Editor’s Note: Seemed like it was appropriate on this day to re-live our last election day with Admiral Showers. It was November of 2011, and we gathered, as usual, at Willow for a festive glass and raucous conversation. mac was feisty and full of energy.

I recall there was a sense of optimism in the air, something that appears to be distinctly lacking, given the general contempt the electorate holds for the major party candidates in this one. I think it is well-earned, BTW, and we will see what is what this evening. I am hoping that we can survive whatever it is, and we are nothing if not a resilient nation. But I also recall being assigned a textbook to read at the Industrial College of the Armed Forces: “Hope is Not a Method,” by retied Army General Gordon Sullivan. And it is not. Vote.

– Vic

Mac’s Election Day

(L-R: Jake, Jon-no-h-Mac and The Blonde. Photo Socotra).

“It is Election Day,” said Mac as he climbed up on the stool next to me at Willow. “So I did some electing myself.”

“What do you mean, Sir?”

“I went to my oncologist loaded for bear. I told him that damned medication he had me on wasn’t worth it. I want a glass of wine or beer once in a while, and I said I either wanted medicine that would let me do it or I wouldn’t take any.”

“Wow,” I said. “That is a huge decision.”

“Not really,” smiled Mac, looking over at our buddy Holly who was holding down the Amen Corner of the bar with her infectious smile and raven-dark hair. “What is your Happy Hour Red?” he asked her with a smile. “It turns out those who don’t smoke and drink don’t actually live longer. It just seems that way.”

Holly held out a bottle of pinot. “It is Spinnelli Montepulcinao D’Abruzzo tonight,” she said.

“That is easy for you to say,” I remarked, swirling my glass of Pinot Grigio. “But I have to say this is a real treat to be with you as you fall off the wagon, Sir.”

“There is a lot to catch up on, and I am determined to do it,’ said Mac firmly. “And I would like to see the Nosh menu, if you would be so kind.” Holly obliged and slid the menus over in their Willow jackets. Tracy O’Grady does a new menu every day, depending on what she can get.

“Is Old Jim still boycotting the place?”

“He is in West Virginia teaching his last seminar. And it is not a boycott. It is a principled statement that this is not the only bar in town. Plus, Tracy teased him with the Chinese duck tacos. He is not coming back until they are on the menu.”

“How could you know if you didn’t come in to see?”

“He was talking about having a neon sign installed outside that Tracey could turn on when the duck is ready. Sort of like the sign at TasteyCream stores when the donuts are fresh out of the fryer.”
Mac snorted and then took a sip of the red. “This is nice,” he said. “It has been a long time.”

“It certainly has. We were last talking about Bronson Tweedy, Dick Helm’s right hand guy at CIA who recruited you to come and work on the Intelligence Community Staff with General Jack Thomas.”

“That’s right. We met at a men’s club downtown.”

“The Cosmos?” I asked.

“No,” frowned Mac, looking up. “It was the City Tavern Club, on M Street in Georgetown. Anonymous place, no signs to mark it. Supposed to be one of the last Federalist buildings in town. I had a hell of a time finding it. Bronson was one of the original Ivy League types who joined the Agency when it was founded.”

“I looked him up. He was in things up to his elbows, including the assassination of Patrice Lumumba in the Congo.”

Mac smiled thinly. “Yes, Bronson was an interesting guy.”

“Ok,” I said. “The ground rules were that we could talk about anything in your Navy career, the five and a half years at DIA, and your transition to the Intelligence Community Staff. What comes after that is off limits, right?”

“Yes. There are still some things that may be sensitive.” He told me one of them, and glared at me when I started to write it down. “That is why Bronson looked favorably on me. I made some friends helping the Agency on that one. That is why they contacted me.”

“OK, the Agency time is off the table. You were there for 13 years, right?”

Mac took a sip and scanned the menu, settling eventually on the pommes frites with Truffle. “It has been a long time since I had a French fry,” he said.

“You have never had a fry like these,” I said. “They are to die for, which I imagine you could if you ate them all the time.”

“I have decided to elect for quality of life,” said Mac, flipped the menu closed and gestured at Tinkerbelle, who was getting Jake a beer from the cooler in back of the bar. “I believe we will have an order of the frites,” he said.
“Coming up, Admiral,” said Tink, sliding the Racer 5 bottle in front of Jake.

(Dr. Harold Brown as SECDEF in the cabinet of president Jimmy Carter, 1977. Image courtesy DoD).

“Harold Brown interviewed me to be Deputy Director at DIA,” he said. “It was a three star job at the time. I went in and there was Dr. Brown and another guy, who didn’t say anything, I knew him from the neighborhood in North Arlington. We got to the question, Harold didn’t like my answer and the interview was over.”

“What was the question?” I asked. My phone went off, and some lady in Colorado wanted to ask me some questions about the woman who runs my web site. Renee is dynamite, and we have been at this almost seven days a week for a decade.

I stepped into the vestibule and completed the call with fulsome praise. “Who else would have put up with my crap for so long?” I finished with a flourish. “She is magnificent.”

The lady thanked me and I walked back to the bar, where several attractive women from Corporate were fawning over Mac.

“So what was the question?” I asked, when I could get his attention again. He smiled.

“Harold asked me what would happen if there was a disagreement between the Chairman and the Secretary, who would I support? Where would my loyalty be?”
“What did you say?” I asked.

“I asked if it was a disagreement over a military matter. He said it was, and I said I would have to support the Chairman’s military judgment over that of a political appointee.”

“And the interview was over?”

Mac nodded. I picked up my pen and made a note as a basket of luscious pomme frites appeared in front of Mac. He took one of the fries out of the pile and popped it into his mouth. “That is delicious,” he said.

“Best I have tasted,” I said. “Just not on my diet any more. At least if I want to keep drinking wine.” I waved at Holly for more.

“We all make the elections we do,” said Mac firmly. “I am doing it now, and I don’t imagine a glass of red and a couple fries will hurt.”

“So, what prompted your retirement from CIA?” I asked.

“When my wife Billie was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s,” he said. “I was retired two years before the Iran Contra affair broke. I knew John Poindexter and Richard Secord and all those guys. I was pretty lucky on the timing.”

(Richard Secord and National Security Advisor John Poindexter at the time of the Iran-Contra affair. Photos AP).

“Yeah,” I said dully, thinking of my own problems with Raven’s dementia and Big Mama’s gentler version of altered reality. “But what a time.”

Mac sipped on his wine. I will have to tell you tomorrow what he said about that.

Copyright 2016 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com

VOTE!