2/11/07
![After hearing from Uncle Bud about his DC bar, I decided take some time off work and visit. When I mentioned on my blog that I was going to DC, Freedom Fyter asked if he could come along. We were both curious about the reception a 6’ 5” openly gay Black man would receive at Uncle Bud’s. He assured me that he’d dress conservatively, which I took to mean that he wouldn’t be wearing one of his numerous Gay Power T-shirts by refinish69. (He also bet me he’d know at least two people there from DC area gay bars. He was wrong. He knew four.)
I simply intended to visit my Great-Uncle and wander around DC for a few days, but Freedom Fyter had other plans. He had read my earlier post about Uncle Bud’s place and wanted to explore the tunnels. I should have asked him why.
As we made the long drive to DC, he passed the hours making fun of my music and slipping in Broadway show tunes CD’s when I wasn’t paying attention. I pointed out that the show tunes things was a bit a cliché. “And a damn fine one,” was his reply. (He’d been at the classic British mysteries, so I was in for The Queen’s English until he switched to another nation. I said a silent prayer that it wouldn’t be the Australian authors or I’d have no idea what the hell he was saying.)
“We’re going to DC,” I said, as he rummaged around for a Manhattan Transfer CD, “You planning any political action?”
“It’s just possible,” he said, easing his face into a particularly cryptic smile.
“Will I need bail money?” I asked, remembering his last trip to DC. He drew quite a bit of attention when he joined the Code Pink crew dressed only in a pink Speedo. FF knew how to draw the media. (I met FF when we both were junior high gym rats in Philadelphia. Unlike me, he has kept his body in shape.)
FF considered my question for a while and replied with a shrug, “Only if we get nicked.”
“We? What do you mean “We,” white man? I’m giving you a lift to DC, that’s all. I have no idea what you’re planning. What are you planning? No stop, I don’t want to know. I’m a writer, not an activist.”
“Ignorance of prior planning - excellent choice, my good man. If Scotland Yard gets wind off this, they’ll be Hell to pay. You’re clear of it as long as you know nothing. Wise choice, m’lud.”
We drove through the West Virginia mountains in silence.
I knew that FF would never hurt a soul, so I wasn’t worried about violence, but I also knew that he’d go out of his way to embarrass the hell out any racist and/or homophobic idiot that crossed his path. But all bets were off when he got worked up over DC Voting Rights. I’d seen FF toss a Down River redneck clean across Woodward Avenue when we were in line to get into a Tiger’s game and the redneck was loudly expressing his political opinions to his buddies. He had allowed that DC was full of Blacks on welfare and they shouldn’t be allowed to vote until they contributed something to the country. And I was driving FF to the nation’s capitol where he was sure to take the White House Tour. Talk about waving a red flag at a bull.
FF doesn’t like silence so he suggested we play “Spot the Robert Byrd Earmarked Public Works Projects.” Thirty minutes later, as we left West Virginia and entered Maryland, FF had won 256 - 174.
I stopped the car at the last exit before hitting the Beltway.
“FF, I am going to regret bringing you here?” I asked.
“Come now, old bean. I’ve known you since 6th form. I’ve been your mate, man and boy. I’ll not bring dishonour on your family name.”
“Damn it, FF, you’re from Detroit. Talk to me, will you.”
“You’re my boy, dawg,” FF said softly, “Happy now? Oh, don’t mess with the black suitcase. Be sure none of your fingerprints get on it.”
With that he refused to say anymore. He hummed along to my Motown Mix and stared fixedly ahead. My reasoning self attempted to reassure my limbic system and my adrenal glands that they could relax. FF wasn’t violent, unless really, really, really provoked. And we were heading to a GOP hangout. “Serenity now,” I whispered pleadingly, “Serenity now.” Just a little above my right kidney, I felt an adrenal gland kick into overdrive.
We made it through DC without too much trouble. The traffic cleared up as we passed through Capitol Hill and drove into Southeast DC. Uncle Bud was at the bar when we arrived, but he’d left the keys to his house with the folks at the neighboring dock. House isn’t quite the right word, but boat doesn’t capture it either. I’m tempted to say “houseboat,” but that conjours up visions of stacked rectangles floating on calm, man-made, TVA-era Southern lakes with wizened senior citizens sunning on the decks discussing how cold it was at home yesterday in Buffalo, Minneapolis, or Detroit, or the latest medical scare that someone at the marina had undergone. No, this was a boat that was a house as well, but it was something more, or less, I’m never sure.
