Prologue

I hate flying into DC. 

The chaos always starts at whatever airport you're departing from – and it doesn't matter WHERE that is, because the people going to DC are invariably the same.  Forget about the summer tourists, I'm talking about "The DC People".  The suit-wearing, matching designer luggage & briefcase,  and the overall 'uptight & conservative' look I can spot from 3 gates away.  The ubiquitous Burberry trench coat & speakerphone conversations always cause my shoulders to ratchet up a few degrees.  Between the monied political types & well paid private business types, the over-privileged attitue and commensurate seat assignments invariably means I get a damn middle seat.

However, this flight I get the rare treat of a port-side window seat.  A consistently bumpy flight has ensured the GAO accountant next to me has spilled at least one gin & tonic on me, but as the plane follows the Potomac on it's decent, I get the nice view straight down at the Pentagon, watching the Patriot missile battery track us as we make the big right turn to line-up on our final approach into Reagan National.

Waiting at the luggage carousel I can hear at least three separate speakerphone conversations as the lawyers & accountants confirm their car service pick-ups.  Immune to the use of headphones or (god forbid) airpods, they mimic favorite reality TV stars as they hold their phones in front of gaping mouths, speakerphones loud enough to get past my tinnitus with surprising clarity.

My father's battered old Land's End bag finally makes it's way around the carousel, it's old thread-bare monogram beginning to show signs of outright fraying.  Refusing to upgrade to a newer style of roller-bag, I'm convinced that being able to carry my bag like a grown-up is somehow superior to the matched-luggage of the consultants.

Predictably, the rental car counter is packed.  It's Spring in DC, and apparently it's pouring rain, making the marble floors slick & squeaky, and I'm reluctant to set my bag down in the puddles.  The little voice in my head mentions it'd not be a big deal if I had a new roller-bag, but that voice rarely has anything nice to say.

In the car, mildly soaked, I struggle to find to find light switches and HVAC controls, but finally I have the defrost on, the windows begin to clear, and somehow I even find WHFS on the radio.  Confident that I remember the way with 100% clarity, I plot a stop at my old favorite Walgreens for Excedrin. The DC Spring pollen has already lit my head on fire, and my CostCo sized Excedrin was forgotten in my rush to leave on short notice.  Cussing a blue-streak a few minutes later, I blame the dark and rain for missing my exit, but the profanity does little to reduce the cranial pounding.  I know I've been awake too long, and the late-day airline coffee is pulsing a staccato rhythm behind my sinuses.

At the Walgreen's in my old Shirlington neighborhood I sit in the car for a few minutes, waiting to see if the rain will let up, enjoying the end of The The's "This is the Day".  Once the DJ starts talking, I decide to make a run for it, slipping & nearly killing myself on the wet marble entrance floor.  A slow-moving, clearly disinterested employee is mopping the floor and he admonishes me to slow down.  Muttering to myself about less-slippery ice rinks I've been on, I look for the 'pain relief' signs, invariably in the back of the store behind the aisles of high-margin seasonal junk and candy.

Making my way to the check-out counter, a little kid runs right into my right thigh, and bounces down onto the floor, looking at me wide-eyed.  She's a cute little tow-head, and I try to smile behind my headache and hold my hand out to help her up.  Her little fingers grasp my index finger with surprising strength, and I hear her whispering something to herself.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"You're the man."

"What man?" I ask, confused.

"In Mommy's picture."

Realizing I have no idea, or any desire to continue this conversation, I turn towards the check-out counter, just as a harried looking woman rushes around the end of an aisle, clearly looking for this confused little girl.

Just as I begin to recognize the woman's coat & the familiar fall of blonde hair across her shoulder, the little girl points at me excitedly, saying, "Mommy, it's the man from your picture!"

The woman looks at me, and I feel the world slide from under my feet.