(L-R, Barrister Jerry, CAPT Erika and the Master Chief drinking craft beer at the Willow on Friday night. Jon-without is leaning back. John-with has already gone to take a little lie-down. Photo Socotra).
It had been raining for two solid days when I rolled into Willow yesterday. “What is the point?” I asked the Master Chief. “The Corrupt versus the Stupid are still on the barricades arguing, and whatever solution they cobble together will doubtless kick the famous can down the road to be done- again and again- until the whole mess collapses of its own ponderous weight.”
“Whoa,” he said, taking a sip of Longboard craft ale. “Slow down shipmate. Take some wine onboard and stabilize the ship.”
The ISCM likes to come out to Willow on a Friday, and the ceaseless rain of the last two days made the welcoming lights at the Amen Corner that much warmer. I shrugged off my rain jacket and slung it over the back of the stool and sat down. Wiry little Jasper slid a modest Happy Hour white in front of me and vanished, Ninja-like in his black bartender’s uniform.
I surveyed the crowd. Old Jim was in his customary place to my left, and beyond him was John-with, who had a greater head of steam on the afternoon than usual. He was incensed by the politics of the moment. As a former GOP appointee who had burrowed into the Foggy Bottom Bureaucracy, he has been dyspeptic for nearly five years.
I felt vaguely sympathetic. I served under Jimmy Carter, Ronnie Reagan, Both Bushes and the Clintons. It was always a jolt when things change and we were directed to embrace impossible things by the new Smart Things who arrived in town to re-make it in their own image only to find the exact opposite is what happens.
The Government is populated by stolid careerists and sedimentary layers of former appointees who came to Washington infused with fervent belief, and exchange ideology for a General Schedule paycheck when the Administration changes. Parts of the Executive Branch are thus is nearly open mutiny at any given time, as the remnants of the Old Regimes are marginalized while still on the job. The shut-down has given John-with more time to contemplate the folly, and while alcohol is not the answer, it certainly is one of them.
The usual Friday suspects were strewn down the bar: Barrister Jerry, Jon-without, a woman I did not know who turned out to be a Navy Captain, still on active duty, and who had served with the Master Chief in the Bosnia adventure. He thought she might enjoy Willow’s merry band of itinerant blowhards and mountebanks, and she was a good enough sport to come out.
“It is my first tour in Washington,” she said. “It was a long run, but all good things come to an end.”
The Master Chief nodded, and got up to hit the head. “You guys got the scrambled eggs,” he said, “But I got two stars.” He hiked up his trousers and strolled off with a sailor’s rolling gait down the bar towards the men’s room, which is not in the same zip code as the rest of the restaurant.
“Yeah,” I said to his retreating back, “But they are small ones.” The joke was lost on the civilians- a Master Chief’s anchor of rank includes two small gold stars- but it was OK.
“Would you guys knock off the Service chit-chat?” growled Jim. “It is irritating.” Jasper appeared out of nowhere with two Bud long-necks to replenish the depleted stock in the bucket in front of him and he gave a grudging smile. The new system is working out well, except that it means more trips to the distant head, which is problematic.
Deborah was behind the bar, checking the kegs attached to the new draft beer taps, looking quite official since Tex is in New York for a wedding or something. “Can I still make a reservation for the Flying Dog Dinner next Thursday?” called out. She peered over the top of her dark-framed glasses and pursed her lips. “Sorry, we just filled all the reservations.”
“Crap, I was on the fence about it, since I don’t drink much beer these days. But the food sounded fabulous.”
“Flying Dog is good beer for good people,” said Deborah primly. “And I will make sure that we make a place for you.”
“Thanks, Deborah,” I said with relief.
“She doesn’t mean you are a good person,” said Jim gruffly.
“Point taken. If she can add two, would you consider doing it?”
“I hate oysters, and I won’t tell you what I think they look like.”
I screwed up my face trying to remember what had been on the flyer and saw one on the bar next to the thick leather binder with the wine list. I snagged it and read it aloud:
“Oysters Rockefeller: Rappahannock River’s Finest, lightly dusted with Seasoned Cornmeal, Fried Golden Brown & Served with a Bed of Creamed Spinach topped with Béarnaise Sauce and paired with an eight oz. glass of Pearl Necklace Stout.”
Jim frowned. “I still think they look like snot or something worse.”
“Jim, they are breaded, for God’s sake. They aren’t runny at all.”
“I say they are snot, and I say the hell with them.”
The naval service section of the bar went back to comparing and contrasting duty stations and the wars of the last thirty years, focusing on the ones that had the best liberty. CAPT Erika had one of the better stories, about losing her passport or something and being declared a German national because of the “k” in her name.
“If you come back,” declared the Master Chief, “You may find out you have been assigned the call-sign ‘Erica-with-a-K.”
“I have my own call sign,” she said, enigmatically, and ordered another craft beer.
Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
Twitter: @jayare303