Diatribune

     Uncle Bud shut the apartment door and walked down the narrow stairs that led to the bar. He dipped his head without thinking as he passed under the two lights mounted in the low ceiling. He was 85 years old, but his back was still straight and his long legs lightly carried him down the familiar stairs.
    He was pretty certain that his nephew wouldn’t stay in and rest as he had suggested. He’d probably contact his friend, Freedom Fyter, and Uncle Bud didn’t want to be around in case Freedom Fyter came to the bar. They’d had an unpleasant exchange the last time they’d met and Uncle Bud was still unhappy about it. He liked his nephew and his nephew’s friend, but sometimes things happen and feelings get hurt. He’d prefer to let some time pass before meeting Freedom Fyter again and trying to patch things up.
    But Uncle Bud couldn’t leave the bar just yet. He had some people to meet. He opened the door at the base of the stairs and walked over to the bar. Vic was standing there. He always was. He lived in a small room behind the bar and if the bar was open, Vic was the one who opened it. The bar closed when Vic felt like locking it up and sending everyone home. Vic and Uncle Bud had known each for years, and when the Iran-Contra mess had gotten hopelessly bungled, Uncle Bud had managed to quietly extract his protégé at just about the same time a new person named Vic appeared on the scene and took up residence behind the bar at Uncle Bud’s Select Taproom.
    Vic placed a Bass ale in front of Uncle Bud and nodded toward the far end of the bar. Uncle Bud thanked him and headed in the direction of the nod, a small smile spreading across his face. Maybe his wait wouldn’t be that long. Jake was already there.
    Bud slapped his old friend on the back, a slap carefully timed to coincide with his taking a long pull of beer. Jake, spitting beer and choking, wiped his mouth and swore at Bud. “For Christ’s sake, would you quit that. It wasn’t funny in ’41 and it’s not funny now. And quit creeping around. Why don’t you get a metal hip that creaks or wear a bell around your neck? You’re a menace, you old bastard.”
    “Good to see you’re still alive, you older bastard,” said Bud, sliding onto the stool next to Jake. “You know that none can us can die until you do, so would you mind slowing down on the scotch."
    “You make one wild statement under fire to calm down a bunch of kids who are wetting themselves, and they never forget it,” grumbled Jake, swallowing the remainder of his scotch and wiggling his glass vaguely in Vic’s direction. The bartender silently filled the glass and noiselessly returned to his position at the far end of the bar.
    “You know you’re only alive because the Italians kept firing over your head trying to hit me. They always thought the tall guy was the officer.”
    “I’m 5’ 9” and that’s still taller that average,” barked Jake, his good humor temporarily sidetracked by the time-tested poke at his height. It was his one sore spot.
    “Any man who claims to be 5’ 9’ isn’t a hair over 5’ 7,” a loud voice cut it.
        “To Hell with short jokes, we’re all still alive and’ve carried more long coffins into the cemetery than I’d care to count these past sixty years,” said a softer, quieter voice.
    “Mike!” “Duke!”
    “Besides, it’s my birthday, so lay off Jake. I guess I’m the main dish that needs carving.”
    “Vic!” called Bud. “Two more down here. Well, gentlemen, the party is complete.”
    The four old men walked over to a table in the corner, exchanged handshakes all around, and settled in. “To Duke,” toasted Jake. “Who has finally done us the double courtesy of turning eighty and being alive for his party.”
    “It was a close race,” grumbled Duke Shaw, “and there’s times I wasn’t sure the prize was worth it. I’ve lost knees, a bit of a lung, most of my hair, my first heart, and ...,” his voice trailed off. There was silence all around until Mike Callahan stood and lifted his glass.
    “To Louise, a wonderful woman and sorely missed,” he said softly. The others bowed their heads as they raised their glasses. Duke brushed away tears. His wife of over 50 years had passed away five years ago and he still felt the loss as an empty place in himself.
