Late Start

The Federal Government is starting two hours late this morning, which means we are just that much less vulnerable. The snow that remains from the sharp blizzard last night is heavy and crusted and already going back to water. The Kids are going to have to act fast if they are going to enjoy their day off from school.

All the districts around the capital are closed, do it seems parsimonious of Uncle Sam to force the parents to leave their kids at home as they trudge off to the office, late or not. But the Office of Personnel included the provision for “unscheduled leave,” which means government workers don’t really have to show up. But they will be charged for the six hours left in the abridged Federal Day.

I’m no fool. I looked at the three day forecast and saw it was supposed to snow. So I put myself in for a vacation day. I will wind up turning the vacation time back in anyway. Besides, Big Pink scheduled the annual Holiday Party for Thursday night, and if I played my cards right, I would have a headache anyway.

With snow falling, the commute was just right: down the hall and into the lobby, which was decorated with little trees and lights. Amare the Ethiopian has the swing shift at the concierge desk, so he was presiding over the festivities. I was only a few minutes late, and the older crowd was there to scoop up the food as a sort of Early Bird Special.

The oldest of the residents were about a third of the crowd. They had walkers and canes, and some looked bewildered. There were some of the younger folks, too, recently married or still slugging it out as singles on the way up. Then there were those of us in the middle, the salt-and-pepper survivors of divorce and mid-life crisis. Residents of the Island of Misfit Toys.

Life has improved at Big Pink since Fred took over as the Community Manager. He is a jolly tall man with an Eric Von Strohiem bullet head and a wicked sense of humor. He is retired from the old Phone Company, the one that had all the money, and when Mr. Mac got fired for that little financial impropriety, he was willing to take the job. There isn’t much money to be had in managing a large condominium, but as he says, the commute from the fifth floor is not bad, and he gets to know everything about everyone.

He inspects the units as they are sold or rented, and he handles all the finances and assigns the underground parking spots. He has some patronage with the porters, and the ability to affect the actual quality of our lives. Tip O’Neil once said that all politics are local, and that makes Fred the ultimate politician. He growls about the loons that live in the building, and of course we have our share. But in the end, they are more entertaining than the folks that live quietly.

The latest mini-crisis was the resident who attempted to put his gigantic SUV through the remote controlled garage door with a Christmas tree on the roof rack. He got his car jammed in the aperture. I gather it was pretty entertaining, or at least Leo the Engineer told it that way. I was just irritated that I had only that door programmed on the controller on the overhead panel on my car, and almost had to leave it outside all night.

We were on the second glass of red wine when I heard why the door was broken, and whether or not the guys insurance was going to pay for the damages. That was when Mrs. Hitler leaned in to complain about the prospective rate increase on postage. That is an emotional issue for her, since she is an important official in the national Greeting Card Lobby. More expensive stamps would impact her business, since the only mail that actually gets delivered anymore is composed of credit card offers and Christmas cards.

It’s a love-hate relationship with the Postmaster General, she confided. I took a bite of one of the Virginia Ham biscuits and conjured up an image of her with the thick brown-blonde hair gathered in Valkyrie braids, with a riding crop, tall boots and a postal uniform. It had to contemplate that image carefully. Mrs. Hitler had brought her own wine glass, dark blue, so that no one would pick it up and drink from it. You can never be too careful at these social things. Her red sweater featured embroidered pussycats having cocktails, which in a way was as unsettling as the image of her in the Postal Uniform.

I managed to extract myself from the postal rate discussion and talked to Leo for a while about the main electrical panel in the basement. It seemed to be in better health, of late, and complemented him on how he was taking care of the main systems. Then I saw Marty One in a festive red blouse and jeans.

Marty One used to be Marty Two, until Marty One died. She moved up, and Marty Three was similarly elevated. The old number Two and Three were regulars at the pool, which was an exclusive group of sun-worshipers and gossip peddlers who congregated every weekend during the season. The numbers were useful to keep everything straight about who was doing what to whom in the summer, particularly late in the humid afternoon when everyone was getting sun-burned and the plastic cups were filled with wine smuggled past the surly Czechoslovak lifeguard.

Once the pool gate slammed shut for the winter we all sort of go back into our burrows. Those of us on the first floor have our own doors to the outside, and we don’t hang out in the Lobby, except to get the mail from Amare, or share the enforced camaraderie of the elevator bank.

Jigs lives across from me and runs the Pension Fund for the Steelworkers, which is a pretty big deal. He didn’t even know that the party was going on until Margaret from the Fifth Floor dispatched Tony to go get him.

The union guys were all dressed up, since they had come from wining and dining the new Congressman from Missouri , the bright young man who took Majority Leader Gephardt’s seat after his failed bid for the chance to get beaten by the man from Texas .

Jigs was changing his pants, said Tony when he got back. It was more information than we really needed to know. Old Jack laughed sharply. He was wearing a green striped sweater with no shirt underneath, and I was a little concerned. He was starting to look a little translucent. It could be the coming of winter and the enforced confinement in his little efficiency apartment. Or it could be that he is getting close to the big transition.

The Steelworkers told me about dinner, which was good. They liked the young legislator. It is important to cultivate the Congressmen on the way up. In twenty or thirty years, the could really be somebody in town.

I leaned over to Marty One. “Where have you been?” I asked. “We didn’t see you at the pool all summer. Are you still running the dog-walking business? Are you OK?”

She sighed and took a sip of her wine. “I’m working too many hours at the funeral home. Things are really busy there.” She told me about some of the more colorful embalmings, and how the living happened to become the dead.

I hooked a finger at the young Pakistani man in the tuxedo shirt who was standing behind the folding table set up as a bar, signaling for another glass of wine. “I thought you were just greeting there for the viewings. That can’t take that much time.”

“Oh no,” she said. “I am an assistant Funeral Director now, and I don’t have as much time to walk the animals. They call me around the clock to arrange for bodies to be picked up, and to notify the families.”

“There can’t be that many,” I said carelessly.

“You would be surprised. They want me to take the military account, and I don’t know if I can do it, time-wise.”

“What do you mean?”

“We are a family business, not a big chain. But we are the closest receiving home to Arlington National Cemetery .”

“Oh,” I said.

Copyright 2005 Vic Socotra

www.vicsocotra.com

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