(Old Jim’s long suffering bride Mary with a special birthday cake. Photo by the pretty Jamie.)

The good thing about Tuesdays are that the morning normally follows a decent night’s sleep, because of Monday, Monday evening at Willow. I was ready for it.

The Monday wonderful world of Work was weird. Anyone who depends on the ponderous rhythm of the Federal Bureaucracy is slowly being driven mad by the continuing circus downtown. No one, private or public sector, can make a plan.

A colleague sent me an excel spread sheet and asked me to plug in some numbers that would constitute the forecast for the third and fourth Quarter activity in the accounts I manage. I looked at the blanks blankly. I wrote back a querulous note asking why my colleague thought that I knew something that was unknown to the entire Executive Branch, both houses of Congress, and the poor Agency responsible for analyzing threats to America world-side.

I have a growing suspicion I know where at least one of the threats is located, and it is not far away from Big Pink.

I suffered through the Diane Rhem show on NPR between conference calls- it is the compromise choice I have to listening to the local commercial talk radio (WTOP) outlet. I can’t handle the “traffic and weather on the eights” drumbeat, but there is such a steady stream of nonsense emanating from the little clock-radio on my desk that I considered not contributing at the next fund-raiser.

The show today featured an extended interview with a fellow named Gregory Stone, one of those fuzzy-brained “scientists” who did not appear to know the difference between the Decadal Pacific Oscillation and Global Warming.

I squirmed in my chair. Stone’s lines were memorized and regurgitated with matter-of-fact polish. In the long series of softball questions, the “scientist” veered back and forth from small victories in his crusade to save the planet to the enduring theme of Doom.

“Screw these guys” I thought, and got back to work imagining numbers to plug into spread-sheets. The sky outside the office window was gray and the clouds dropped down to scrape the top of the new office buildings across the canyon of North Glebe Road.

I didn’t know what to be freaked out about. At the top of the hour, I heard that New York is capitalizing on Sandy Hook to pass more and tougher gun laws. I don’t know the precise details, and the prediction was that the state Senate would debate the legislation late into the night.

Gov. Cuomo has not had an opportunity to have another public hysterical moment about it- not yet, anyway- and though this is happening in a state well to the north, it will clearly have an impact on all of us.  I was driving up from the farm Sunday afternoon and realized I was running low on cigarettes. I know, I know, but I thought I might stop at Ft Myer to pick some up at Commissary prices, but realized I had several legal firearms in the boot of the Panzer.

What are the chances of getting searched at the gate to the “gun free zone” of Joint Base Myer-Henderson Hall? Infinitesimal.

What were the consequences of getting caught with them in the car? Gigantic. So I stopped at the little Sari-sari store over at the strip mall next to my dry cleaner and paid the civilian freight for the coffin nails. Not worth the risk. We are all going to have to be very careful in the days to come.

I went down to the little Korean convenience store and got a salad at lunch. I was back at the desk in time to catch the President and that strange petulant performance at what was billed as “the last press conference” of his first term. I don’t know if he actually answered any questions- the parts I heard were a monologue demonizing anyone who would not let him keep spending money we do not  have.

In fact, the more I thought about it, the speech seemed like nothing short of a declaration of war by the Executive branch against the Legislative.

I have been to a rodeo and a county fair, I mused, while making up numbers to fit a variety of alternate futures. I have never seen anything like this in my life. I am at a loss to even find a comparable continuing crisis in the history of the USG- with the possible exception of the debate over the Peculiar Institution. And you know where that went.

This is no longer interesting. I am hearing klaxons of alarm. I tried to put all the nonsense out of my mind, and think about positive things instead.

It was difficult, but I settled on the only good thing I could envision: Monday Monday at Willow.

My mood brightened as LTJG Socotra called as he was getting ready to leave work in the People’s Republic of Maryland and asked if I wanted to get a beer after work.

I smiled broadly, looked at the clock, and entered some random numbers into the spread-sheet and shut down the computer. A light mist was coming down as I parked at the curb outside Willow and fed quarters into the meter.

I clomped across the street and up the two stairs to the bar entrance and peered inside. Old Jim was not at his usual place. Instead, there was a blended cast of characters: David, Mac’s son, was at the apex of the Amen corner sipping a martini. I embraced him, with the sudden realization that the hole in my heart left by Mac’s passing had not healed.

“I have been aching to get to the Monday session at the Amen Corner for months,” he said. “And since Suzanne is out of town, the only one counting on me is the dog.”

“Great to see you!” I said, and we talked about the void his remarkable father had left in so many lies with his well-organized departure. Next to him was seated Mo, a former Hill staffer who relocated to Montana to set up a HUBZone enterprise, and periodically stops by Willow to develop business for Spearfish, MT.

Placid pretty Jamie, Lovely Bea and both Johns- with and without- wrapped around the foot of the Amen Corner, and down the bar was the World’s Second Greatest Fighter Air Intelligence Officer chatting up LTJG Socotra.

“This is quite the turn-out on a rainy winter night,” I said to David. “The stars must have aligned.”

The lovely Bea gave me one of her heart-melting smiles. “No, it is Mary’s birthday, and we are going to get her a nice slice of cake. It is a significant birthday,” she said with a wink, and told me which one.

Mary herself arrived a couple glasses of Happy Hour white later. She was happy to be out. “That flu thing is for real,” she said. “I had Jim in the ER on Saturday. He is really sick.”

“OMG,” I said. “We had better stay away from public places.” I took a sip of wine. “Except maybe this one.”

Then Jasper came out with a lovely slice of co-owner Kate Jansen’s signature chocolate swirl layer cake with that delicious frosting. Mary did not want to eat the whole thing, and despite the threat of the flu, most of us took a bite, though I think we had our own forks.

“So,” asked Jon-without, “if Jim doesn’t make it, what are you doing for dinner next week?”

John-with said she would have to wait a year, for proper mourning. “It is only respectful.”

I thought about the events of the day, and what is to come, known and unknown. I took a deep swallow of wine- it was a nice Spanish blend- and responded “I don’t think any of us has got a year. Drink up.”

Copyright 2013 Vic Socotra
www.vicsocotra.com