By the time I finally got there, the gang at the Amen corner had already built up a pretty good head of steam.
Sabrina got a new haircut and highlights and looked sharp. Old Jim was in his usual seat. Satchel was attempting- apparently successfully- to envelope one of the enormous corned beef sandwiches the kitchen will dispense from the left-overs of the big Irish feast last weekend.
John-with-an-H asked me if I had done my brackets yet. “I sent them to your Socotra account,” he said.
“I don’t check that very often,” I said. “Things have been too hysterical to worry about round ball yet. I only woke up to the tournament after they got rid of the one-and-done round last year. I have not thought about it.”
“Well, you snooze you lose,” he said primly and took a swallow of the Willow Happy Hour red. Old Jim was working up to his first beer of the day, pacing himself with a neutral Diet Coke until the time was right. I like his new approach. It is measured and reasonable. But he was more irascible than usual.
Me? I was a little pre-occupied. It had been a long and inconclusive day. There is nothing going on with my Government customer, and that is driving the town a little batty. We are having more meetings about less and less at the moment. You can feel the anxiety rising among those who feed at the government trough.
I went to the Commissary at lunch to stock up on vegetables, furniture polish and light bulbs at lunchtime and ran into Mr. Sluggo’s wife Lil’ Debbie. I had not seen her in years, and we exchanged pleasantries with genuine pleasure. Then the Sequestration issue intruded, as it does with everything here.
“You know they are going to close the Commissary,” she said.
I nodded solemnly, not surprised. “I wondered when that was gong to happen,’ I said. “Every time there is a budget crisis, the Department of Defense decides they are going to get out of the grocery business. Bummer.”
“They are going to cut two days out of the schedule,” said Lil’ Debbie. “I’m sure they will do it on the weekends, the only time people have to do errands.”
“Bastards,” I said. “They have us bracketed. They had better not cut the hours on the Class Six Store. Losing the liquor outlet at the Navy Annex was bad enough. Imagine if we had to shop at an actual Virginia ABC store.” We both shuddered.
“How is Mr. Sluggo doing? Is his job OK?”
Lil’ Debbie shrugged. “He turns seventy this year. Can you believe it? Everyone is worried about their jobs. No one knows what is going to happen if the music stops and there is no chair to sit on.”
“It is not “if,”” I said. “But I suppose it is about time the Beltway got a taste of what has been happening everywhere else since 2008. But it still sucks.”
“Yes it does. Don’t be a stranger, Vic. It has been too long.”
“Roger that. Let’s catch up soon.” She strode off toward her car in the lot and I grabbed a cart to stock up on things that have a long shelf-life.
I found the jar of Vitamin E that I needed and scooped up some shredded broccoli to make a slaw recipe I found vaguely attractive. I was eyeing some Vidalia onions when the cell phone went off in my sport jacket pocket. I pulled it out and did not recognize the number. I punched it and held the phone up to my ear.
“It is OK,” said a voice I knew.
“What is?” I asked, suspiciously.
“I am in a Cabella’s in Kansas City.” I thought about the mega sporting goods store, imaging wandering around in a wilderness of camouflage and high explosive.
“Kansas, or the other one?” I asked.
“The real one. There is plenty of ammunition and lots of guns. The run on gun shops isn’t happening here.” Then he described what was on the shelves as he walked around, rattling off a litany of calibers and types. “Plenty of big magazines, too.”
“Maybe the panic is only happening in states where people are worried about the loonies in the legislature.”
“Well, apparently they aren’t loony here.”
“I gotta go,” I said. “I have to talk to a man about an onion.”
“No accounting for taste,” said my pal, and he broke the connection and vanished into Kansas. Increasingly, I find myself quoting Dorothy about that. I don’t think we are home anymore.
They seem to have everything pretty well bracketed.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.comRenee Lasche Colorado springs