You have to understand that Uncle Bud had this thing about the Kennedys. He called them,“the Irish Mob,” without a trace of affection. He had spent much of his career dogging the Kennedys, looking for dirt. He was fond of saying that it wasn’t a difficult way of making a living. He had a grudging admiration of the Kennedy publicity machine, and he spent much of his free time trying to dig up evidence that shifted the viewers eyes from the carefully burnished halos earthward to the carefully arranged shrubs that hid the feet of clay. All of which is to explain why Fyter & I were poking around PT-110 looking for the guest quarters.
Uncle Bud had used his OSS connections during WWII, “the Big 2” as he liked to call it, to have PT-110 shipped to the Anacostia Naval Station in DC. He planned to re-enact JFK’s reported heroics, and, he fervently hoped, prove them to be impossible. (Don’t worry, you’d know if he’d found what he was looking for.) After the tests, Uncle Bud had the boat raised and converted into a modestly comfortable houseboat. In his retirement, he sold his Georgetown townhouse, bought the bar, and moved into the PT boat.
We rested for a while and when I awoke Fyter was gone. I found a note saying that he wasn’t tired and had gone to visit friends. He said he’d meet us at Uncle Bud’s around 8:00 pm. I cleaned up a bit, then walked down the dock and across the street to the side door of Uncle Bud’s Select Taproom.
The crowd was thin. Not much action on a Wednesday night. Fyter was sitting with Uncle Bud at a corner table that was in the shadows, but commanded a view of the place. Shadows were easy enough to find, as the regulars at the bar were GOP operatives tucked away in think tanks, obscure position government positions, K Street, government contractors, and various other places, whose natural environment was adverse to bright lights.
As usual, Uncle Bud sat with his back to the wall watching the door, while listening to Fyter. “Still taking the gun-fighter seat, I see,” I said, as I joined them.
He gave gave a look of sad disapproval and said, “Don’t be so damned dramatic. It’s my hearing aids. They work better in crowded places when my back is to the wall.”
“Sorry, too many mysteries lately. Good to see you. You look great. Mom sends her love.”
“I look old, which I am, so that’s about right. Sit down, order something to eat, and shut up while your friend here finishes talking to me.”
Ah, family. But since Uncle Bud and Fyter seemed pretty worked up, I decided to follow my uncle’s advice.
Fyter was talking about the tunnels. He wanted to explore them. Unlike me, Uncle Bud wanted to know why. He didn’t even answer when FF tried the “just curious” approach. Fyter switched to the antiquarian interest angle. Uncle Bud wasn’t buying.
“Listen, Speedo boy, the last thing I need is the DHS raising the Terrorist Alert level to Firetruck Red because I let some looney leftist run amuck in the tunnels.” I winced and turned to see how FF would react to the “Boy” comment. To my surprise, he ignored it.
“They know that this place gives access to the tunnels,” Uncle Bud continued. “They’ve blocked off the entrances to government offices. At least the one they know about. The pols can get booze through the front door now, if they want it.” [ed. note: The tunnels beneath DC that lead from the Taproom to many places in the Capitol are a holdover from Prohibition.]
“But they still lead to have exits and entrances in useful places, I bet,” said Fyter.
“Depends what that use is.”
“Democracy,” said Fyter softly, “I want to bring democracy to DC.”
Uncle Bud leaned back in his chair and let out a low whistle. “Don’t know that this place has had to much to do with democracy. I mean, we’re in party politics,” he said, a slight wave of his hand indicating the patrons of the bar. “We get Republicans elected and move money around to do it. Then we make more money from the Republicans we got elected.”
Uncle Bud paused for a moment or two to let his lesson in applied politics sink in.
“Democracy, you say? For who, exactly?”
“For the citizens of Washington DC, the nation’s capitol,” said Fyter, a little louder. He was getting worked up.
“Ah, shit,” swore Uncle Bud. “ The voting thing, right?”
“Got it in one, old bean. Voting rights for DC citizens,” said Freedom Fyter, leaning back in his chair and crossing his thick arms across his chest.
