(I turned on the flat screen when I got home from Willow. They got the little murdering creep. Image capture courtesy ABD News.)
What a week. I am exhausted, drained, wiped out. Last night brought a sort of closure to a very long day that began with some answers and many more questions.
Too many needles, haystacks, suppositions, rumors and circular reporting. We were all yanked right out of one thing and into another. A horror on Monday was followed by an accident in Texas that killed and injured many more than the attack on the Boston Marathon, but somehow it was easier to accept as an act of God, rather than an act of Man.
I was peevish for all the reasons you probably were. I was ready for the one of the first stories on NPR that always run- you know, the one about the Imam who views his flock as potential victims in Big Bad old America, and we got that one out of the way just like clockwork. We hardly even blink when these things come by anymore, I know I don’t.
It is preposterous that every time some jihadi whack job kills some of us we are told that the real victims are the attacker’s co-religionists. It is OK. I believe all sorts of impossible things before breakfast, but still: It was a horrible no-good, very bad week.
It started with Mac’s interment, lurched into terror bombings, exploded into a massive disaster in Texas, and spun into a wild car-jack shoot out with a mad bomber on the loose, and I could barely peel myself out of the Panzer to attend the Spring meeting of the Naval Intelligence Professionals organization.
It was my second outing of the week with the trusty Canon EOS 50D, the big gun of my cameras that makes me feel like Jimmy Olson, cub reporter for the Daily Planet. And yes, I had a couple glasses of white wine at lunch, which required more coffee when I eventually made it back to my desk to discover the Government is loosening the purse strings and spewing out contract opportunities willy-nilly.
It appears that the earth will continue to spin after all.
I had a long-standing engagement with my former Deputy from the budget staff I used to run. He has stayed with the Government even as I became one of the parasitic legion who pray upon it, and it is always interesting to catch up, particularly now that nothing makes any sense.
I was eying the clock, waiting for the precise moment that I could probably still find curb parking over by the Willow. The phone rang. The Other Russian caught me as I was gathering up the contents of my backpack (yes, I carry one too rather than a briefcase these days) and invited himself to Willow.
I told him two or three times that I had a different meeting planned and did not feel in a particularly jovial mood, but my message wasn’t blunt enough.
I didn’t know what he wanted, or rather, I think he seeks to ingratiate himself to my good graces to enhance his business, and since the Willow Bar serves as my unofficial living room, I could think of nothing I wanted less than the company of a Russian go-getter.
Particularly this week.
Jon-without-an-H, bless him, threw himself under the bus and took charge of the Russian so I could catch up on a variety of arcane budget issues and insider crap no one in their right mind would care about, and then transitioned to discussion of the lyrical skills of pianist Vladimir Horowitz and the activities of the Chorale Arts Society and the Broadway Tribute they are going to do at the Kennedy Center on Mother’s Day.
Due to the luncheon, (yes, I ate the rice and the salmon and slathered the dinner roll with real creamery butter and ate the cheesecake) I could not indulge in the specialty burger of the week that Chris the bartender had commissioned. Tracy has given him a fair amount of autonomy in the menu for the bar and patio, and I applaud his creativity, though I do not eat what is on the menu.
Chris was a Marine, and there was some of the ethos of Midnight Rations- MIDRATS- in his creation, which I encouraged my pal to order. I couldn’t eat it, but I did want to see the double-patty-bacon-egg and cheese with BBQ sauce creation replete with hand-cut Willow Fries.
Eventually, Rafael appeared with Chris’s creation:
I watched my pal envelop the burger with gusto. I guess it was a long week in the budget world, too.
Eventually, our visit was concluded. I had only two glasses of wine- perhaps three, though I was still sober.
Sober enough to take great suspicion at the group of young men in hoodies who loitered in the darkness under the portico next to where my car. They demanded cigarettes as I approached the Panzer, and I realized that my gun was in the go-bag in the trunk. I never seem to have things where I need them.
It worked out though. Maybe my gaze seemed deranged enough to give them pause.
I made it home without further incident or altercation, and I flipped on the flat screen to see what I might have missed while at Willow. The unit was instantly bathed in blue light from a hundred cop cars north of here. I was in the nick of time. The mystery was revealed. The perp had concealed himself in a boat in a backyard; there had been an exchange of fire, and the FBI took over from the locals. They had him.
There was no apparent sense of urgency to the Watertown Ambulance as it rolled away, nor was there any as I gathered up my crap and padded back down the hallway to bed. What a week.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com