DeMille is the de facto leader of the Writer’s Section at Socotra House. He had done the rounds with Legal, HR and Management in the morning and was back by the Fire Ring. He was now attempting to keep the group focused on the mission statement posted over the lintel of the door to the bunkroom: “Gentle Irony, Mild Amusement, & Informed Commentary.” The longest journey still begins with a single step, and it had been a decent morning threatening to tip over into afternoon. He took the step in the way he knew best: start by defining the goal, muster enthusiasm, and get the job done with the group tugging on the same harness in the same general direction.

“OK,” he started. “So how do we do seasonal cheer this year? Everyone has had it with the torrent of bad news. 2020 was disconcerting. 2021 was chaos. And now it looks like the inflation is so bad that government is changing how they calculate it so we don’t get too alarmed. We have to pitch things with a positive aspect.”

“They have to. The Administration is looking bad even to all those mail in votes.”

“Knock it off. That is a cheap shot at what they tell us was the fairest election ever.”

“I have a string here we can work up. The USS Bonhomme Richard was destroyed by arson in a fire that cost us a $1.2 Billion dollar ship. They are accusing a young sailor of intentionally starting it, but the real problem was negligence on the part of everyone else in the chain of command not having the means to fight the fire once it got going.”

“That would demonstrate our commitment to solid journalism and objective fact,” said DeMille, looking a little wistful at the idea. “It would be like media used to work. But it is neither seasonal or upbeat.”

Splash looked disgruntled. “If I submitted what I think we just lived through as an objective story you would tell me I was proposing a Robert Ludlum novel and pretending it was truth.” He snorted and dismissively tossed the remains of his third cup of coffee in the general direction of the fire. The sun was bright, outlining the dramatic contrails of the jets headed south and west from Dulles International sixty miles north and east of The Farm. Life was going on out there, and the darkness of the season will start to turn around and get lighter in just a week.

Loma smiled. “I used to read those Robert Ludlum books on cruise. This situation reminds me of the improbable but semi-believable stuff he all jumbled together. They were fun.”

Splash snorted. “This isn’t. I read that the Military Games event in Wuhan China in October of 2019 was the superspreader event that got Covid spread all over the globe.”

Rocket is an old WESTPAC sailor, and still interested in events in the area as China rises. “So, are they making the case that somehow China deliberately used the games to spread the disease, or that it just jumped over from the Lab, or the wet market or the Bat Lady? It is hard to keep it straight.”

Splash stood up, normally an indication he had plans on doing something different than sitting on a comfortable stone and allowing the beauty of nature to warm a cheery day before Christmas. “The conspiracy theory crowd has it down pretty well. I can fill you in if you wish.”

“Wait. Just stop. You are going to start yammering that somehow the American health establishment funded research in China that was made illegal here at home, and that a major event was utilized to spread an infectious virus around the world with just enough time to prompt the distribution of 105 million paper ballots in America in violation of normal electoral laws in order to elect a President who has been incorrect on every foreign policy issue in the last fifty years? That is how that story goes.”

“Would you prefer that only some parts of that story are true?”

“Which ones? As a Boomer I think I prefer the idea that nothing like that could happen in the America we know.”

“Correct,” said Splash. “But if you look at the America that showed up with the Pandemic it isn’t the place we knew any more. It is something different.”

DeMille could see things were getting off the rails, it was already high noon and there was nothing succinct, mildly ironic or filled with seasonal spirit on the production table. He asserted leadership in the way he could.

“Look on the bright side. The pandemic thing seems to be going the way these infectious diseases go. They may get more successful in transmission, but they also seem to become less lethal. Schools may open again, and who knows, maybe some standards will come back. There was some trouble in the streets, but that seems to have died down. Crime may be up, but it is probably just a reflection of the frustrations from the lockdowns and stuff. Things will get back to normal. Life is peaceful here on Refuge Farm. Food is plentiful, we are all healthy, the Distillery is still open and this is a season to celebrate.”

“Since there is nothing we can do about it, that seems like the best approach.”

“Is it going to sell?”

Rocket laughed, put his coffee cup down and rose to join a crowd that seemed ready for something significant. “They say the Grown Ups are back. Why don’t we leave it them, not get hysterical, and do something positive.”

DeMille smiled. “Lunch it is.”

Copyright 2021 Vic Socotra
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