Diatribune

I was wrenched out my sleep around 5:30. Wind was howling through the open window. Papers I’d left on the nightstand were blowing around the apartment. I staggered over to the window and slammed it shut. I stared at the quiet street and saw trash zooming down the sidewalk. A man was trying to walk into the wind, his body leaning at a 45-degree angle, one arm flung over his face to protect it from the flying dirt and grit. He staggered to a halt below my window, and gave up, turning around and speeding away, his stride lengthened as the wind noisily swept him along.
    The wind tore a branch off a large sycamore across the street. The branch, which had to have been a foot around and twenty or so feet long, crashed into several parked cars, smashing the windshield of one and the roof of another. Their alarms added to the cacophony as alarms where going off all around as the wind rocked the cars. Still not fully awake, my foggy brain blended the sights and sounds of the storm with memories of Hurricane Isabel in 2003.
    The violence of the smashing tree limb pulled me back to the moment and wakefulness. I was in Washington, DC, the apartment above my Uncle Bud’s bar, the Select Taproom, and it was 2007. At 7:00 a.m. Uncle Bud would here, and then we would begin our work in the tunnels.

    I considered going back to sleep, but decided that I’d never sleep with the wind howling so loudly. I dragged on a robe and put the kettle on to boil. While the water heated, I stumbled stiffly around picking up the papers that had blown about the room. The closed window rattled and banged in the old frame. I gathered the papers and dropped the pile on the table. The kettle started whistling. I walked over to the counter, flicking on the radio, as I walked past. NPR crackled into life with the news that a nor’ easterner was working its way up the coast and had hit DC already. Heavy rains were on the way.
    As my tea steeped, I split an English muffin and dropped it in the toaster. I carried the small pot of tea over to the table and went to get a mug. My brain was still struggling to get up to speed. I kept my focus on one thing at a time and soon was seated at the table with a mug of tea and a buttered muffin. Drink good. Food good. With each hot sip and buttery bite, humanity stirred, and slowly the sleep-deprived automaton that had prepared breakfast was packed off and replaced by a sentient being.
    I poured another cup of tea and made a mental note to thank Uncle Bud for stocking the little kitchen. He’d even laid in a supply of Barry’s Tea Classic Blend, the family favorite. I began shifting through the scraps of paper and sorting them. Phone numbers, addresses, story ideas, questions for Uncle Bud, reminders of various duties, responsibilities, and obligations. Even with a Palm T5 and a MacBook, I can’t seem to break a lifetime habit of carrying around note cards and jotting thing down.
     As I sorted through the papers, I found a note from Uncle Bud. He must have come by last night while I was out with Freedom Fyter. He’d heard about the storms and postponed our work in the tunnels while he made sure that everything was all right on his boat. He’d call me later in the day and we’d reschedule. He suggested that I rest up and take it easy. There was plenty of food in the fridge. I finished my muffin and tea and happily returned to bed. It’s one thing to try to sleep through a storm when you have get up in an hour. It’s another thing entirely when you can sleep as long as you like.

    It was a little after noon when I woke up the second time. I dressed and made a sandwich. God bless, Uncle Bud! IBC root beer. It turned out that he keeps some in the bar for a regular who’s on the wagon, and he remembered my fondness for the stuff. A light rain, barely a drizzle, had set in while I was sleeping, but the rain was driven nearly horizontal by the gusting winds. Umbrellas were useless. I turned the radio back on to find on what was happening.
    WAMU was reporting that approximately three thousand people had “braved the elements” in the DC Vote March (images of protesters in gleaming armor, wielding shining swords, faced off against Beastly Boron and Death-Dealing Strontium flashed across my mind). I waited for news of arrests. None were reported. I made sure my cell phone was on and checked my bank account online. Time to line up bail money.
    I could have gone to the Mall, God knows I support voting rights for DC, but I didn’t. I hadn’t packed for the weather and then shook my head in resignation that I was now someone who packed for the weather. Where had this caution come from? I must have left my recklessness at the optometrists or the audiologists when I picked up my bifocals and hearing aids. Or perhaps my recklessness is rambling around any of a hundred gyms where I ground mine down like the cartilage in my knees and traded it in for the bone spurs in my shoulders and feet. I hope some hungry, driven kid, tired of being chosen last for games, has found the residue of my enthusiasm lurking in the lane under the basket and claimed it for his own. Besides, this was FF’s thing. If he’d wanted me there, he would have told me about it last night. So, I fell into my usual role when FF took up a political cause. I waited for the phone call that would tell me where he was being held and how much bail money he needed. What are friends for?
    The call came a little after 2. There was a great deal of background noise and I could barely hear him. “Speak up,” I hollered in to the phone. “Jesus Christ, did they arrest all three thousand of you?”
    Through the crackle and buzz of background noise I barely made out, “No arrests... damn weather... early.... Capitol Grille.... c’mon down...people.”
    What the hell, I thought. The Capitol Grille was across the street from Union Station. I wouldn’t get too wet. “OK. Wait for me there.”
    “Right...people...meet. Later.”
    I snapped the phone shut and headed out into the wind and rain. As I passed the bar, I told Vic where Uncle Bud could find me. To my amazement, Vic gave me his windbreaker so I’d keep dry. I thanked him, and he grunted something. I’m ashamed to admit that all I could think was that if I got sick; he’d have a sick person upstairs to look after. I fought my way through the gusts and rain to the Metro and was climbing the steps to the Capitol Grille in twenty minutes.
  