Uncle Bud worked at his drink and considered what Fyter had said. Somehow the old party hack had preserved a spark of idealism under the suffocating layers of partisan politics that had coated his soul. Fyter and I ate our burgers, drank our beers, and watched Uncle Bud struggle with a decision. After about five minutes, he got up and walked away from our table. He said over his shoulder, “Stay here and don’t bother anybody. I’ve got to make some calls.”
We waited for over an hour. The bar was quiet, although a man in the opposite corner from us, discretely dressed in a dark suit and tasselled loafers, seemed to be receiving a steady stream of visitors at his table. The comings and goings fit into a regular rhythm. A man, they were all men, would approach the empty seat and sit down. The newcomer would slide an envelope across the table. The man in the dark suit would open the envelope, pull out some papers, and flip through them. He’d return the papers to their envelope and slide them back across the table. Then he’d either shrug dismissively, in which case the visitor would pick up his rejected envelope and walk out of the bar, obviously distressed, or he’d reach into his briefcase and slide another envelope across the table. The men who got the new envelope looked extreme relieved and, to a man, went to the bar and ordered a drink. They exchanged back slaps and laughs with the growing crowd at the bar of others who had somehow made the cut.
I went to the bar and listened to the excited men while waiting for another round. It turns out that the man in corner was one of Delay’s former staffers. He was a K street insider, one of the early hires in the K Street Project. He was reviewing the credentials of Republican lobbyists. If they had the Delay approved bona fides, he was supplying them with faked documents establishing their Democratic credentials. The K Street Project was too important to be halted by a few indictments, jail terms, resignation, and loss of control of Congress.
About 11:30, Uncle Bud returned to the table, leading a wide-eyed young man whose puppy-like exuberance shouted “Congressional staffer being called over the grown-ups table.” Uncle Bud introduced the young man as an aide to Rep. Tom Davis (R-VA). The young man was there to explain Davis’ plan for the District to have a full member in the House of Representatives. Skippy, I swear that was his real name, told us that in order to get the GOP to support the bill Davis needed some magic and he had, indeed, pulled a rabbit out of his hat. The plan was that Utah, as red state as they come, would get an extra Congressional seat to balance the seat given to DC.
Uncle Bud looked at Skippy with the mild distain he reserved for overeager political amatuers. Skippy, nodding eagerly, was waiting for FF to reply. He has visions, I thought, of what a good photo op it would be. FF with the newly moderate Rep. Davis standing together for voter rights. Might win a few Democratic votes in the 2008 elections that weren’t shaping up too well for Republicans.
But Freedom Fyter was unimpressed. “It’s the Missouri Compromise, all over again,” said FF disgustedly. “If we let in a Slave State, we better let in a Free State. Protect the almighty status quo and keep slavery bubbling along for forty more years. It’s wrong and I want no part of it.”
Skippy’s pallid face went a few shades paler. “Slavery? No, no, no one’s talking slavery here. We just want the citizens of DC to be represented in Congress.”
“And the only way the residents of the District, two-thirds of whom just happen to be minorities, can have the same rights to be represented in the Federal Government as every other citizen is if another district is created that will likely always send a person to Congress who will cancel the vote of the DC representative? That’s what we should be thanking Massa Davis for? And, of course, we aren’t ready to be able to vote for a Senator yet.
DC citizens have the right to have a representative in Congress and the Senate because they are US citizens. QED, Skippy, my boy, QED. ”
Skippy looked like he’d been slapped in the face, except that he was still upright. Had FF physically slapped him, Skippy would have skidded a good way across the bar floor.
“Time’s up, boy,” said Uncle Bud, jerking his head toward the door. “If you hurry, you’ll be home before midnight, so you won’t be grounded.”
Dismissed and discarded, Skippy struggled awkwardly out of his chair and stumbled toward the door. Uncle Bud looked at FF and sighed. “That’s the best I could find. Voting Rights for DC isn’t real high on the party’s list.” He paused for a moment, looking around to see if anyone was watching. When he was convinced that no one was paying attention to them, Uncle Bud looked over a Fyter and asked, “What’s your plan?”
(End of Part 1)](B10F79EA-E157-4221-8E39-858FDF0EF035_files/shapeimage_2.png)
