(Church Spire of The Church of the Brethren, 22 October 2010, viewed from the balcony of Big Pink. Photo Socotra.)

It was one of those days. You know the ones, so much significant activity that only the alcohol at the end permitted any clarity, and that, in turn, made the morning after so damned complicated.
 
There was some bad news this week. One of our colleagues lost his wife, suddenly, and the President of The Professionals had to say goodbye to her mother. It was the sort of week that made you start with apprehension at sudden sounds and the fabric of life seems to be thinning.
 
So I sit here, pecking away, hours behind, trying to process it all. Tipping points.
 
The snagged valve stem at Mr. Wash that flattened the left rear Firestone high-performance left of The World’s Fastest Production Pick-up Truck that led me to Ty’s auto body for an emergency repair. The ensuing in-depth conversation with him about the future of his business, what with all the development on the block, the challenge and cost of expunging a criminal record, passports and the difficulty of property ownership in the Socialist Republic of Vietnam.
 
A magical call from Officer Candidate School in Newport, and hearing my son’s voice tell me about his resolve to complete the program, and the nature of his Marine Drill Instructor, apparently the most impressive US Marine ever to come from the Cote D’Avoire to these shores. Fierce, but fair, he said, and his resolve to complete the program.
 
I don’t know much, but I know that having a Marine DI in your life is a transformational event.
 
Selling the Harley in the morning light to John-from-Scranton, and solving the puzzle of how to elevate a six hundred pound machine to the bed of a bright yellow Ram 1500 truck and still making an early meeting.
 
Damn.

Anyway, I was ready for a glass of wine or several when I walked into the Willow. Mac was there, and I realized that I had questions about London in 1951, the year I was born, and my notebook was in my truck, deep in the bowels of the garage under the Westin Hotel.
 
Damn. So disorganized. So much going on.  Tracy O’Grady, owner of Willow, was seated out on the patio in the crisp Fall air talking to Brian, her estranged husband. They were talking earnestly, and I took a wide berth.
 
I blinked as I transitioned from the bright light of Fairfax Drive to the comforting dimness of the bar. Mac looked up at me from his seat in the cocktail nook we had reserved for a gathering of  The Professionals. His skin is smooth and unwrinkled, and he had a beatific smile as I shook his hand.
 
“I have been Born Again,” he said.
 
The hairs went up on the back of my neck. There were too many odd things in this day to discount the possibility that my pal had an encounter with spirituality in the course of a partly-cloudy Virginia day on the tipping point of the change of season.
 
“Did not find Jesus, did you?” I asked, with some anxiety. The reappearance of the Savior would further complicate an already complex day, and the branches and sequels to the miracle frankly were beyond what I could handle. I stepped past him and sat down, concern radiating across my face. The Admiral gestured toward the bar, where Jim and Peter had assumed their happy hour stations.
 
“No,” he said. “I have taken control of my life again.” He smiled with a radiance that was palpable. “I drove up to Walter Reed Army Medical Center for my quarterly exam. They took blood and my PSA was up.”
 
“That is bad, right? An indication of prostate cancer?” I asked with concern.
 
“Not much, still under 1.0,” he said, “But the Doc said that the medication I have been on may not be effective anymore. They suggested that I go back on some pills I quit a decade ago.”
 
“So is that good, or bad?” I asked, hoping that there was not more bad news.
 
Mac smiled again as Peter glided up and deposited a fresh pilsner glass in front of the Admiral, and produced a brown bottle of Bell’s beer, the Pride of Kalamazoo, Michigan.
 
Mac positively beamed as Peter did a perfect pour, three quarters of an inch of creamy foam atop the rich brown bubbling lager.
 
“I got a gal in Kalamazoo….” I sang, thinking of fall in Western Michigan, the leaves turning and best damn time of the year.
 
Mac nodded. “I do, as a matter of fact. My daughter is there. And in direct response to you question, the medication I stopped taking came with a prohibition on alcohol. Changing the meds means I can drink a beer again. First one in more than a year.”
 
He reached for the glass in front of him, picked it up, and as Peter poured a glass of Willow’s cheapest white wine for me, took a sip.
 
I could feel the pleasure from three feet away.
 
Mac smiled as he put the glass down. “I will just sip this. But I might have two. I am born again.”

(Happy hour white, Mac’s second beer and miniature Fish and Chips from the Willow Neighborhood Bar Menu. Photo Socotra.)

There was a bunch of other stuff that happened after that, what with The Professionals joining the usual suspects: Paige, the Mikes, Ray and Old Jim a the bar. Not to mention the three hundred dollars of drinks and snacks. It  reminded me, not for the first time, not to pile a martini on top of the happy hour white. Oh well.
 
But damn, that was a moment to savor to Mac. Born again at 91. I can ask about what was going on in London circa 1951 the next time.
 
opyright 2010 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com
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