(Willow warm Guerierre Cheese Puffs. Photo Socotra.)

“You would have to blame Bush, you know?” I looked with envy at the warm Guerrierre cheese puffs pastries on the Willow Bar. Old Jim, his brother-in-law Nick and his long-suffering bride Mary were seated up the mahogany from me, and making a dinner off the $5 neighborhood bar menu.

“You can’t go far wrong in doing that,” growled Jim. “That idiot drove the country to ruin with his ‘discretionary’ wars and deregulation.”

“No, I mean the buses,” I said. “They are staggering.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Mary.

“The President’s campaign trip on the buses,” I said. He took Air Force One up to St. Paul and then got on a bus caravan to listen to the American People or something.”

“Well, that is a good thing, don’t you think? He has been stuck here in town with all that budget nonsense.”

“Did he actually cancel his vacation on Martha’s Vineyard?” asked Nick. “There was some controversy about his going.”

“No,” I said. “There was an announcement that he was not going to call Congress back to session and that after three days on the buses he is still going to the Vineyard to rest up.”
I took a sip of Happy Hour white, crisp and gratifying to the palate after a long day of proposal writing. “It leads one to think that Mr. Obama is a little tone-deaf.”

“A little?” said Big Jim, walking by to survey the state of our drinks. He freshened my glass and topped up Mary’s champagne. “Like Michele’s African trip. I heard that cost a million bucks. Shaaah.”

“Probably close,” I said. “Air Force Two, a chase plane, entourage, Secret Service and all that. Easy a million, if not more.”

“Well, at least the kids got a chance to go on a safari with their mom, Grandma and two of their cousins. What an opportunity for them to see the animals and promote health and wellness in Southern Africa.”

“They got to meet Nelson Mandella, too,” I said. “I figure it is a chance of a lifetime when someone else is picking up the tab. Like the bus trip.”

“Buses are a tradition in politics. Remember John McCain’s bus?” said my pal the Flight Quack, stepping up the bar.  “Hey, Doc, how are ya?”

“Not so good, but that is why I wanted to talk to you, Vic. But as to the buses, these are something really special. They are no ordinary vehicles.”

(2009 Armored Cadillac. Photo US Secret Service.)

“How come they are not using The Beast, that armored Caddy they fly around with him? The Press could go by Greyhound.”

“Not the way he likes to do it, and the Secret Service insisted. Bush bought The Beast, by the way.”

“It is sort of an entitlement program for the Chief Executives. Makes it easier for the Service to protect him.”

“Yeah, but it is tone deaf. I mean, the country is falling apart and the President rolls up in a Mad Max machine doing a campaign trip on the taxpayers nickel.”

“What do you mean?” asked the Doc, ordering a Shastafarian Imperial Porter, which arrived in that short pot-bellied glass that showed off the rich color.

(The new Presidential armored bus in Saint Paul. Photo AP.)

“They just got two of the most far-out buses ever made. They are bulletproof, chemical resistant, fully wired for secure comms, highly secure and high tech throughout. Solid black, ominous. No logos of hope or anything. The Presidential motorcade with chase cars, ambulance and all the rest of the circus is just going to roll up to small town America and listen to what people think.”

“I know what I think,” responded the Doc.

“It gets better,” I said, and took a sip of wine. “The Secret Service won’t comment on exactly what has been done beyond the armor and the black tinted windows and the run-flat tires. They certainly won’t comment on the mileage, not that it is a factor in security for the most important man in the world.”

“Well so what?”

“They are Prevost buses, the leading brand in North America. They are built in freaking Quebec.”

The Doc frowned. “In this economy?”

“Blame it on Bush,” said Old Jim. “It has worked so far. And wasn’t your police car built in Windsor? I heard all the Crown Vic P-71s were imported.”

“True,” I said. “But I paid for mine.”

Copyright 2011 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com