Vic Socotra

21 January 2009

Risk Takers

(The Former President, Departing- AP Photo)

I was going to do the right thing, or at least the thing with the least risk. I was going to curl up like a hedgehog, like the Washington Cave-Dwellers of old, and pretend that two million people were not streaming into the city on bus and bicycle, on foot and Metro. The safe thing to do was hunker down in Big Pink and watch the thing on television in the comfort of my easy chair.

The bridges into the city from Virginia had been closed long before dawn. There was never a question about participating in any meaningful way. My Boss got tickets to a private reception at one of the Restaurants along Pennsylvania Avenue for Bush 43’s second parade, and we thought we would take a chance on going. There was supposed to be an open bar and free food.

What with the new security procedures and metal detectors, we could not get anywhere near the place, though we stood for hours in a crush of people, mystified at what they could, or could not, carry.

And that was for a guy that people don’t seem to like very much. This was going to be a gazillion times more crowded, and physical presence would have required a snowmobile suit and a night on the mall.

Besides, the kill-joys in the company insisted that this was a working day, and even if we could “work from home” on the internet, it meant we were supposed to be tethered to our computers. I could just imagine the thrill of trying to work the Blackberry’s tiny keys through my mittens. But still, the sky was coming up blue and bright. My toes began to tap as I poked at the keys.

Traffic on the internet was almost as light as that on Route 50. Around nine-thirty, reports began to come on the radio that Metro, the reliable life-line in and out of town, was having huge problems.

Someone fell onto the tracks at the Gallery Place station on the Red Line, and only barely avoided being crushed. Apparently the 68-year old woman was too close to the edge, on the wrong side of the little dimples on the paving that are supposed to warn you that you are too close. Other passengers could not manage to get her back up, and with a packed train arriving, helped her squeeze under the lip of the platform.

Metro officials were able to resume normal service after about 45 minutes, but if you consider the number of trains and riders, the crush was unbelievable. Apparently the Gallery Place Station Manager felt obligated to make an announcement admonishing people not to panic- which naturally served only to prompt the opposite.

What did work was changing the message to the chant of “O-Bam-A,” which kept the people upbeat despite the claustrophobic atmosphere.

I wasn’t going to take a risk on that, but I realized that my best intentions to the contrary, I needed to do something. There could be nothing more historic than these few hours, and completely unprepared, I had to figure out what it might be.

I thought it through. The best vantage of the Imperial City that I have found is from the front porch at Arlington House, the stately mansion that once belonged to the wife of General Robert E. Lee. The property was confiscated by the Feds early in the War Between the States, and who began to bury the Union dead in the vegetable garden.

It was a foolproof plan, and highly symbolic. I could drive onto the ground of Ft. Myer, which surrounds the national cemetery like fat on a kidney, and walk onto the grounds, approaching the mansion from the rear.
Perfect. Shortly before ten, I assembled camera, binoculars, cell phone, Blackberry and a fresh pack of smokes, a backpack, gloves, knit hat, muffler and slid into the replica of my old letter jacket.

The numerals of my graduation year from high school are on the white leather of the left sleeve. “69,” the year after Doctor King was shot down, and there was such discord in the land. I cleaned up what I could in the place and walked down the stair to the garage and fired up the Hubrismobile.

There was no traffic on Route 50 as I motored over to the Fort. Approaching the gate, I saw a big illuminated sign that announced the post was on lock-down, only official traffic permitted. I did not have time to construct a proper lie, and politely turned around after a moment with the contract gate guard. There is no percentage in messing with a National Special Security Event, and there was a report on the radio that those missing Somali kids from Minnesota might be up to something to disrupt the ceremony.

I circled the cemetery, outside the security fence, thinking I could use the pedestrian entrance down by Route 110 and walk up the hill. It appeared the cemetery was closed, to close the high ground, and there was no place to park anyway. A motorcycle cop was waving people off, from where we had stopped along the side of the road adjoining the part of the cemetery that had once been a Freedman’s village. People streamed by on foot, headed for the Memorial Bridge. They appeared to be mostly people of color, pushing strollers and helping older folks.

I could not get onto GW Parkway to try the front gate of the cemetery, and so found myself looking for the high grounds that are not controlled. I passed the Pentagon’s vast bulk and got off on Columbia Pike. The bizarre stainless steel prongs of the Air Force Memorial beckoned up the hill, and I saw there was a new parking lot cut into the brow of the monument. It was posted for official vehicles only, but I decided this was as good as it was going to get, and I would stay with the car, looking down on the Pentagon from about the same vantage as the hi-jackers of American Airlines Flight 77 would have had.

There was a nice view of the capitol dome over the Pentagon. I put the top down, feeling the warmth of the sun battle the chill breeze. I turned up the radio to the live coverage, and energized the heated seats. I sat there looking at the scene, a commanding view of the Lincoln Memorial, the Washington Monument. Below them was a dark line that represented the citizens of the Republic. State Patrol cars whizzed by every few minutes, grimly headed up and down the hill. The paid me no mind.

I was mesmerized by the work-up to the ceremony, and noted the last minutes of the Bush Presidency click off on the efficient dial of the German clock on the dash. He became the former Commander in Chief during Yo Yo Ma’s interpretation of the John Williams arrangement of “Air and Simple Gifts.”

I grinned at the bobble of the oath of office, as interpreted by the Chief Justice and the new President, and the boom of the 21-gun salute echoed off the hill behind me. It is understandable. They are both young men, and one of them was eager to get on with things.
I suppose there was the risk of hypothermia- at one point a guard from the Air Force Memorial approached the car to see if I was incapacitated with the top down. I assured him that I was just fine, and only needed to see the helicopter rise from the east front of the Capitol to know it was really over, and really begun.

I was looking at the sea of white tombstones in Arlington that rolls down the slope when the new President got to the line in his acceptance speech, talking about “the risk-takers, the doers, the makers of things — some celebrated but more often men and women obscure in their labor, who have carried us up the long, rugged path towards prosperity and freedom… For us, they fought and died, in places like Concord and Gettysburg; Normandy and Khe Sanh.”

I got chills that had nothing whatsoever to do with the cold.
He was brisk, optimistic and stern by turns. I enjoyed the speech, and could not have imagined a better place to hear it. He concluded by asking the blessing of God on us all, and though I am a man of little faith, I had to agree with him.

The last official note was from Joseph Lowery, who had been pastor of the Warren Street United Methodist Church, in Mobile, Alabama, and who helped lead the Montgomery bus boycott.

He is 87 now, and naturally the issue of race in this country is what defines his life. He took plenty of risks- unimaginable, really. The State Alabama had once seized his home over the matter. When he concluded his remarks with words that would get any of us fired from our jobs, I suppose he is entitled to it.

I waited for another twenty minutes in the cold, shivering until I saw the former President's helicopter briefly rise above the white dome, briefly highlighted against the dark shape of the goddess of Liberty who surmounts it. The copter circled and briskly headed for Andrews AFB, and when I was sure he was really gone, I put up the top and motored home.

When I got there, I fixed a couple grilled cheese sandwiches- provolone, thin-sliced tomato, onion and dill pickles- and heated a can of chicken soup. I tried to eat myself warm. I succeeded to the extent that by the time I killed the e-mail that had piled up while I had been gone, I needed to take a nap in the warm square of sunlight that marches across my bed in the afternoon.

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