    The old men sat quietly waiting for Duke to compose himself and signal that the party could continue. After a few minutes, Duke asked no one in particular, “Do you hear that wind? We’re in for a nor’ easterner. In April, no less. Straight up the coast. Hope the boat’s secured, Bud.”
    Bud smiled, “I was worrying about the poor thing. She’s an old Vet like us, after all.”
    “What do say we head down to the dock and make sure she’s secured?” suggested Duke. “It’ll do my new heart good to spend some time on Navy steel again.”
    The men looked around and shrugged. Why not? It hadn’t started raining yet and it was Duke’s birthday. It suited Bud fine, as he was still a little concerned that Freedom Fyter would show up.
    “Let’s go,” said Bud. “Mike, you bring your car?”
    “Yep, it’s right out front. Let’s go.”
    The four old men climbed into Mike’s Prius and made the short drive to the dock.  Jake called home to tell his wife of his change of plans and where to come pick him up.

    Bud’s boat wasn’t any boat. It was a WWII era PT boat. It was in fact PT 110. Uncle Bud had managed to get it to the Anacostia naval yards after WWII so that he could test if JFK’s claims of heroism were possible. They were, to Bud’s eternal displeasure. PT 110 was now his home.
      The birthday party made its way through security and pulled up next to the dock. A small, trim woman in a windbreaker and jeans was sitting on the dock in a folding chair. She was watching the storm churn the water. The wind tossed her shoulder length gray hair about. “Alice,” called Bud, “I’ve brought the party home. Mike was worried about the boat in the storm.”
    “More likely, he wanted to feel some water beneath his feet,” Alice said, rising and turning to greet the men. “You old Navy men are all the same.” She kissed Duke lightly on the cheek. “How are you, old fellow?” she asked him warmly.
    “I’m still here and have left my 70’s behind.”
    “Well, that leaves just Jean and me, I guess,” said Alice. “Although I’m worried about Jean. Living with Jake is hazardous duty and has been known to age people before their time.”
    “You know that Jean just turned 70 last January, and the two of us are holding up just fine,” said Jake proudly.
    “I suspect that she’s holding you up most of the time,” Alice shot back.
    The others laughed.  Jake knew when to be silent.
    “And there’s Mike!” said Alice. “How’s Margaret?”
    “She’s doing great. Had a small scare there with her heart, but since we’ve convinced Jake to wear a bathing suit when he’s using our pool, she’s been fine.”
    “I have been known to leave the fairer sex breathless,” said Jake matter-of-factly.
    “It was her heart, not her lungs, Jake,” replied Mike. “It was the shock of what 90 years can do to the human body to be exact.”
    “91,” corrected Jake. “And just last week Jack La Lane asked me how I kept so fit.”
    “OK, boys, I take it the party has moved to the boat and it’s time for me to go home. The testosterone levels around here are overpowering, aged, but overpowering.  And I believe I smell goat hormones oozing out of Jake there. Had another implant to keep up with Jean ? Is there a goat with a complete set of balls within one-hundred miles ?” Alice poked Jake in the ribs as she walked past. “I can see it’s going to be a long night full of old stories and old lies. Bud, I’ll call in the morning and check for survivors.” Alice kissed Bud hard, and Bud dipped her low. He gracefully raised her up and twirled her twice before she headed toward her car with a backwards wave of her hand and a flip of her hair. She moved smoothly and lightly like the dancer she still was. The men watched her go and then turned to see Bud’s eyes still on her, his smile fixed on his face.
     “Marry her or I will,” said Duke.
    “She won’t have me,” shrugged Bud. “She says she never liked marriage.”
    Alice’s Mini Cooper disappeared through the gates and a gust of wind knock over the lawn chair, sending it clattering into Duke’s walker. He stumbled, but Mike caught his arm and helped him settle himself.
    “Alice is still sweeping ‘em off their feet,” muttered Jake.
    “C’mon. Let’s get on board before the damn rain starts. You’d think we were a bunch of school boys dazzled by the neighborhood beauty,” said Mike.
