(Old Jim from file footage. Photo Socotra)
My day was disrupted badly. It was strange enough a it was. It was a holiday, of sorts, with the Government taking the day off to honor the memory of Presidents Past, lovely brilliant sunshine, though cold.
I was at the office dealing with some cyber issues. With the rising tide of digital attacks, the companies have gotten skittish, and yet we rely on communications and information sharing, since even within one company, no one actually works in the same physical location. Some are working from home, or from Florida (I do envy them the warmth) or just spread across the National Capital Region.
I eschewed my tie, in commemoration of the holiday that wasn’t for most of the private sector, but I was out of sorts. The Korean deli on the first floor of the building was open but did not put out the salad buffet, and I had to settle for a tuna sandwich. Walking over to Willow after work, the doors were locked.
I peered through the glass panel and saw the place was dim and silent. That was weird, I thought, and was turning to walk back to the garage when someone called my name. I turned to see Chanteuse Mary, Old Jim’s lovely bride, walking briskly up the sidewalk.
“Willow is closed,” I said. “I feel disoriented.”
“Well,” she said. “I just finished my work-out and I am looking forward to a glass of wine. Why don’t you just come up the block and have a drink at our place.”
I hesitated, and then surrendered to her offer. “That would be nice Mary. I would like to see Jim again.”
“We haven’t been out much,” she said, shaking her stylishly bobbed hair. “I am so done with this winter thing.”
“Me too,” I said. “I give this thing two weeks and I am finished, whether the climate cooperates or not.”
Their place is literally right up the block from Willow, near where the County sealed off the street with a concrete barrier to “calm” the traffic. Things are now so calm that the pedestrians just walk out into the street without glancing up from their mobile devices. It borders on the unconscious, and why we are conditioning people to be unsafe is beyond me. After all, we have a lot of drivers around here from Maryland, and it is widely known that they are a challenged class of motorists.
That says nothing of the residents of the District, to whom traffic laws are anathema, or the most frightening purveyors of motorized mayhem, foreign diplomats. If you see a car with dip tags, pull over and let ’em do whatever it is they are doing. They have immunity.
We stayed on the sidewalk, and Mary fobbed us in through the lobby of a nice building. They are on the first floor, and just up the corridor from the mail lobby. No concierge, I noted, which makes Big Pink a quaint connection to a more gentile Arlington past.
She keyed the door and I was attacked by an enormous black dog who bared his teeth and barked hysterically at my presence. Old Jim blocked the way and barked right back. “Stop it it, Camus, you idiot.”
Mary ushered the dog back into the sun porch and it willingly climbed into a wire cage big enough to hold a small human. Once the door was latched, he felt comfortable enough to resume barking at me.
“He is a big baby,” said Mary. “He is afraid of you.”
Sure enough, the dog slowly calmed down, and as Mary mixed me a vodka and tonic, I sat down at the table with Jim. He looks much healthier than he did the last time I saw him.
“Have you lost weight?” I asked.
“About thirty pounds,” He growled. I realized I really had missed his irascible presence at the end of the Amen Corner. Quite a turnover in personnel there at Willow. Life goes on, I guess.
Mary brought me the vodka and a now subdued Camus was released from doggy jail. He cautiously sniffed my hand, and I wondered if I would get the same treatment I got from that Rhodesian Ridgeback that took a chunk out of my palm. I gave up on the Doctor Doolittle thing when I realized the dog has hanging from my hand, suspended in the air.
“He really is afraid of his own shadow,” said Mary. Sure enough, Camus had his head on my lap in short order, thoroughly enjoying an ear rub.
“What breed is he?” I asked. I felt his massive wedge-shaped skull, muscular body, sleek black coat with white barrel and enormous paws.
“Mutt,” said Jim. “We think Great Dane, Lab and American bull dog. We had his DNA tested to see, and the lab sent back a report that the majority was miniature poodle.”
“The field still needs some rigor,” I said, stroking Camu’s flank. “This dog is no miniature.” Camus tired of my ministrations and padded off to stand by the door.
Mary sighed and stood up. “I think he needs a quick walk around the block. Back in a few.” She left to put on her down coat against the cold and I took a sip of vodka and got caught up with Jim.
“So what’s new?” I asked. “Besides slimming down?”
“Well, I retired. Those idiots at the Office of Personnel Management wanted to tell me how to teach my writing seminars, and I told them to go screw themselves. Bastards kept my course outlines, but I have them copyrighted and if they use them I can get them on infringement.”
“I always considered taking on the Federal Government as a slow-boat to nowhere,” I said, then asked: “So you are really retired? There is a lot of that going around these days.”
“You mean the effects of Sequestration? It ain’t going to happen all at once. I think it is no big deal.”
“I think these clowns could screw up a wet dream,” I said. “There will be consequences. Look at them- they are all on holiday for another week. By the time they get back, there will be no time to stop the train wreck and there are no serious proposals on the table from anyone.”
“it’s the season for scare talk about the effects of budget cuts,” said Jim, taking a sip of Diet Coke.
“My old boss Jim Clapper is the Director of National Intelligence. He says the impact on America’s spy agencies is ominous.”
“Maybe so, but we have spent a lot of money on your line of work over the past decade. It is still going to be OK. They may allow it to happen for a while, just to demonstrate resolve. But they are not going to furlough the whole Federal work-force.”
“Shoot, I talked to my son and he said at his Agency they still didn’t know what the plan was, and this is supposed to happen on the first of March.”
“It will all be OK,” pronounced Jim. “But it may be colorful in the short run. Maybe you should consider retiring.” I pondered that for a moment.
Mary and Camus returned and she opened a fine bottle or red that came with a story about the winery and the owner. She offered me a sip and I took one. It was delicious. In fact, it was even better than Willow, because the price was right.
We may all have to be minding our P’s and Q’s a little better in the weeks to come. Hell, we could all be retired, you know?
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocota.com