Paying the Bills

Oh, crap.

"Bill! ¿Que honda, mi perro?"

Note to Self: Find a new bar.

"Not too much, Bill. Guess you're hiding out, eh?"

He plops down on the bar stool next to mine. Oddly enough, he's looking much better than the last time I saw him. Somehow fitter? Haler? Happy? Is that Armani?

"From what?" he asks, jovially.

Jovially.

I roll my eyes--maybe hiss, too. It's hard to say. He ignores me and raises a finger to the bartender.

"A Tecate and a shot of Patrón for me."

"That's pretty expensive," I mumble.

He looks at me. "No," he corrects, "make that a Negro Modelo."

"Funny."

"And a Red Stripe for my friend. Hell, give him a shot, too."

"Thanks, Bill, but that's not necessary."

"What is, Bill?"

"Oh, I don't know," I shrug, "coming clean to the Feds."

Bill laughs heartily. Funny, when I tell a joke, you can hear a pin drop; but when I'm deadly serious, the room explodes in laughter. The bartender puts down our drinks.

"Ooh," Bill coos, "how about that lovely corned beef and potatoes?"

"They're out," I damn-near scream. The bartender gives me a queer look. "They're out."

"Yeah. We're ... uh ... out."

"Maybe I should go back to the kitchen, talk to mi hermana, see what she can rustle up for her Mexican brother."

"She's gone, quit," I say, hurriedly. I just want him gone. "The new cook's Russian. All she can make is pork."

"Whatever," the bartender sighs, and walks away.

"That's no problem, Bill. I love pork."

"So, I've heard."

Bill gives me a quizzical look. "What's the problem, Bill? I thought we--I thought--you know--I thought we'd made a connection. You wrote some really nice things about me in Tome."

"You read that?"

"Well ... one of my aides ..."

"Of course."

"So then, what's the problem, Bill?"

"Well, Bill," I exhale deeply. "You are under federal investigation for corruption."

"Oh, that," Bill pee-shaws. "These things happen."

"Pay-to-play happens?"

"That's Blago. Not me."

"Hmph."

"Do they have me on tape?"

I look at him. Incredulous.

"No," he whispers, harshly, "do they? What have you heard?"

"Dude, I take care of Poohbutt all day. I don't hear shit."

"Oh yeah," Bill chuckles. "'Talkin' Shit ... Literally.' That was funny--or, so my aide says."

"Some company gives your PAC a couple grand, so you, Governor, give them a fat million-dollar contract?!"

"You're oversimplifying things," Bill says, stiffly.

"Damnit, Bill. What happened to-" I start whining mockingly- "I served 14 years in Congress. I was deputy minority whip? I met with Saddam and Slobadan and the Sudanese?' What the hell happened to Blair, Jo, and Tootie?!"

"Ahhh, Tootie--"

"What the fuck happened to Vanessa del Rio, nigga?!"

Someone gasps. Bill jerks back.

"Oooh ... ahhh," I stammer. "Did I just say that? I'm sorry. I've been watching a lot of Boondocks lately." I inhale ... exhale. "It's just that--well--now more tha--why the quick buck, Bill? Just why?"

Before he can respond, there's a commotion at the door. We all turn. A well-tailored, well-muscled, well-armed phalanx of crew cuts, sunglasses, lapel pins, and funny, white ear-wires quick-step into the bar. Between them flows a river of Saudi robes. Suddenly, the place reeks of petrodollars. On the next wave of visitors comes a hearty, twanged laugh. The entire bar gasps.

"Bill?!"

He and his Saudi/Secret Service entourage head directly to us. Immediately, thoughts of Rodney King flash through my mind. Old habits die hard. I cringe when this Bill slaps me and the other Bill on our backs. I hope someone's getting this on their camera-phone.

"Ha, ha," he chuckles. "Bill ... Bill."

"Bill."

"Uh ... Bill?" I ask.

"A round on me! For everybody in the hooooouuuuuusssse!" the new Bill trumpets.

The crowd cheers. The bartender gets to work. New Bill gives me a deep, penetrating look. Damn, he's creeping me out. He does have charisma. Suddenly, I want to find a cigar and a little, blue dress.

"Now, Bill," he says to me, "don't be so hard on my boy, Bill, here. He's a good man, a fine politician, a fine Latino politician--a key demographic, you know."

"Oh, I know."

"One day he'll make a fine Commerce Secretary when this all blows over and, who knows, maybe one day, a fine President. Insha'allah."

The Saudis give a crude chuckle.

"Besides," Bill continues. "I taught the man everything he knows."

I give Bill a heated glare. He shrugs uncomfortably. 'Nuff said.

"Now, I'm off to go 'make a speech,'" Bill concludes. "See ya in the funny papers!"

Bill, the Secret Service, and the Saudis flow out of the bar. I watch, dumbfounded. The bartender slaps the tab down before me.

"That'll be $247.82."

"He didn't pay?!" I gasp.

The bartender shrugs.

Bill shrugs.

"We're always paying for what that man does."

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Questions with State's Craft

Saturday was co-workers Christmas party time for my wife. She's in international development so any social gathering with her ultimately turns into a geography lesson. Latin America, sub-Saharan Africa, Saharan Africa, Eastern Europe, Asia, the Central Asian Republics. By the end of the evening, you end up stuttering "Stan"s and feeling ignorant. And you can't really cover it up with humor because jokes like "I hear T.O. was elected president of Eatadickistan" generally fall on deaf, PC-ish ears.

But I'm a true nerd. I like being ignorant (ranging from unknowledgeable to downright trifling) and learning from other folks. I'm also a political junkie. So, Saturday was like a day in the candy shop for me. The caramel sundae with loads of maraschino cherries for me that night was getting to hang out with a bunch of State Department wonks.

