Britney Spears at the Watergate!!!
Bridezilla and Wince were shopping at the Watergate Hotel liquidation sale. Bridezilla thought it would be so cool and so Washingtonian to get a piece of Watergate history for their very own dreamhouse--wherever that was going to be. "We just have to get an armoire," she was telling him. She pronounced "armoire" in the exaggerated version of the Lyons accent she had picked up during her junior year abroad. "C'est formidable!" Wince had his doubts whether the French still used that expression, but he kept his doubts to himself. His cellphone rang, and he rejoiced to see that his law school roommate had finally showed up. After a quick consultation, Wince told her he would go fetch Atticus Hawk from downstairs and be back in a jiffy. He kissed her on the cheek, because she didn't like her lipstick getting messed up in public, and hurried off.
Downstairs, Atticus was in the lounge staring apathetically at the barstools; he was still depressed about the departure of Alberto Gonzales, or, to be more accurate, anxious about his own choice of allegiances inside the Justice Department. But surely things would not change much? Just because he had been inside the DOJ circled wagons would not doom him, right? Ever since the announcement, Atticus had started having nightmares about the Guantanamo detainees who had committed suicide. In each nightmare, he would have a moment where he thought he was awakening from the nightmare, only to find a Guantanamo ghost in his bedroom; the ghost would point a finger at Atticus, mouth the words "your memo, your memo, your memo," then Atticus would scream and really wake up. "They have monuments to liberty. And freedom of opinion, which is well and good. But I explained to them that Architecture is not justice." Somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. Wince was giving Atticus a puzzled stare, and Atticus realized he had just been mumbling aloud some words from a poem written by a Guantanamo detainee. "Hey!" Atticus sqeezed Wince's shoulder, summoning back his mask of cheer. "Let's do this!" Atticus didn't give a rat's ass about finding a souvenir from the Watergate Hotel, but he knew finding something for his boss would be a legitimate excuse for not being in the office today. They headed upstairs, leaving behind Sami al Haj's poem "Humiliated in the Shackles" to be contemplated by the nodding Dubious McGinty, who had been sitting on the barstool closest to Atticus.
Six floors above them, Charles Wu had found and entered the Watergate Hotel room he had been seeking--a large room (almost a suite) with a fine view of the Potomac River. An auction house employee was leading a McLean power couple over to the bed to discuss with them the majestic oil painting on the wall above it. Wu opened up his portfolio and pretended to jot down notes about the dinette set he was circling, then nonchalantly approached the regal writing desk against the side wall. He sat down at the desk, then slowly opened each drawer to run his fingers across the grain like a fuddy duddy antique stalker. There! He found the false back in the right middle drawer, triggered the three necessary release buttons, gave a passing swipe with his longest finger, detected the paper, then nonchalantly removed his hand and closed all the drawers again. He scribbled the Cantonese symbol for "yes!" on his notepad, then closed it to wait for the saleswoman to come assist him with his purchase. He ran his hand across the polished mahogany, finally noticing the beauty of the desk itself, never giving a thought to the swath of Amazonian rainforest destroyed to provide its wood. Nor did he give more than a passing thought to the cat and mouse spies who had perished since regularly communicating with each other in this room in recent years. Wu was the only one who knew! He could hardly contain his glee. Wu did not notice that Henry Samuelson was watching this display of glee from a hand-held mirror in the hallway.
In the high-rise next door, Condoleezza Rice had already put on display her souvenir purchase from the Watergate Hotel--a Tiffany piano lamp. She sat down to work on her anonymous blog, whose readership had fallen off precipitously since she had gotten too busy to write more than once a week. "ZAK EFRON IS DREAMIE!" she typed. "BRITNEY SPEARS! PARIS HILTON! NICOLE RITCHIE! LINDSAY LOHAN" she added. There had to be a more dignified way to lure people to her blog?! She yawned, too tired to read the tedious emails she kept getting about how to expand readership of her blog. She got up to go make a smoothie. Deep down she knew the blog was really just for herself, but, every now and then, she wished it could reach more people. She sat back in her red leather recliner, and Pippin jumped into her lap. She stroked the cat and smiled. One by one, she was getting rid of all the cowboys standing in her way. The Heurich Society had relaunched with far more success than she had even imagined. And now there were neo-Nazis in Israel! World War III was shaping up to be even wilder than she had originally planned. She finished her smoothie and got up to continue writing in her blog, always feeling inspired after a few minutes of staring at the river. Hundreds of feet below her, Ardua was smiling, too.
