Vet Talks Monkeys in D.C.
Man in bar lays down the state of the political disunion.
By Brian Dolan

He heard us speaking politics, even though the o­nly sign in the Zoo Bar Café, Washington, DC, specifically outlaws “politikin’ and peddlin.’” And though we had little to sell, Rick sure was charitable with his opinion.
“Democrats and Republicans? Fuck ‘em man—there ain’t no difference. See—Democrats are just ‘good cops’ and Republicans—‘bad cops.’” The mutton-chopped beard (goatee-less, even) heaved, moving en masse with the shaking jowls. “Republicans are assholes and Democrats are too, o­nly they lie about it and introduce bills just to get them shot down.” Rick was frustrated. “They are all bullshit—everyone in this city. My name is Rick Owens and I am the o­nly o­ne in this city who isn’t full of shit.”

I wanted to believe him as I took stock of myself, and I think Joe did the same.

“See I was six, no… 1956… 1963… I was six years old when John F. Kennedy was shot, and that was worse than 9/11, let me tell you.” Rotating his beer around, he eyed me, then Joe. “That was pure evil.” Eyes peered up from under bushy brows, shadowed by dim overheard fluorescents. “And LBJ had his car scrubbed down, see? You ever done graffiti?” His tightened stare broke into unfocused spaciness, as he took a long sip of his ale. Joe deflected the moment’s tension with a quick “no.”

“Well, McGeorge Bundy handed LBJ the documents two days before the assassination—and let me, let me tell you--”

“Who was Bundy, Rick?” The bartender, Dave, danced his words, making him harmless enough to ask Rick just about anything—at just about anytime.
“Ah, Dave, he was in LBJ’s administration—an aid or something. But you know, fuckin’ thing about McGeorge Bundy—you know, he was a Skull and Bone just like Kerry and just like Bush—all dressed up, the three of them, kissing skulls in the dark whispering incantations TO BONES.” Rick’s voice rose to uncomfortable levels, but Dave smiled simply, and Joe’s eyes were glued. “It’s JUST… I mean. Eh, fuck it, man. Fuck it.”

Rick slipped from his spinning stool to the ground and lumbered toward the toilet, when halfway there his broad, flannelled back spun around with index fingers raised. “And THIS war, this IRAQ War and all the others since World War II are just about killing Americans—Vietnam was a weapons test, and now George Walker Bush is killing Americans for Halliburton’s profit.” He took a few more steps towards the latrine and then turned back around. “And listen, it wasn’t protests in the street or public sentiment that ended that war in the sixties—soldiers were killing their officers out there.” Rick looked at us, and the white peace dove o­n my baby blue shirt—the o­ne Steve bought me from a trendy store in London. “The military wouldn’t fight,” Rick said. “I knew a guy that ‘fragged,’ or at least said he would—never was too clear o­n it. But, you know, that’s why I was so nice to guys under me—fuckin’ a.”

The door to the Zoobar’s o­nly bathroom shut, and we all hoped Rick would find some relief inside.

“You know, my dad sat at the State Department’s Vietnam desk just before the war,” Dave said as we heard the door lock and the seat hit porcelain. “They pulled out all the guys that had been covering that region for 20 years and replaced them with ‘yes-men’—same thing today I bet. Man, our intelligence community--”

“And George Herbert W. Bush’s grandfather was a Nazi, made all his money by investing in Auschwitz,” Rick continued as he spun his tool in the right direction. “The Bush crime family made a killing o­n Auschwitz, a killing.” Rick smiled sickly. Paused. “Literally, they made a KILL-ing.”

His eyes remained fixed o­n Joe’s as the young man took a sip of his first legal beer. “Shit, you guys are bright—you know what I’m saying.”

I apologized for getting old Rick going and offered to buy his next drink, but Dave assured me Rick lived for this. “He’s a smart guy—real sharp.”
Rick returned from another quick trip to the bathroom.

“But see, the world is run by baboons right now—and people don’t want the world run by baboons. Don’t think for a second, people want baboons to run things.”

“Yeah, Rick, but people are always going to fuck each other,” Dave added knowingly.

“Dave, baboons aren’t the o­nly animals that fuck—I know that.” And Rick’s donkey laughter filled the bar as I stared at the plaque above the liquor shelves. Cradled between Jack and Hennessy, a shiny copper plate glued to a thick slice of fresh oak stated:

“Gregory E. MacDonald: philosopher, bartender, friend, marine.”

He was twenty-five years old, according to Rick’s estimate—but the truth is he was twenty-nine. MacDonald was killed when the light armored vehicle he was traveling in rolled over o­n June 25, 2003, in Iraq.
“That’s why I have his job,” Dave said.

Other articles by Brian Dolan.

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