    “I still am,” acknowledged Bud, “but, yeah, c’mon, I don’t like the look of this weather.”

    The four men gathered in the galley. They took their accustomed places. They’d spent so many hours together on this boat over the years they’d become known as “the Galley Cabinet.” Republicans in and out of government had sat with them and laid out problems before them, seeking their advice. Often it was just the four of them, reliving the past and talking about the future. Tonight it was a birthday party.
     They drank a bit and swapped stories from their youth in WWII. Jake had been their lieutenant and the others his prize students. Their war was fought behind the lines and, in their private moments, they still marveled that all four lived to tell the tale. So many had not.

    After a while, the topic turned to the state of the Republican Party. By now, Jake was in full swing and living up to his nickname, “The Bard.”
    “Things happen, they really do,” began Jake. “Causes cause effects that effect other causes that cause more effects and world wobbles on its way. Since things happen, you might even say that someone, somewhere, possibly knows what causes what. Most of our honored professions revolve around linking causes to the effects that whiz by our lives like so many errant meteors that we fervently hope won’t intersect with our small, wandering path through the thicket of random causes."
    “When an effect slams into us, and we stagger away to count our limbs and look about to measure the size of crater left behind, we turn to the honored professions for an explanation that will steel our resolve to get up from our crouch, uncover our heads, and start moving again."
    “It was once so simple. The artists and the preachers pretty much held the field. Sometimes they collaborated, sometimes they fought, sometimes they blamed each other. Such is the human lot. Get two viewpoints in the room and it will become startling obvious to both that there can be only one viewpoint. Then it's best to hide under a good strong table, and not mention the unnumbered viewpoints that weren’t invited into the room."
    “Of course, these days, the artists and the preachers have competition. You might even say that they have been pushed out of the main room, and the philosophers, scientists, politicians, con men, historians, conspiracy buffs, ad men, and the occasional paranoid schizophrenic who appears at the right time and place, fill the role of explicator of cause and effect."
    “People need stories. They need explanations. And the one profession that has always provided explanations is politics. Down through time, wily politicians have always known the secret that Reality exists, things happen, but you lead people by creating the cause that furthers your ends. Those ends usually involve staying one or two steps ahead of the people you’re leading. Never let the people catch on, because the stories are important to people, and when the stories are revealed to be glitter and pixie dust, the people get restless and unruly.”
    Jake paused to sip a while on his drink and re-charge. The fellows waited patiently. They’d heard the tale before and knew they’d only heard the prelude. It was about this time, after the pause for a sip or two of his drink, that Jake would steer the monologue to the topic of the night."
    “Things do happen. Trees fall in the forest all the damn time, whether anyone’s there to hear them or not. But if someone does hear the crashing and the thud, you can be sure they’ll make up a story on the spot to explain what happened."
    “In 2000, the tree fell in Florida, and the stories flew fast and furious. I’ve often wondered if any started here,” he said with a nod to Bud, who angrily shook his head. When it was said and done, and the Kid, W, a Prince Hal in the Emperor’s New Clothes, wriggled into the White House. Unlike the wayward Hal, instead of shrugging off the licentious cronies of his dissolute youth, he brought his pals with him. They sat in the Oval Office, put their feet up on the furniture, lit a few cigars, considered the prostrate Democratic Party, and began weaving their tales. There was money to be made here."

        "In 2001, a huge tree fell with a deafening crash. A few didn’t hear it - there’s always an oblivious few. But most of the world did hear and the stories began to flow into the vacuum of cause and effect."
    “The neo-cons heard the crash of the tree in their new offices in the White House, the Vice-President’s office, the Pentagon, and the Think Tanks, and they reached for their invasion plans. The story was told and retold, until it was repeated across the country. The neo-cons heard the rumbling crash of the tree, and before the echoes ceased, a new sound filled the air, a low, rumble of America arming itself and spreading out over the globe to avenge our country on the evildoers and to seize what America wanted and needed. They imagined an eagle, swooping out of sky, all beak and talons, shredding the haters of our precious 'life-style'".
