Diatribune

I had about twelve hours to myself as I drove back to Detroit to think about what had happened. My trip to visit my Great-Uncle Bud's had skidded off the tracks when he and my friend, Freedom Fyter, had locked horns. FF didn't trust the old Republican, and the feeling was mutual. FF refused to tell Uncle Bud why he wanted to go into the tunnels under DC. Uncle Bud refused to let him in until he knew FF's plan. They went back and forth, until FF accused Uncle Bud of wanting to know the plan so that he could prevent it. He said something along the lines of, Why the hell am I begging from a political hack who's needed pardons from every Republican President since Eisenhower? This pissed off Uncle Bud, who is little touchy on the subject, and he told FF to get out of his bar.

"Just so you get your facts straight, Mr. Voting Rights, Poppy Bush never pardoned me," shouted Uncle Bud to the back of the departing FF.
  "Not that he wouldn't've," mumbled a voice from across the bar.
  A louder voice laughed and ventured, "Didn't need to. We were all more careful than those Reagan cowboys. And these clowns around the kid are a joke."
  "The professionals ran things under Poppy, that's for sure," agreed a third man at the bar. Everyone had been watching the exchange between FF and Uncle Bud.
  "I'll bet the DC police will be interested in that black bag the gentleman is carrying," said the first man, reaching for his Blackberry.
  "No," said Uncle Bud firmly, fixing the man with a piercing look. "He harmless, a fucking amatuer, let him be. We don't need the police around here."

  The man at the bar shrugged and pocketed his Blackberry. He looked at me and said, "You need to pick your friends more carefully, kid." Then he turned back to the bar and his drink. The rest of the bar returned to their conversations. I got up and quickly left to catch up with Freedom Fyter.

  He was gone. It was a foggy night, and I couldn't see more than half a block in any direction. The Metro was closed for the night, so FF would be on foot. (I knew that no Detroiter would even consider riding a bus.) I was worried about him. He was as angry as I'd ever seen him, but he would never touch Uncle Bud out of long training to respect his elders. But now he was on his own, in a run down part of DC, carrying that damn black bag. I picked a direction and started after him.

  I walked swiftly down one block and stopped. A warning drifted into my brain on the cold damp fog. I was alone, too. I imagined muggers sizing up their quarry. A 6' 5", angry looking man, who keeps regular hours at the gym, or the worried looking, gray haired guy with the pre-knee replacement limp, glasses, and twenty, alright, thirty, extra pounds strapped on. "FF, Be safe," I muttered, cowardly realism winning out over sacrificial heroism. I turned around and headed for the boat.

  When I reached the marina, I dug around in my pocket for the key and my groping hand hit my cellphone. I unlocked the gate and sat down on a bench by the first dock to call FF. He'd beaten me to it. He'd left a message that he'd contacted friends, and was going to stay with them for a while. He thanked me for the ride and hoped I didn't mind driving back alone. He had some things he needed to do.
  "That from you friend?" Uncle Bud's deep voice was muffled in the fog. He was standing on the deck of the boat. I nodded, snapped my phone shut, and walked to the boat. "Is he alright?"
  "Yeah. He's meeting friends."
  "Good," he said quietly, "Come on down to the galley, son." He stepped aside to let me aboard. "I've got some water boiling. Let's have some tea and a talk."