    Freedom Fyter was sitting in a booth by the windows with someone I didn’t know. They both were soaked and had bar towels tossed over the shoulders. FF was laughing as the stranger was telling a story. Acting the story is more like it. The storyteller’s face was animated; his arms drew illustrations in the air, as he rocked back and forth on the bench to deliver the punch line. I thought FF was going to choke.
    I reached the table and FF waved me over to sit by the stranger. Struggling to stop laughing, he said, “Wonderbread, This is Mike Light. I met him at the March.”
    I shook Mike’s hand and slid in beside him. “You the reason the big guy doesn’t need bail money this time?” I asked, nodding my head in FF's direction. "I always said he needs a keeper."
    “Nah,” Mike laughed. “It’s the damn weather. The cops didn’t want to be there, and we shut the march down early. Besides, FF knows he needs to stay out of jail.” Mike reached down, picked up a half-gnawed chicken wing, and waggled in my direction, a conspiratorial grin stretching across his face.
So, that was it, Mike was part of the Vast Chicken Wing Conspiracy, a group dedicated to gaining voting rights for DC by unorthodox methods. I am trying to avoid the word “illegal.” I am trying harder than they seem to be. But, since last night, I was part of them, part of the VCWC.
    “Tell him, Mike. Tell him about Gohmert’s latest gem,” FF said, sliding some fries my way and waving for the waitress.
    “You know about Louie Gohmert?” Mike asked me.
    “Republican. Texas 1st district. Said during a House debate that DC didn’t need representatives in Congress because it had 535 representatives looking out for it.” Mike nodded and raised his eyebrows, asking for more. “So some DC activists, at dcist.com, I think, posted a comment on their blog thanking Gohmert for being their Congressman, and then they proceeded to flood his office with constituent complaints.”
    “You got it. That’s our redneck Representative,” laughed Mike.
    “OK, so what’d he do now?”
    “He introduced the 'District of Columbia-Maryland Reunion Act.' Sounds like a 3-hanky movie, doesn’t it? But it’s really an attempt to derail the vote on HR 1433, The DC House Voting Rights Act. Well, Steny Hoyer, he’s from Maryland, you know, well Hoyer supports HR 1433, and he’ll keep Gohmert’s stunt off the floor.”
    “It’s nice to have the Dems in the big chairs, hammers in hand, ain’t it, boys,” chuckled FF, reaching for his beer. “But tell him the best part.”
    I turned to Mike. “So get this. Gohmert’s plan is to ‘retrocede’ DC to Maryland....”
    “Retrocede?” I asked. “Who writes their stuff? Retrocede? I swear they just make this stuff up as they go along.”
    Mike shrugged, “Gohmert is a long time supporter of the Bush plan to make gibberish the national language.” FF laughed so hard that beer shot up his nose. “Anyway, the word is that some House staffers have drafted a ‘State of Texas - Republic of Mexico Reunion Bill’. Pelosi might could get the votes, but anyway it’d be tough to override the veto.”
    “Got room for one more?” We looked up and there was Uncle Bud. FF’s face went blank, and he stared at Uncle Bud for a few moments. Then his manners kicked in and he slid over. FF was raised right. Lots of strong women in his family and the men learned how act politely at an early age. “Thanks, FF. No hard feelings, I hope?” Uncle Bud smiled and extended his hand.
    FF scowled, then sighed, and shook Uncle Bud’s hand. “You hungry?” he asked.
    “No thanks,” said Uncle Bud, visibly relieved that FF had broken the tension. “”I came to ask my nephew here if he’s ready to go to work. But it can wait.”
    “No, it’s OK. Listen guys, I really have to go. FF, tell Mike what’s going on. I’ll catch up with you later.” I slid out from the booth and stood up, reaching for the windbreaker. “Mike, nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you around. FF’s got my number.”
    Mike nodded and lazily lifted his index finger in my direction as Uncle Bud and I headed for the door. At the front door, I stopped to zip my jacket. The rain was coming down heavier. I turned around to Uncle Bud.
    “You’re not wet.”
    “That’s right.”
    “But it’s been raining all day.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Did you take the Metro?”
    “Sure.”
    “But ...,” I stammered. I opened the door I gestured with an open palm at the rain.
    Uncle Bud turned around and walked over to a flight of stairs in the corner. I followed him as we walked past the restrooms. He stopped and pointed at a door with a sign that read “Janitor’s Closet.”
    “I used that door,” he said.