Vic Socotra

11 June 2008

Absolutely

I got back from Cap City Brewery just in time for the first peal of thunder last night. I came around the corner from the elevators and looked cautiously down the corridor. My vigilance naturally has been heightened since the skirmishing began with the idiot who lives on the seventh floor.

I have no physical proof that it was him, or his idiot buddies, who squirted dishwater soap on the carpet outside my front door. It is a little thing, I know, a fraternity prank. But I am not pledging any Houses this year except my own, and besides, I do not take well to juvenile intimidation.

My heart skipped a beat as I peered down the corridor. Something was hanging on the door-knob. I approached my door, thinking about boiled bunny rabbits or bags of flaming dog poop. My trepidation faded and spirits rose as I saw that the object on the door was lovely gift bag, pregnant with spirits of its own.

I stopped for a moment to consider the bag for a moment, thinking it was much better than a summons from the Ex taped to the door, or some other object of domestic aggression. I lifted the bag from the knob cautiously, but it seemed thoughtful and benign.

I inserted the key in the lock just as a bang of thunder echoed off the pink brick on the outside of the building. I flicked the key decisively and entered the unit. I placed the gift bag on the counter in the kitchen, noting that a bottle of Absolute vodka and card was nestled within. It was from Mary Margaret, one of the very nicest of the Pool People.

It was damned thoughtful, I thought, as I flew to the bedroom, bow tie, security badges and shoes flying in all directions. I jumped two-legged into my baggy swimsuit and sped back to pry the broken back door open to the balcony. Far below, James-the-Czech was clearing pool deck, battening down the hatches against the coming storm.

“James!” I cried “One dip! Please! I won’t hang you up!”

He looked around, suspicious at the sound of the American voice from nowhere. Then he realized my voice was booming down from above him in the leafy heaven. He looked up and shrugged, saying something in Czech. I did not have time to wonder what it was, as I grabbed my keys and a towel and flew down the staircase to ground level.

I padded swiftly through the gate, no time to sign in, throwing my towel-shirt-glasses-flip-flops on the deck and hurled myself into the deep end just as the first bolts were starting to light up Fairfax County. I popped out the pool again after just a minute of frantic paddling. I have no interest in being par-boiled, but it had been a hundred degrees all day and I craved the tepid shock of the water to the system.

James peddled away on his bicycle, hoping to beat the worst of the storm, and after I toweled off I drifted back upstairs. I watched the front come in from the balcony. Each time the lighting struck, I flinched. The power flickered four times, once dying altogether. I felt the silence cloak me like an oppressive blanket, and then, miraculously, the fan on the air conditioner began to hum again.

It was a near thing. The lights stayed on as the thunder roared, and I thought that I might as well use the refrigerator while it was still working. I discovered to my growing horror that the ice-maker had the little "no mas" lever flipped to the off position from the failure follies of last week.

The deep white ice bin was empty!

Power flickering, no ice. It was a crisis in the making and the tension in the unit was so thick you could cut it with a knife.

I picked up a knife, and deftly sliced the plastic seal around the squat powerful bottle of clear liquid. I poured a short warm Absolute vodka with a splash of tepid tonic in a short glass with the logo of an agency I used to work for etched on the side.

I looked through the glass and through it, through the window. With all that electricity flashing, there was no point in activating the computer or the theater complex, so I camped out with minimal lighting and enjoyed the fact that the fan to the air conditioner was humming with life, and that it stayed on as the big thunder-bumpers passed over and headed east through the District.

I savored the power of the warm Swedish beverage. The sky continued to flicker in rage as the booming from the heavens diminished.

I sat down and watched the gathering darkness. One year ago, I the birthday came huddled in a seat on a jetliner arcing toward Australia over the South Pacific. What with the dateline, I think I missed it altogether. In the darkness, on the islands far below, trees and vines have grown up through the wreckage of a war not forgotten.

I sipped the Absolute and thought about it. Did missing it mean that the year did not count? Suppose I had flown back from Canberra against the rotation of the earth. Could I actually be younger?

Whether it counted or not, it had been a hell of a year since. Maybe it is time to take stock and figure out what to do with the last, best part of life.

Or not. This was a lot better, cooler with the air conditioning running, even if there was no ice. Absolutely.

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