I went down to Suki’s last Saturday to organize my notes and outline my piece on the president’s man-crush on Italian President Silvio Berlusconi, but the Great Magnet sent different winds, and altered my course.          

While there, a fellow Alaskan slapped me on the back and bought me a Gin and Tonic, and then established a steady supply line of cocktails while talking me up and hogging the juke box.

“It’s good to see someone from up there, Zawicki,” he said through the smoke of a bad cigar. “How long’s it been? Have another on me, goddamn there’s gotta be some Marty Robbins on the juke box…”

I felt warm and secure. The tight community of Alaska had sparked anew right there in Suki’s.

“Oh, man, you sure had a good gig up there, writin’ for that little paper in Eagle River,” he said as he set a spilling Rum and Coke on the table, and then bounded off to the juke once again.

“Say,” I thought to myself. “This guy’s a fan of my work. Groovy.”

“Sit tight, Zawicki!” he shouted, “here comes some Patsy Cline.”

Cline’s warm, velvety voice filled the bar, and I began to feel sublime.

“I go walkin’, after midnight,” she sang, “just a walkin’, just thinking of you-ooh...”

When my host returned to the table, a hard truth hit me like a brick. Maybe it was his L.L. Bean tree-bark cammo hunting fleece that gave him away. Regardless, I now knew who I was dealing with. It was Fort Richardson Public Information Officer Chuck Canterbury.

Terror.

Canterbury is no fan of my work. In January of 2003, he’d sent me on a fruitless assignment to Seward to cover the Polar Bear Jump Off, at which there were supposed to be soldiers from Fort Rich, but in fact there were not.

 He did set me up with a hotel room, and I brought along my dear friend and now editor/father of Insurgent 49, Aaron Selbig. Because of Canterbury’s incompetence, I decided to write a scathing satire of our mis-adventures, and lampooned his character viciously in the article. After that, he hated me, and refused to work with me.

That was the proudest moment of my professional time spent in Alaska. But now, he had me on a platter. He’d been feeding me drinks for the better part of an hour, and the beads of sweat on my face and my tingling extremities told me he’d put a little something of his own in each of them.

“Relax, Zawicki,” he said, calmly arranging his Zippo next to the ashtray and taking a long, proud hit from his cigar,  “it’s just a little something we in the military community like to call the ‘DOD cocktail.’ Enjoy the ride, Mother –”

I gripped the table and tensed up as he stood and left the bar. I attempted to remain calm; the Flack had done me good, and the bar looked a little darker now.

I looked to my left and observed a row of patrons staring at a TV screen, the Fox News logo vibrating red and blue on their shoulders. They looked to me like pigs at a trough. I looked away and noticed a group having smokes and enjoying conversation, and I realized the rift between TV and non-TV watchers, and decided it would be safer to cavort with the TV free set. I took one last look at the screen and was horrified to hear Brit Hume declare, “The Pope has exploded on a Vatican Balcony.”

I nearly fell off my chair as I lunged for the non-TV side of the room. When I got there, a redhead with a grey coat and Midori Sour leaned over and said, “Have a smoke, looks like the Pope exploded after all.”

I grabbed a newspaper off the table and tried to act normally, but as I focused on the page, I knew I could not escape.

“Pope Explodes On Balcony Outside Vatican Residence,” read the headline.

I looked up and smiled, and the group smiled back, and went back to their conversation. I scanned the paper for better news:

“Nine killed in Mosul car bombing.”

“North Korea announces New Jersey franchise.”

“President Bush to revoke Social Security benefits.”

Next, I focused on a lead:

“Pope John Paul II exploded earlier today on his Vatican balcony, and splattered onto a sea of well-wishers.”

I ran to the back of the bar and gripped a pleated, pleather booth like a scared child. And then it occurred to me that these mean days are apocalyptic by nature. Arrogant U.S. leadership. Wars. Daily death tolls from war zones that have by now become secondary news to things like pop star child molestation trials and brain damaged feeding tube deprived political footballs and my god doesn’t anybody care that the Pope has exploded on his Vatican balcony!?

“Can I get you another, honey?”

The waitress’ voice put me back on the rails, if only for a minute.