure and Teaming Agreement paperwork sent to him.
He went away after a while, and naturally I thought of Svetlana, the dark-eyed lady who used to handle our subcontracting. She was from Crimea, and left the Soviet Union from Moscow, as Maxim did when the getting was good after the Wall fell. She had a Top Secret clearance as well, which was useful, but I never completely got over her rich smoky accent on the phone talking about contractual nuances with the Agency we support.
I was sad when she left. We need more Russians in the business, at least on our side.
I was thinking about that as I glanced at the clock and saw there wasn’t enough time to start anything else new. The sun is staying up until six, and it seemed like a decent idea to wander over to Willow and see who might be there on a Monday.
Old Jim was there, naturally, anchoring the Amen Corner. I saw lovely Liz-with-an-S and Katia in the back. I remembered her family was from Byelorussia- we could never quite figure out how her grandfather had escaped the Kommissars after doing some hard time in the Gulag, but her family came here not long after the war. Her mother is a big-wig at the Federal Aviation Administration, and she has been hoping to get her life started and get out from behind the bar.
Jim took his earbuds out and carefully wrapped the cord around his little MP3 player. “Good news and bad news,” he said.
“You mean about the Superbowl?” I was disappointed there was no wardrobe failure.”
Liz topped up my glass with an impertinent Chardonnay. “M.I.A. flipped off the camera, though,” she said. “And dropped the S-bomb.”
“I watched it but did not catch anything inappropriate. I thought Madonna was hot,” I said. “I can’t believe how athletic she was.”
(Robert, Willow’s Sous-chef in a rare idle moment. Photo Socotra.)
Robert the sous-chef made an appearance to press the flesh with the regulars. “I thought the Manningham catch on Eli’s second half drive was the most amazing thing I have ever seen,” he said. “Awesome. Purely awesome.”
“Did you know more people watched the half-time show than the game?” asked Jim.” I don’t know how that works. But no, that wasn’t the big news.”
“Was it about the commercials? My favorite was Clint Eastwood and that thing about America starting the Second Half. He could have been Ronald Reagan and morning-in- America.”
“My favorite was the Grandma and the flying baby grabbing the Cheetos from that little jerk in the tree house.”
“What about the post-attack Chevy truck?” said Liz.
“Or the dog that buried the cat,” said Jim. “But no, that isn’t it either.”
“I don’t know why I had the blahs all day,” I said. “I never really got into the day. Except for that Russian guy who came to talk to me.”
“Not surprising,” said Liz brightly. “This is the day of the year that has the most people call in sick. It is going to be a slow night, and we have nineteen people on staff. I am betting they send a bunch of us home. It will be a tomb.”
“I may only have another couple and call it a night myself,” I said. Liz glided away to talk to Deborah the Ops Boss, and the next thing I knew, Katia was sitting next to Jim on the civilian side of the bar in a brilliant crimson dress.”
“Holy socks,” I exclaimed. “Did they send you home?”
She shrugged. “Not enough people to serve tonight. I don’t mind.”
“You look great,” I said. “A Byelorussian lady in a red frock. Life doesn’t get any better.”
Jim took a long pull on his Budweiser. When he was done, he put the bottle back on the bar and said: “That is what I was trying to tell you. The good-news bad news thing?”
“Yeah? So I thought we covered all that.”
“No, you wouldn’t shut up long enough. Katia is leaving. She got her job with the FAA.”
Katia smiled demurely. “I have a contingent offer to go to work with them,” she said. “It is what I have always wanted to do.”
“That is good news,” I said. “But we are going to miss you.”
She smiled. “It only means I get to sit over here, she said.
Jim smiled broadly and ordered her a glass of Happy Hour White. “That is good news indeed,” he said.
(Katia as civilian. Photo Socotra.)
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra
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