Being a former anarchist, I could never work directly for the federal government, but I'm morbidly curious about its inner workings. So, I was champing at the bit to ask a bunch of questions. I finally found a willing subject. This bureaucrat demanded to remain nameless (which is easy since I can never remember names) so we'll call her NIA (for "Neo-Imperialist Aparatchik"--I guess I still have some anarchistic leanings), keeping in mind that I may just be lying about the woman's gender. So, I fired away asking about the recent Secretaries of State.

Colin Powell

Colin Powell did a lot of good things with State. Under Clinton, the department had suffered from a lot of neglect. We were fairly demoralized and severely underfunded. We were really excited when Powell came in. He brought in a lot of great people, real professionals. We were raring to go. Unfortunately, he was totally ignored by the Administration. Cheney, Rumsfeld, and Rice rendered him utterly powerless. We ended up with very little to do. He should've, at least, quit way before he did.

Condoleeza Rice

Well, she's definitely been a lot more powerful than Powell. She actually has the President's ear. Administratively, she's pretty much ignored the Department, and there are some things we hope disappear with her. But the Department's a lot more powerful than it has been in awhile, and she's fixed a lot of problems within the Department itself. Unfortunately, a lot of those problems were created by her when she was NSA.

So, what is everybody saying about Hillary Clinton?

Well, I was expecting Bill Richardson.

Ooh, I've got something you should read. But are you excited about Hillary?

We're excited about Obama.

So, what do you think about her?

Well, she's definitely internationally known [and known to rock a microphone]. I mean, she is a superstar of sorts. So, she'll probably be able to get a lot of things done. She'll probably be listened to. But, as far as an administrator, who knows? There's absolutely nothing in her resume that tells us if she'll be any good or not. She's never been a diplomat. She's never run a huge bureaucracy. There's just absolutely no way of telling.

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My Dinner with Bill

I sit down at the bar and am immediately greeted by a gritty blond and a Rolling Rock draft. God, it's been so long. I used to be a regular here at Clagaire's, my favorite Irish pub, the place I always used to go when I wanted to get back in touch with my roots. But that was a lifetime ago. I live in the suburbs now--DC but a faint memory.

My guest slumps into the bar. His designer suit is wrinkled and tan and is hanging awkwardly off his bulky frame. His goatee is graying and spreading haggardly across his face. I wave him over, and he sits down next to me, wreaking of pathos.

"Wanna beer?" I offer.

"Yeah. Bud. And a shot of Jack."

"Not tequila?"

He looks offended. "No. Why?"

"Oh, no reason," I quickly say.

I don't want to cause my boy any more heart ache. He's had a rough year. Chock full of disappointment. Who needs to add insult to his innumerable injuries?

"So, how you doing, Bill?" I ask.

"Fine, Bill," he says, stonily. Suddenly, his lower lip starts quivering. "Just fine," he blubbers.

"You should try the corn beef and potatoes," I quickly offer. "They use cilantro."

"Cilantro, Bill?"

"Yeah. Cilantro, Bill. The cook's Mexican."

"Ahh," he says, mistily, "mi gente."

"Yeah. Your gente."

See, my boy and I have a lot in common. We both inexplicably call ourselves "Bill." We could both stand to lose a few pounds; we're both Third Culture Kids; both products of immigration. He's half-Mexican, half-white. I'm half-Jamaican, half-African-American. He's bilingual ... I could stand to lose a few pounds. We both have an utterly magical way with the ladies. And no matter how hard we try, no matter how immensely qualified we are, we both tend to end up screwed in the end quarters.

"Commerce?" he squeaks, as our corn beef comes. "Secretary of Commerce, Bill?!"

"I know, Bill," I say, heavily. "Another round, please?!"

Too late.

"I served 14 years in Congress," Richardson starts, heatedly. "I was deputy majority whip. I was chairman of the Congressional Hispanic Caucus. I've negotiated with Saddam Hussein, met with Slobadan Milosevic, the Sudanese, and those wacky North Koreans."

"They are wacky."

"I've been Secretary of Energy and the US ambassador to the United Nations. I've brokered peace--no matter how temporary--between the Palestinians and Israelis. I strengthened the UN's Environmental Programme, promoting 'ecologically sustainable development'--whatever the hell that means. I'm actually the governor of a state, worked for Kissinger's State Department, and I've still got a mean, fucking curveball."

"I know, Bill. You're preaching to the converted."

"Did I mention I have a way with the ladies?"

"Well, Bill, that goes without saying." I pat him on his beefcakey shoulder. "If life were a meritocracy, you'd be President-Elect. You were the only candidate who was truly qualified for that office."

"But Hillary stole my Experience argument, and now she's stolen my State Department."

"The brother screwed you, what can I say?"

"Commerce," he weeps. "It's like being rejected by Blair, rebuffed by Jo, Tootie and Natalie don't want anything to do with you, and, next thing you know, you're screwing Mrs. Garrett, wondering where it all went wrong."

"Ah, yes," I sigh, heavily. "The Facts of Life."

"What the hell am I supposed to do with Commerce, Bill?"

"I don't know, Bill," I confess. "I guess you could tour the country, test out all those weigh stations on the highways."

He groans.

"Human trafficking?"

He sniffles.

"Ooh. I got it!" I pipe up. "You could 'investigate' the dangers of internet porn. Hold hearings. 'Interview' some of the stars. You'll be swimming in silicon for months, my brother!"

That seems to do the job.

"Hm," he ruminates. "I wonder what Vanessa del Rio's doing these days."

"Hell, the way you have with the ladies, Bill," I smile, "you come March."

"You're a good man, Bill Campbell."

"And you're a great one, Bill Richardson."

We raise our shot glasses and down more Jack, my patriotic duty done for the day.


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