It was Friday evening. Whew! I heaved a sigh of relief. Outside, in the basking DC warmth, the shadows had lengthened and purple dusk splayed the skies to the west over the Iwo Jima Memorial.
After a fairly unnerving week filled with nail-biting moments of unbearable tension at the Pentagon, I felt almost lighthearted to know the weekend was clearly within my scope.
As I cleaned up my desk for the weekend, I felt a pinge of sorrow for the chronic overtime workers and gofers who hovered impatiently at their cubicles checking email or tweaking those custom animated powerpoint slides for the upteempth time. Many were consummate professionals: deft communicators and the quintessential powerpoint rangers -- a derogatory nickname issued to those who were supposedly more adept at navigating slides than navigating shoal water. My co-workers and senior colleagues looked busy but I could see their eyes habitually darting to the clock on the wall that ticked relentlessly, hoping their Captains and Senior GS's would soon depart the pattern. The phones rang endlessly, they barked orders here and there, and papers were strewn across the tables like we were standing trial. So immersed were they in their work, they did not appear to realize the day had already ended. So us low-level subordinates faced the daily dilemma of whether or not to "bail" before our bosses, and in the five-sided puzzle palace, doing so would become another"Cuban Missile crisis."
As I watched and overheard the tension-filled discussions among the senior officers, I felt charged with a sense of duty, even though my thoughts were already tuned into my Friday evening program of attending to my fixer project after work. These were dangerous times and we were a nation at war, with Congress passing the Authorization to Utilize Military Force (AUMF) after the 9/11 attack on the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. At this moment, though, the impact of 9/11 had receded to the background and the news of the hour was the US invasion of Iraq. The US had flexed its military muscle for the world to see, with spine-tingling air attacks that rocked Baghdad. This week we had watched in bemused wonderment, US ground troops in Iraq, the media ingeniously embedded with the troops, able to gain first hand exposure and broadcast first rate coverage back home in real time. Even Geraldo Rivera by drawing lines in the sand was able to provide details of their position and plans to attack Baghdad. There was no turning back now. It was already May 2003. President George W. Bush, onboard the USS Abraham Lincoln, had just declared the end of major combat operations, terminating the Baath Party’s rule and removing Saddam Hussein from office. Yet, the end of major combat operations did not mean peace had returned to Iraq. The country was marked by violent conflict between US-led soldiers and insurgents. The guerrillas were using suicide bombers, roadside bombs, improvised explosive devices and rocket propelled grenades to create a near civil-war situation, and the threat to our troops waspalpable.
I watched on the ominous bank of TV screens the courage of our soldiers on foreign soil. I felt a sense of isolation from the dynamics of the war while I sat in the safe confines of one of the most fortified buildings in the world, with the Kevlar-coated beams and reinforced-concrete walls, retrofitted with 2-inch thick, bullet-proof windows.My office in the B ring of the of the Pentagon had only received moderate collateral damage when American Airlines Flight 77 flew into the E Ring of the 4th Corridor on 9/11. At that solemn moment I was on station onboard the venerable super carrier USS John C. Stennis off the coast of San Diego, totally unaware and oblivious of what was happening at home.
Stennis was homeported in North Island NAS, San Diego
As colleagues who were working in the Pentagon told me, our offices had survived the attack itself, only filling up with acrid smoke and debris that led to structural damage. Thankfully, no one had been hurt – these were my friends, shipmates, and fellow Public Affairs Officers.
Deliberately switching my thoughts to the impending weekend, I allowed myself to think of the grimy, sweaty, back-breaking work that lay ahead in the renovating process. Just thinking about it got me frustrated. We were way behind schedule and every task was getting done at a snail’s pace. What was precariously worse, I was not yet legally entitled to raise a concern. My name was still not on the deed, and technically, any work that we did could be considered a head start or a dead loss depending on whether I could purchase the house in the end. I spoke with Tracy and her agent this morning about the technical issues of ownership. Neither sounded overjoyed that the proposed settlement date had come and gone without a firm commitment from me. I could sense undercurrents of doubt and uncertainty as they considered different options. My thoughts refused to meander into areas that could spell doom for me. I intensely wanted to get involved in the financing because the broker was agreenhorn and was oblivious to the intricacies of closing on a loan. Yet, the broker had been my friend for the last year, and I was reluctant to hurt her feelings.
The more I thought about my situation, the more reckless it seemed to become. I suddenly stopped in my tracks as I walked to my Ford Ranger. What was I doing? Did it really make sense to pursue the deal? The house was located in an alien neighborhood which gave me a menacing and hostile feeling. I had to work cheek by jowl with contractors who were strangers to me and about whose skills I had not the foggiest notion or interest in learning. I was going to spend colossal amounts of money without batting an eyelid on a house that I may never own. Would I be living proof that a fool and his money are easily parted? Who would have the last laugh, I wondered. Would it be me or they? Would I be the foolish dreamer or a patient, judicious strategist?
These thoughts swirled in my brain as I drove to Anacostia. I was thankful to see the roads were uncongested, considering that it was still rush hour on Friday.
The beltway I-395 South afforded a speedy drive and before long I was on South Capitol Street. I felt a sudden need to get my bearings of the area. I slowed down and pulled to a side. Dusk had given way to star-spangled inky black skies. Washington by night. My shackled spirits broke loose and soared toward the expansive view of the Capitol, the majesty of its pure outline a brilliant white in the night light. The Washington Monument stood sentinel, the spotlights enhancing the dramatic effect of the column rising gracefully to meet the night amidst the rustle of the national flags surrounding it. I gazed across the green acres of the Anacostia Park, a hushed blanket of darkness now, and the historic area, once called Uniontown. Few people are aware that Anacostia Park extends over 1200 acres with hundreds of acres available for soccer fields, picnicking, basketball, tennis, and other family activity. I had visions of my son, Colin, playing among the colorful summer butterflies that feed on wetland plants preserved at Kenilworth Park, the Aquatic Gardens and Kenilworth Marsh, which are part of the Anacostia Park.
South Capitol St Bridge (aka Frederick Douglass Bridge)
I sped up the hill to Congress Heights and before long I saw the lights glowing at 500 Lebaum Street. Surely Jerry and Jimmy would have done a good job. I parked my Ford Ranger on the road and walked in. Disappointment clouded my mind like the billowing cloud of dust that greeted me as I opened the back door. The progress was not impressive by any stretch of the imagination. I coughed loudly, then held my breath for the dust to settle. I groped my way in and found Jerry bashing a sledge hammer against the wall, his face and hair caked in a thick mixture of chalky gray and brown dust. After the stress at work, I had a sudden urge to bash the heavy sledge hammer against the brittle plaster myself, even though a tiny voice in my head whispered I had to make a trip to Home Depot. I plucked the tool out of Jerry’s hands and was soon raising thick fanning clouds of plaster dust. I tried to imagine senior officers and co-workers who irritated me, as I bashed the hammer with all my might against the brittle wall. As it crumbled effortlessly, lightheadedness enveloped me. The therapeutic value of the task was apparent as my frustration slipped away. Totally engrossed in the task, I forgot the flight of time and just managed to get to Home Depot in Maryland before they closed for the day. I bought up items needed for the drywall, carrying them with Jimmy, puffing and panting under their collective weight.
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