Downstairs, Atticus was in the lounge staring apathetically at the barstools; he was still depressed about the departure of Alberto Gonzales, or, to be more accurate, anxious about his own choice of allegiances inside the Justice Department. But surely things would not change much? Just because he had been inside the DOJ circled wagons would not doom him, right? Ever since the announcement, Atticus had started having nightmares about the Guantanamo detainees who had committed suicide. In each nightmare, he would have a moment where he thought he was awakening from the nightmare, only to find a Guantanamo ghost in his bedroom; the ghost would point a finger at Atticus, mouth the words "your memo, your memo, your memo," then Atticus would scream and really wake up. "They have monuments to liberty. And freedom of opinion, which is well and good. But I explained to them that Architecture is not justice." Somebody tapped him on the shoulder, and he jumped. Wince was giving Atticus a puzzled stare, and Atticus realized he had just been mumbling aloud some words from a poem written by a Guantanamo detainee. "Hey!" Atticus sqeezed Wince's shoulder, summoning back his mask of cheer. "Let's do this!" Atticus didn't give a rat's ass about finding a souvenir from the Watergate Hotel, but he knew finding something for his boss would be a legitimate excuse for not being in the office today. They headed upstairs, leaving behind Sami al Haj's poem "Humiliated in the Shackles" to be contemplated by the nodding Dubious McGinty, who had been sitting on the barstool closest to Atticus.
Six floors above them, Charles Wu had found and entered the Watergate Hotel room he had been seeking--a large room (almost a suite) with a fine view of the Potomac River. An auction house employee was leading a McLean power couple over to the bed to discuss with them the majestic oil painting on the wall above it. Wu opened up his portfolio and pretended to jot down notes about the dinette set he was circling, then nonchalantly approached the regal writing desk against the side wall. He sat down at the desk, then slowly opened each drawer to run his fingers across the grain like a fuddy duddy antique stalker. There! He found the false back in the right middle drawer, triggered the three necessary release buttons, gave a passing swipe with his longest finger, detected the paper, then nonchalantly removed his hand and closed all the drawers again. He scribbled the Cantonese symbol for "yes!" on his notepad, then closed it to wait for the saleswoman to come assist him with his purchase. He ran his hand across the polished mahogany, finally noticing the beauty of the desk itself, never giving a thought to the swath of Amazonian rainforest destroyed to provide its wood. Nor did he give more than a passing thought to the cat and mouse spies who had perished since regularly communicating with each other in this room in recent years. Wu was the only one who knew! He could hardly contain his glee. Wu did not notice that Henry Samuelson was watching this display of glee from a hand-held mirror in the hallway.
In the high-rise next door, Condoleezza Rice had already put on display her souvenir purchase from the Watergate Hotel--a Tiffany piano lamp. She sat down to work on her anonymous blog, whose readership had fallen off precipitously since she had gotten too busy to write more than once a week. "ZAK EFRON IS DREAMIE!" she typed. "BRITNEY SPEARS! PARIS HILTON! NICOLE RITCHIE! LINDSAY LOHAN" she added. There had to be a more dignified way to lure people to her blog?! She yawned, too tired to read the tedious emails she kept getting about how to expand readership of her blog. She got up to go make a smoothie. Deep down she knew the blog was really just for herself, but, every now and then, she wished it could reach more people. She sat back in her red leather recliner, and Pippin jumped into her lap. She stroked the cat and smiled. One by one, she was getting rid of all the cowboys standing in her way. The Heurich Society had relaunched with far more success than she had even imagined. And now there were neo-Nazis in Israel! World War III was shaping up to be even wilder than she had originally planned. She finished her smoothie and got up to continue writing in her blog, always feeling inspired after a few minutes of staring at the river. Hundreds of feet below her, Ardua was smiling, too.
posted by washingtonwaterwoman | 4:40 PM
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