No Preference

The North Koreans, bless their little pointy heads, have announced that they have re-processed 8,000 spent fuel rods from their little prototype reactor at Yongbyon. It is all the embattled theocracy can do to protect itself from the United States. Poor dears. Last I heard, the spent rods were glowing under water in a leaky containment pond. So I am pleased they have found something constructive to do with the waste. The Analysts on the news say that amount of uranium could yield sufficient fissile material for six more nuclear weapons. Enough for a deterrent capability, plus enough to have a fire sale.

There is more, of course, mostly about the kids who were bushwhacked in Iraq. Three attacks over the last twenty-four hours. A female soldier was murdered near Tikrit, near the 4th Infantry Division headquarters, and two young men killed, one in the upscale Mansoor District in Baghdad where we tried to grease Saddam and the other had an appointment in Samarra. It is news and it is the same a steady drumbeat like the sound of rain. It is the war not here, and that is the way the media is making it sound. Like a steady, soaking rain.

If there was ever a case for pre-emptive first action, the way the President and the more articulate Prime Minister outlined the doctrine, the North has given it to us. But the Koreans know what we know. We are stretched thin with the action in Iraq and cannot embark on another unilateral adventure a world away. So they reprocess the only thing asset they have, and I float the notion that they will proliferate if concessions are not forthcoming. So I tuck that fact into my back pocket and get ready for work.

I did not prowl the streets of the Nation’s Capital last night, though I had an assignment downtown. I was tired and wanted to get home early. I met with some contractors at the Capital Grill. That is a place that my old boss at the Department would go at the end of a long day. He would make the pronouncement of his destination as a statement of worth.

“I’m meeting so-and-so at the Capital Grill” he would say and sweep out of the office in his long overcoat. I gathered it was a Washington equivalent of Elaine’s in New York, where he used to “close the place down” with the Chief of Police. I don’t have an expense account and that is not what I wanted to do at the end of a day that began with a breakfast with a Senate staffer at 6:45. The restaurant was picked by my prospective partners on the basis of its proximity to the Metro stop at Archives. My office in Arlington is on the Orange Line, so that is  where we agreed to meet.

The place is located on a prime corner on Pennsylvania Avenue at 6th Street. I walked in just about on time, since the trains run with some alacrity at rush hour. The bar is to the left from the door, heavy dark wood and brass fittings. I looked around and tried to distinguish if the party was there. I couldn’t see them. The crowd at the bar was drinking sold cocktails. Scotch and whiskey, a lot of martinis. I ordered one and went through the dance. “Vodka martini” I told the solicitous young barman with a blonde crew-cut, a black bow-tie and heavily starched white shirt.

“Rocks or up?” he asked.

“Up” I said. He looked at me expectantly. “Olives” I added.

He looked at me expectantly, like a Frenchman waiting for you to try to finish a sentence in his language. “No preference on the brand,” I said, thinking it was exactly the same as what is stamped on my dog-tags in the block for religion. No Preference. He did the dance of the martini shake and when the glass was placed before me it glittered with ice slivers and the chilled vodka had a viscous quality like clear motor oil.

I sipped it slowly and looked around the bar again. It was a usual Washington crowd. Some sporting types in casual dress with cell phones screwed into their ears. Some concerned citizens in expensive suits drinking scotch, and some lobbysts clearly from out of town. This place was too rich for bureaucrats paid on the General Schedule. I was the only one who was wearing my access badges on the lanyard around my neck. I took it off, furling the strap around the four laminated cards and the magnetic key that gives me access to the garage. The vodka tasted good and I let the Metro feeling slide off me. Two barmaids were standing talking at the end of the bar. One talked about going home for Canadian Thanksgiving, careful to point out the difference. I asked where she was from and she said the prairie, from Edmonton. The leader of the party I was to meet was a Canadian, too.

I had wondered if he were gay when I met him, that flicker of uncertainty. But that is what it was. Just Canadian, from Nova Scotia. Canadians just have a friendly way about them, almost guileless.

I looked at the front door, and got most of the way through my drink before I surveyed the booths along the far wall. They were there, of course, and with a wave and the scraping of chairs we began our meeting. Jeff the Nova Scotian is the CEO, Alice is the CFO and Charles is the inventor. I asked where they had been and what they had done that day. They told me about who they had talked to. They had been to the National Institute of Health in Bethesda and met some political people. I tried to explain how I thought things were likely to play out in this election year, and why the town was likely to enter into a sort of stasis as we await the verdict of the electorate, or the Supreme Court, as the case may be.

They have a marvelous technical capability that could be a real asset to the nation. Their capability can provide detailed alert information to the individual home. The closest thing I can think of is to compare it to Secretary Tom Ridge hanging on the wall next to your smoke detector, providing minute by minute advisories. The capability could be just that ubiquitous. But things are hard to get off the ground. Standards have to be set and adopted. Consensus has to gained between the state and local entities.

They have been working to launch their product for nearly four years. I admire capitalism, and when I see people actually doing it I am in awe of the commitment it takes. I left them after a bowl of soup and another drink, for which they kindly picked up the tab. I told them they didn’t have to, and I thought about George Washington’s staff, filling up their glasses with brandy when an honored guest visited the mess, watching him drink it, and when he had departed, pouring the contents of their glasses back into the cask to make it last for the next visit. Appearances are important.

As I walked back to the Metro I looked in the window of the Grill and saw them huddled at the table, strategizing on what I had told them. I had promised to make a call to an official who might still return one, use up some of the residual goodwill I have until they realize I am just another voracious vendor.  I am a Capitalist now, too, and I need to figure out where I can fit their capability into a useful strategy to meet the needs of my customer.

Which would be you. I hope to be your preference.

Copyright 2003 Vic Socotra