I had a pensive session with Old Jim on Tuesday; the news from the Navy Yard had made me lachrymose. We established a theme for our meeting on Wednesday, which was supposed to be about the current fiscal reality and concepts on how we can cobble together some sort of reliable income stream.
Jim figures a thousand more a month would put him in comfortable retirement and keep him in long-necked Bud. Instead, it was Old Home Week, but I was determined to try to wrest order out of chaos before I knew what it really was going to be.
“I have to get my fiscal house in order,” I said. “I gave myself a year to get that sorted out, and I guess the clock is running.”
“That might start with Willow. It is a sobering realization,” said Jim. “Much as I enjoy Willow’s ability to make me the opposite.”
I am going to take a pass on the big issues of the day this evening,” I said. “I am in crisis overload. Debt limit, government shut down, Syria, Sequestration. I think we know where this is all going.”
“Yeah, Mr. Bernanke’s determined to keep printing money, and the violence that took a dozen innocent lives on the ground of our own Navy Yard on Monday is going to happen again.”
“Enough, you know?” I turned to Old Jim and said “Mental health is the base issue in all of these things.”
He nodded and took a pull on his Bud Long Neck. “So you are saying we need more mental health surveillance to prevent these horrors.”
“Yeah. The shooter should have been identified to the authorities, and he never should have been able to get that shotgun, and have access to a government office complex.”
“I completely agree,” growled Jim. “But you see the problem. Then who gets to report whom, and who sets the standards for what is normal and what isn’t?”
“Cass Sunstein,” growled Jim. “He is the guy who wants to Nudge us into good behavior orchestrated by the government. He is married to the US Ambassador to the United Nations, Stephanie Powers. Very progressive thinker with a lot of bad ideas.”
“You mean Samantha Powers. The other one is better looking. Think what those assholes are going to know about us,” I muttered darkly. “All our credit card transactions monitored by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau and all our credit card information, the Affordable Care Database of all our health records, the NSA portfolio of who we talk to, and all of it administered by the IRS.”
“Crap. We are hosed,” sighed Jim.
“Duh,” said Big Jim.
“Did you see who is down the bar?”
“The lady with the blunt haircut and the nice figure?”
“The very one. She used to bartend here.”
“I remember her. What was her name? I can always remember a face, but the names? Not so much, anymore.”
Big Jim was back in battery behind the bar, since Tex is on some motorcycle trip. “Easy Rider meets Brokeback Mountain,” he said.
“Yike,” I said, looking apprehensively at the level of Happy Hour White in the tulip glass in front of me.
Old Jim leaned it and asked “What is that gal’s name?”
“Nina,” said Big Jim, polishing a highball glass. Old Jim picked up on it immediately, and called out to her. That is when the trouble began.
“Yo! Nina! Remember us?”
“You remembered my name,” she said brightly. “You were some of my best customers.”
“Of course I remembered,” said Jim modestly. “You are unforgettable.”
Nina introduced her companion, a nice young man with a shaven head named James. “We are down at A-Town now.”
“Where the hell is that?”
“A block from the Ballston Metro stop. Actually next to the International House of Pancakes.”
I pondered that for a minute, not placing it. “You mean where that Cuban restaurant was?”
“Bingo,” said James. “You wouldn’t like it. It is all 20-something kids and we are deaf from the noise by the time our shifts are done.”
“That seems like every place on Fairfax Drive these days.”
“It is hell getting old,” said Jim.
“Yeah, but consider the alternative.”
Brenna came by to top up my glass, Jim got another Bud and we started to talk about food, life and all that other stuff.
Robert the Sous Chef sent out a couple halibut sliders for Jim, with a side of the bacon-wrapped crackers. Jim has been complaining about the absence of the delicious fish treat since the menu changed, but Nina and James were taking a busman’s holiday and going the whole hog on tapas.
Big Jim explained it all as Old Jim tucked into his sliders and bacon crackers.
Nina concentrated on her mignon cabob, Willow Fritters and Executive Tater Tots. James smeared the bacon spread on some of Kate Jansen’s home-made sourdough bread.
I looked on in awe. I have resolved to not spend money on restaurant food for the duration of my current fiscal emergency, not having Mr. Bernanke’s ability to simply print more.
“What are you drinking?” bellowed Old Jim down the bar.
“Something cute,” said Nina, and then modeled it for us.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
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