Oh happy day! What a great event to have been a part of. I watched and heard Aretha do her wonderful rendition (one great gust of wind would have taken her away, wearing that Flying Nun hat she wore), and floated in and around many important people who had actual seats in front of the podium. Security was everywhere, and kept all the rest of us kind of moving about. I did find an opening inside the line, following everyone's departure (everyone of note, I mean) and penetrated to the blue chairs which the new President and his entourage had sat in. Baby blue leather of the very softest kind. I was too slow, however, as before I could sit in it, security was on me. "Out," one of the guys said, with thumb pointed back in the direction I had come. I rose to my full height, not so tall, and waked away with dignity. One day, when my memory is a little faded, I will recall having sat in the president's chair on inauguration day.
The sun wass bright shining, the people were all dispersing, as I made my way over to the Eisenhower Building (it used to be called the Old Executive Building when I was still 'in play'). The building had not changed at all, from the outside. The lobby was different. Of course, all the security people were different. There was no more "How you doin' Strauss" with a pass-through wave, like in the old days. Now, post 911, there are many more guards, younger, and with all the metal detecting, and other investigative (and intrusive) equipment all set up. Only the old conference room chairs, where you had to sit and wait, if a call has to be made on your behalf, were still there. It was a cold lobbby, but then it had always been cold.
My appointment awaited me inside. I cleared security, just as I was told I would, but it still surprised me. I have been 'out' so long I remain uncomfortable around any and all security, especially federal security. I took the stairs to the second floor on the North side. I love the inside of the building, even if I do subscribe to Will Roger's assessment that it was the ugliest building ever constructed in the United States. Not on the inside it isn't. Not that a whole lot of people ever see the inside (except for the lobby). The halls are almost twenty feet high but narrow, with long runners on the floor. Deep blue runners with thin gold edges. The doors to all the offices are amazing. They are original, back to 1824, or so. They are about twelve feet high, and also more narrow than one would think. The doorknobs are funny. The real old beautiful ones have been kept, but are non-functional. They are a foot lower than the knew ones, which work. People were that much shorter back in 1824. We all know that, but it feels different when it is physically brought home in such a way. I knocked at the proper door I had been given the number to. A woman answered the knock immediately, and I was ushered in. The outer office was only about six feet deep but quite wide. The woman had a very small desk (kind of like the tables at the Willard's Horseshoe Bar) which she had obviously been sitting at, as there were no other chairs. She held another door open to the inner office, which opened into a square cavern. The ceilings were not dropped and the twenty foot height of them was a bit intimidating. the room was not that huge but the height of the ceiling made it feel like a small basketball court-type area. I had not remembered that.
I won't go into the meeting. The guys were there (and one woman). They were nice. They were polite. They were ever so very serious, which I tried to be too, although it was difficult for me. The real door knob I had so admired upon entry to the outer office, had had a beautiful eagle carved into it, so I asked if the office we were in was a part of the old Naval Offices which had been housed there. They told me that they were not there to make small talk (so I certainly knew I was still in the United States, because everywhere else in the world 'small talk' is used to sort of break the ice), and also that I certainly already knew what offices had been where in the building (which I did, but that still pissed me off because I did not like their presuming it, then saying it that way...but such is dominance). But the meeting went well. I did not make a fool of myself, inordinately. Not that I know of. They were kinder at the end of our visit than they were before. I don't like them and they knew that, which did not help. I still do not like them. I am not a youngster anymore, to be fooled with faux patriotic rhetoric or compliments. But I did not get any of that either, so I have no complaints. They had to listen to me, for reasons I do not know, and they did. They may contact me in the future, but it is not likely. They want to go their own way. It is just part of the game, and of life. They know it, and I know it. Somebody upstairs is new, and does not know it.
I exited the building through security, which, curiously, was nearly as tight as it was on my way in. Of course they had kept my passport, which made a stop there mandatory anyway. Amazingly, they thanked me for coming! Some of the old spirit is still left haunting that hoary old place.
The sun outside was welcome. I stood at the front of the building and took in the street and the passing people. Mild wind. Thirty degrees, or so. Not Wisconsin weather. Real degrees. No need for measurements in Kelvin. I breathed deeply. I was my own man. Obama was president. Life was good.
The Willard awaited. And here I am, back in my room. I had come back to change out of my new suit (not a Brioni, as I am not in that game anymore), and my old cashmere coat. I think I wore that coat the last time I was in the Old Executive, back in 1992, or so. It has remained beautiful. Swiss made, amazingly. I am still in my room, deciding where I am going to go. After I changed, I went back down to the Horseshoe Bar to join the after-inaugural celebration. The hotel is full to bursting with all manner of people from everywhere, and the ball starts at five, only a few hours away. The bar was full too, but my table was vacant with four empty chairs. I raced over to reclaim it, and took the same chair I had had the night before. A bartender appeared out of nowhere. "Welcome back Mr. Kristol," he said, wiping the table down, then stepping back to await my order. I could not talk, however. I was struck dumb. "You want another coffee?" he inserted into my stupid silence. I nodded, sickly. Finally, after he was gone, wedged back into the crowd, I breathed again. What had I wrought? I wished, right there, that I had not picked the Willard to stay in. That I might leave and go back to my real hotel. No such luck, however, and I was out of cash. I had not thought to replenish at an ATM. I could not take out my credit cards or charge to my room, as I was definitely not William Kristol, in name, attitude or philosophy. What to do. So I ran. I ran out on my first bill since I was a wee youngster with other young friends.
Here I am in my tiny room, hoping nobody knocks. I do not know what the charge for impersonating a New York Times Reporter/Columnist is in Washington D.C. Probably some reduced form of stalking or identity theft, I would imagine. What had I been thinking, last night? I wish I still drank. Then I would have an excuse for acting the role of a seventeen year old adolescent prankster. But I don't. I have only my insubordinate self. Only an hour earlier I had been meeting with some of the most important second line people in this country, and they listened to me seriously. And here I sit now, hiding in my room because I have acted like a total (admittedly, self-entertaining) idiot. Writing this blog. Maybe the people I met with will read this blog and nod their heads slowly. "We knew it all along," they will murmur to one another.
My dilemma does not end. In a few hours I have to decide on what to do about the Ball. I have an engraved invitation with my real name on it. I am told it is worth a thousand bucks out on the street. The question I am left here to ponder is simple. Do I chance it, try to just gut it out and attend the ball as me, or hit the street and try to make a quick thousand bucks to defray the cost of this trip. The cost's I did not really have, as the government paid. I received engraved invitations for everything from I know not who. I covered the israeli boy's expenses from the night before. So I could make a handsome profit. Of course, in the very back recess of my addled mind lays the other 'option.' I could go to the ball as William Kristol, the awful, right-wing, neocon, New York Times Columnist. The name on the invitation would merely be my 'cover.' I wonder what I am going to do.
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