Vic Socotra

20 July 2009

The Last Supper

(A last supper)

Jiggs was a sailor, first and foremost, and it is impressive to see what he has managed to achieve on his patio, a proud island of lush vegetation at the west oend of Big Pink, fronting the access road and the whiz of Route 50 beyond.

He was on minesweepers, back in the day, the sturdy wooden-hulled ships that had a low magnetic signature and were intended to harvest deadly explosives in advance of the big steel boats. The South China Sea off Vietnam was the operating area for his first deployment out of the Academy, and the ship was small.

It gave a level of authority to the members of the small wardroom you would never see on a tin can, much less a cruiser or a birdfarm.

It might have been his second tour on the 6th Fleet Flagship that convinced him to get out. The Flagship was the sort of place where a stick-up-his-butt OOD would have a sailor frantically mopping down the scuppers in the rain to ensure that visiting dignitaries were not given the impression that the mighty ship got wet, the heavens notwithstanding.

It could have been a woman, too, or a combination or the two. But as events turned out, it was only the separations that keep a lot of Navy families together.

Coming from a combat zone on a small ship, I can imagine how he felt. I normally reported aboard an aircraft carrier in cheery anonymity, and once I dumped my bags and found my rack in the airwing ghetto, asked for directions to the dirty shirt after a nap and what the movie was that night.

Anyway, we were talking about stuff like that at The Last Supper, which did not have a religious context but a certain amount of poignancy. Jiggs has been at Big Pink for more than a decade, and he is part of the smooth tough guys of the International Ornamental Concrete Workers. At one point there were seven or eight of them in the building, and were a vital social element when the area was still reeling from the after-effects of the oil shock, or whatever it was that put the Buckingham neighborhood back on its run-down heels.

If you analyzed the strata of Big Pink like a geologist, you would see an original layer of residents who were here when the building went Condo in 1980. That was the time of the great schism, when our sister building at Hyde Park went no-dog and snooty, and we took another path. Now we have all the crazy dogs, and they have none.

Most of those veteran residents have died off by now, like Old Jack and Pat who were here one moment and gone the next. Over time, they have been replaced by people like me and Chaz, victims of mid-life turmoil and a much younger set of transient kids who can abide the tiny efficiencies that come up for rent.
Coach, for example, came home as we were just getting rolling on cocktails. She finally bought her place after renting for years. She was on a recruiting trip and is aspiring to an Assistant AD position at the university. He partner was on the pro tennis circuit, and they are a fabulous couple. Once Coach bought he place next door, Jiggs did his First Lieutenant thing, and has routed electricity and water lines along his patio on the first floor to hers, and down the line to the three bedroom that John and Mary Doe have on the end.

He kicked in some free-standing lights along the stood to greet coach when she comes home. The water has enabled the three adjoining units to flower like a jungle, unlike the rest of the perimeter, where the shrubs get a little ratty in the height of the season.

The Does even ripped up some of the concrete deck to put in big elephant-leaved perennials, so it is lush living on the west end of the building.

We were seated under Jigg’s umbrella at his table, the dinner was significant. Mrs. Hitler is getting better, and in the process of battling her illness, is a shadow of her former self. She looks great. Jiggs is about to go the same direction, and is having surgery next month to change his life. So this was, in a manner, the Last Supper he was gong to cook with rich marbled steaks on his electric grill that is wired into the external electrical system he has jury-rigged to support his flowered quarterdeck.

That is probably why he take the habits of those who live in the seven units above him so personally.

There are the pensive smokers, who gaze out at Route 50, and hurl their butts out into space. The energetic cleaners, who sweep their balconies and blow the detritus into space. The odd beer can and glass, which from above appear to disappear into the silence of space.

Gravity wins, though, and it all winds up on the Quarterdeck, and that is enough to enrge a squared-away old sailor.

We were just finishing the steaks when we heard he gentle thud of Jeremy’s garden hit the umbrella, and slide down onto the concrete.

I looked out from underneath the canopy, peering up at the seven balconies the march up the flank of the building.

Jiggs went to general quarters, and Mrs. Hitler is never at a loss for dramatic response.

I saw Jeremy’s face peer briefly over the balcony, his mouth a dark cheerio of horror.

I took my leave as Jiggs opened up a spirited dialogue with the sky, augmented by Mrs. Hitler’s keen insights about ancestry and manners.

There was no way at the time to know that it was Chaz, the father of Sweet Jane, who was at the bottom of the outrage, and he lives on the other side of the building, high over the pool and could go home without consequence. Chad, Jeremy’s partner, was appalled, but of course very supportive.

It was an assault on Jeremy’s bedraggled balcony garden, and he actually was another victim of Chaz’s prank, but gravity always wins.

I’m sure we will be hearing more about it this week by the pool, and that is just part of what makes the high season so interesting at Big Pink.

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