Vic Socotra

20 August 2008

In the Night

What was the curious thing that the dog did in the night? I was doing pretty good, I swear. I got to bed on time, all the e-mail was cleared off and I had a reasonable idea of what I had to do this morning.

We were still reeling from the news that Mardy Two had de-camped. The only thing left in her unit was a cleaning woman from Guatemala, and a heavy black plastic bag that Ameri the Ethiopian handed me at the Big PInk concierge desk when I trudged up from the garage at the end of the day to ask about the mail.

How could she have done it? I know it would have been emotional, tears no doubt, but what will life be like without Molly the King Charles Spaniel looking out hopefully under the rail on her balcony, and the cheerful greeting that wrapped around both ends of the stupid Washington days?

"She is gone," he said. "Moved out today."

I was stunned. The curious thing the dog had done in the night was nothing. No barking. It should have been a clue.

Amari gave me his Number 3 passive look. Inside the plastic bag was a brown paper wrapper that clung suggestively to the smooth sexy flanks of a bottle of Absolute Vodka, the original, no flavors, and in the 1.75ml size that makes the week go by smoothly. The heft was balanced by the helpful grip-grooves molded into the clear glass. There was no card, though the message was clear.

I don't know what we are going to do without her, honest to God. If it were not for the people, this building would be just another pile of concrete boxes piled willy-nilly atop one an other.

There were frantic sports and a lot of Chinese on the tube, when the time came around for that. Cardio in the pool was not the same, though Jiggs and Sarah One and the new Ukrainian were all there. The darkness of Mardy Two's windows were like a vacuum sucking in the past.

Remember when the rock was hurled through her window? Remember the detective story that followed, with forensics on the trajectory and where the vandal must have been on the tree?

Remember when the realization came that she could see everything that was going on in my little poolside unit, when times were so grim?

I hope she is OK. I slid into bed, wishing she had not left in the night, like the Browns leaving Cleveland.

But then again, that may be the way I elect to go. It has a certain sense.

The radio came on and started talking about the failed Administration policy of personal commitment to plucky little dictator Pervez Musharraf resigning ahead of impeachment- oh, right he is not a dictator any more- and I suddenly found myself arriving in India.

It was quite remarkable. I had the Hubrismobile under me, driving through crowded streets, chickens and push-cart vendors determined in front of me. I had to park the car, I think in a gravel lot somewhere, and successfully met the rest of the delegat ion. It was a reprise of the last time I was there, people to talk to, nothing huge. We wound up in a ranch-style house and a re-finance team flew in by helicopter, a catering team in the van sweeping into the house and setting up a buffet with champagne, and an astonishing mock-up of an Indian temple that dropped onto the lawn out front, complete with a pink Cadillac convertible that swept out and up to the door filled with dignitaries.

The women wore fantastic wigs over their dark features. Everyone seemed happy. I looked in the crowd, but Mardy Two was not there.

It was an odd hodgepodge, nothing verging on the nightmarish, except that when business was concluded and the champagne was drunk, I realized I needed to get reservations, and I should find the car. I think I was talking to USAA when somewher e part of my brain said: you have gone back to sleep, you dolt, and you need to get up and do something.

It was vivid in only the way a dream can be when the conscious mind is partly engaged. I can parse it out and identify where all the parts came from; Pakis were talking in the background on the BBC to provide dreamscape context; I would like to pay off the Hubrismobile and move on with transportation issues, one way or another. Getting out from under the unreasonable exuberance of the real estate is a goal beyond that.

Actually, pretty trite for a dream, now that I think about it. Nothing important, like people.

I assume the car is still in the garage. I'll find out when I get down there. If there are chicken feathers in the grill I will know something interesting happened, besides what the dog did in the night.

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