    “The Theocrats heard the crash of the tree as a long-anticipated judgment on America by the Old Testament God in full wrathful, smiting mode. The City on the Hill had turned away from Revealed Truth and embraced Sin.” Jake deepened his voice as he spoke in the capital letters favored by the Theocrats.
    “They heard in the crash Michael’s sword lashing out against a host of Godless Agendas ruthlessly advanced by Feminists, Homosexuals, Atheists and assorted other Enemies of the Truth. The heard in the crash the call to another Great Awakening that would roil and roll from the faithful Heartland of America outward to the sinful coasts, sweeping Sin and Error before it.”
    “But first they had to clear up the nagging issue of which head would be anointed with the Holy Hairspray and lead the Christian soldiers,” added Mike. Jake was not pleased to be interrupted. He knew he had held the floor longer than usual, and Mike had opened the way for more commentary. Jake plowed on.
    “When the old men in the gray suits heard the crash, they stopped to consider their options. They had become old men in suits by out-living their flashier contemporaries, who had leapt without looking. They measured their victories in gains accrued over generations, not in a single election or a quarterly balance sheet. They out-lived FDR and were now turning back his assault on their privileges. They out-lived the Soviet Union, and now Russian petro-rubbles were flowing into their offshore corporations. They had seen Newt, and Armey, and DeLay, and Lott rise and fall. They knew that Frist would soon fall, as well. None of the shifting heroes of the Right had the staying power of the old gray suits."
    “The old gray suits had seen the rise of the Theocrats, and they had adjusted their church memberships to cover every eventuality. Granddad’s church was likely Baptist, Methodist, or Congregational. Poppy’s generation had been born into the High Church Episcopal establishment faith. Their children were seeded throughout the Evangelical Mega-churches and the Southern Baptist establishment."
    “The old gray suits have family members and relatives on corporate boards, in Intelligence agencies, Brokerage houses, Oil companies, political offices, and the Courts.  When they heard the crash, they waited and watched, hands calmly resting on numerous levers. They also worried because the wrong son had found his way into the White House, and he would get to make the first move. The old gray suits waited for patiently for him to flounder, as he always had. Then they'd quietly pick up the pieces, and set things moving the right direction again."
    “They busied themselves tightening their alliances with the Neo-Cons and the Theocrats. Their support was quiet, their profits concealed, their influence bent toward moderating their unruly boys, whose excesses threatened the families hard won and long held positions."
    “The old gray suits fretted as the Cronies crawled out of the swamps and rallied to their Frat Boy President. They’d heard the crash and couldn’t believe their luck. The Head Crony, in charge of the government when no questions would be asked, no challenges made to even the most obvious abuse. The idea of Checks and Balances was replaced by the Era of No-Bid Contracts that promised huge Government checks to swell the Cronies bank balances. Party On, Mr. President.”
    Jake halted. He seemed to have wound down. “Getting cynical in your old age, Jake?” asked Bud.
    Jake shrugged. “It’s just a story about how our Party has been laid low. Things happen.” Jake trailed off.
    Duke spoke for the first time in a long while, “It’s a story, all right. No doubt some of it is even true. What’d you think, Mike.”
    “I’m not sure I care anymore,” said Mike. “It’s all stories, take your pick.”
    “Too many years reading philosophy, Professor,” said Duke, and he turned toward his host. “Bud? You’ve been awfully quiet. You don’t usually let Jake go on so long.”
    “Jake loves his own voice, we all know that. I hate to deny an old man his few small pleasures.” Bud paused to consider his next remark. “Anyway, I think the answer’s simpler.”
    “Simpler?” Jake muttered with obvious distaste. “What’s the point of a simpler story?”
    “It just might be the truth,” said Bud calmly. “But remember, simple stories are often the strangest.”