  Uncle Bud gently placed a hand on my back and steered me to the table. I sat down on the bench and slid into the corner. Uncle Bud's Blackberry chirrupped softly. In one smooth gesture, he fished the device out of his pocket, scanned the screen, tapped a few keys, and placed it on a shelf. "Your pal's fine. His fiends just picked him up."
  "You had him followed?" I stammered. I was clearly out of my depth here, and I knew it. So did Uncle Bud.
  He set the tea pot on the table. "He was followed. Learn to use the passive voice, will ya. There must've been a half-dozen ex-CIA and NSA in there tonight. Old friends of mine. One of them saw your friend was upset, and decided that he might need a guardian angel." He went to get the mugs and plates.
  "Here, kid, have a cup of tea. There's some ginger lemon cremes in the cabinet above your head." He placed the mugs and plates on the table and poured the tea. There was no milk or sugar in sight. My family was from good Wee Free stock, and we didn't go in for extravagances. The cookies, however, were worth a sectarian split.
  We drank our tea in silence. I took a few cookies and passed the box to Uncle Bud. He nodded thanks and cleared his throat. 
  "Look kid, maybe you coming to the bar wasn't the best idea. You're ok, you're family after all. You were a wild wee bastard, and I expect all those tumbles down the stairs and full speed runs into walls accounts for your politics. But your friend, well, he's a bird of a different feather."
  I knew my Uncle Bud was, in his own words, a pragmatic conservative. I'd even heard his own sister, my Gram, the former IBEW Women's Auxiliary Local 119 President, call him "a status quo warrior." But I never thought he was a racist. I knew that he disliked the race-baiting, "Southern Strategy", that had changed the Southern states from Blue to Red. "What kind of bird is Fyter?" I asked in a low voice, my eyes narrowing.
  Uncle Bud read my expression and laughed. He smiled and said, "Relax, son. I'm not talking about him being black. I'm talking about him being an amatuer. And an idealist. That's a bad combination around here. There were twenty guys at least in that bar tonight who were celebrating getting a new lease on their cushy K Street offices. And even while they were laughing and joking, and picking over the carcasses of the losers, a part of their minds were listening to what your friend was saying, and were trying to figure out how to use him to their advantage.
  I don't know what he's got in mind, but I'm not gonna help him get chewed up by professional sharks. Whatever stunt he's gonna pull, he'll have a much better chance of making his point if he doesn't go around announcing it in my bar." Uncle Bud finished his tea and poured himself a second mug.
I pushed my empty mug toward my uncle as I considered his words. My thoughts kept circling round to the same questions.
  "Why did you tell me about the bar? Why did you invite me here? What do want me to do?"
  "That's the nub of it, all right. Why tell you?" He sighed, and he sounded as if he was asking himself the question and wasn't sure of the answer. His gaze settled somewhere in the middle distance over my right shoulder. "I guess I'm getting old and soft. I've put over sixty years into all this and I don't like what I see. Our family lives a long time, you know. My father fought in WWI and his father fought in the Civil War. I fought in the Big 2, and in wars you never heard of. I'm 85 and I've got fifteen years to go until I tie my father's record.
  I like you, son. You always made me laugh. I guess I think that it's time to tell somebody what this new bunch are up to. And you're elected. Do with it what you will."
  He paused for a while, and when he continued he seemed to speaking to himself. "Damn chicken-hawks and thieves. Spending their time dreaming up totally daft invasion plans. Bunch of school boys in their pjs still playing Risk `til dawn in their damn boarding schools. Or they're looting the place. It has to stop, people will find out eventually, and they'll be pissed. We had a good thing going. Our people had weathered Clinton in good shape, but that idiot kid is going to take us all down with him." Uncle Bud's jaw snapped shut. His gaze had grown fierce, his jaw set. I waited in silence.

  We spent the rest of the night talking about family, sports, and generally swapping lies. No more politics, we stuck to safe topics. Around dawn, Uncle Bud made us some omletes. We ate in silence, and then I turned in. Uncle Bud went up on deck to watch the sunrise.

  I woke up mid-afternoon and left. Uncle Bud was at the bar, so I stopped by on my way out to say goodbye. "You'll be hearing from me, kid," he said, and he tucked a twenty in my shirt pocket like he did when I was a child. "Tell your friend, no harm intended."

  I don't plan on returning to Uncle Bud's Select Taproom, but I do expect that I will hear from Great-Uncle Bud, and I'll be sure to pass it along. I don't know what Freedom Fyter will do in DC. If I hear from him, I'll be sure to let you know. Watch the papers. You may hear about him before I do.