Steady Hands, Clear Windows

Miles was back this morning, determined not to let the last day of this bedraggled year slip away without at least a brush of irony and a wave in the rear-view.

It may explain why the entertainment channels that had occupied the big screen at the end of the Conference Room at Socotra House were shut down, replaced by Fox messaging blaring north up the table.

“There’s a thirty-percent chance of light snow in Northern Virginia,” Miles announced, “so my recommendation is to get out and practice keeping the vehicles straight. There’s an electric tricycle demonstration around lunch—if the snow gets plowed—and then some testing of Twenty-Three Toast-Worthy Drinks Perfect for Any New Year’s Eve Party.”

“That sounds like a Liberty Insurance ad,” someone muttered.

“Yeah,” said Splash, scanning a recipe list printed in gold. “We only have to worry about celebrating safely right here.” He laughed. “I vote for something light—maybe a decent white—if we’re supposed to look social and photogenic for seven straight hours.”

“Or eight,” Melissa said. “We can start with one to welcome Grace, my pal from Majestic Event Planning.”

She swept her hand toward the door, where a silver-haired woman stood holding a smart bag large enough to carry tools, smiling above a bright red top trimmed in gold.

“Happy New Year,” Grace said with a slight bow. “Melissa said she needed help covering the entertainment tonight. Arlington’s already handled—and that crowd’s all Gen Z with their own ideas—so I came to help here. Older audience. No cocktails at first? Just a pert white? That works. But after a year like this, there should still be a signature drink.”

There was nodding from those still slurping Flat Yank Hazelnut coffee.

“How about sparkling pomegranate cocktails?” someone offered. “There’s no denying a good cocktail makes any gathering more spirited.”

(Grace’s ten-minute cocktail, guaranteed to impress: Combine four ounces dry vermouth, three tablespoons pomegranate liqueur, one tablespoon pomegranate seeds, and two dashes orange bitters. Shake with ice, strain, top with seltzer. Garnish generously.)
Melissa laughed. “We need steady hands after a year like this. All car keys surrendered at happy hour. Mocktails and the light white will be available.”

She gestured toward the floor-to-ceiling east windows, where shreds of blue were chased by high gray cirrus clouds. Sky and screen collided in motion.

“Otherwise,” she said, “how are we supposed to keep the windows clear?”

The conversation drifted—as it has—toward what comes next.

“One thing is clear,” someone said. “We’ve got a big choice coming up. And we ought to be able to see the mountain of fraud that’s apparently penetrated every institution in the country.”

“Or rental assistance for people buried in cemeteries.”

Laughter. Gallows-style.

“Elon Musk says the national fraud could top a trillion dollars a year,” someone added. “That’s more than a thousand billion being shoveled into empty storefronts and shell nonprofits. Every color of state.”

“So what’s coming?” Splash asked. “We need a steady hand on the wheel.”

“The Post says the District’s flirting with recession. Federal cutbacks.”

“What about the Big Beautiful Bill?”

Miles raised both hands. “All of that, yes. But here’s something else. The new NASA Administrator—Jared Isaacman—used his confirmation remarks to outline plans for a permanent moon base.”

Silence. Then grins.

“What does that have to do with our New Year in the District?” Holly asked, topping off her coffee.

Miles laughed. “I think he knows exactly who he’d like to send to stand it up. Best and brightest. Where they keep telling us we belong.”

General laughter. Somewhere, a cork popped—purely to assist with lunar exploration.

(Photo: Socotra)