I am sorry I am not a double-super-secret Beltway reporter with double-super-secret access to all the double-super-secret people who know all the double-super-secret secrets. I am sorry about this because it means that I will not be part of the noble work involved in tailoring the shining armor of the First Amendment until it fits the ghost of Donald Segretti. But the biggest reason I am sorry that I am not a double-super-secret Capitol Hill double-super-secret newshound is because I am not capable of seeing all the good in people.
I mention this only because one of the primary arguments being advanced by the people who support Karl Rove, the embattled spawn of Lee Atwater and a tack hammer, is that Rove was only trying to keep some of their number out of trouble. I am informed by some of my double-super-secret colleagues that a "little-known" part of Rove's official duties is to be a double-super-secret pal to them, offering them double-super-secret guidance to keep them from pursuing stories that might subsequently embarrass them. Considering that my most vivid memory of Rove's saying anything is the great moment that my friend Ron Suskind recounted when Rove, in an obvious attempt to maintain his secret identity as a double-super-secret nice guy, is overheard yelling that someone is going to get biological functioned like he's never been biologically functioned before, I found this something of a surprise. But that was before my recent trip to Washington.
I am not a good Washington pedestrian. The avenues are too wide, and I always miscalculate the time it will take me to beat the light. Plus I have an unfortunate tendency to rubberneck -- "Look! The Lincoln Memorial! The Archives! Joe Lieberman, bending over backward!" -- and then I stop paying attention to what I'm doing, and some bus full of tourists from Iowa comes perilously close to launching me across the National Mall.
It happened again recently, except this time it was a church group from Pascagoula. Just as the bus was about to strike me, though, two strong arms whisked me to safety on the opposite sidewalk.
"Gee," I said. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," said Karl Rove. "Just watch where you're going next time, OK?
"Yes, sir," I replied.
"And don't forget," he said, "Joe Wilson and his wife have a bastard son who's a pederast."
And then he was gone.
Naturally, I was quite shaken, so I sat down on a bench across from the National Gallery. I was just catching my breath when a vaguely roundish form flashed by my like lightning and began to roll ferociously in the dirt. He stood up and dusted himself off, holding a wasp between two fingers.
"Close," said Karl Rove. "Might've stung you there."
"I'll say," I replied.
"See you," he said. "And, remember, Joe Wilson's wife used to date Idi Amin."
I sat on the bench a long time. After awhile, I began to feel a little hungry, so I walked gingerly up Constitution Avenue toward a little bistro I know. I settled into a back booth and ordered soup and some scallops. I was about to eat the first scallop when a huge breeze blew down from the ceiling, and I found the fork wrenched from my hand.
"Careful," Karl Rove said. "Gotta check this for red tide."
I could barely move. He chewed up the scallop and rose from his seat.
“You're good," he said. "Make sure you chew everything 30 times before swallowing -- and Joe Wilson's wife used to dance the bunny hop with Kim Jong-Il."
I was beginning to think that Washington might not be for me. Perils around every corner. I wandered over to the bar, figuring I might get a cold beer and relax a bit. I ordered one up and, after I had taken my first long drink, I heard something coming out from under the battered Nationals cap worn by the person on the next stool.
"Friends don't let friends drive drunk," he said. "And Joe Wilson's wife was a taxi dancer on Guadalcanal."
"Karl!" I said. "You're back."
"Never left," he replied. "Now, you know of course that you should know when to say when, right?"
"Of course, I do."
"And that Joe Wilson's wife sold Hungary to the Soviets for eight bucks and a can of Sterno."
“Really,” I said.
"No doubt," he went on. "A stitch in time saves nine, and Joe Wilson's wife wallpapered the den with microfilm."
“Indeed.”
"And never put off until tomorrow what you can do today -- unless you're Joe Wilson's wife, with a suitcase full of yellowcake for sale."
“You don't say.”
"Oh, yeah," he continued. "Never forget that you neither a borrower nor a lender be."
“No kidding.”
“Absolutely not. And this above all ... ."
“Yes?”
"To thine own self be true -- and Joe Wilson's wife is a green tree frog."
I made it home in one piece. I have never forgotten the wisdom Karl Rove so selflessly imparted to me, and I will remember it the next time I hit the fleshpots of the Beltway, where the double-super secrets are the coin of the realm and everyone needs a double-super-secret friend to keep them on the straight and narrow, or at least on the sidewalk, when the buses roll by.
Charles P. Pierce is a staff writer for The Boston Globe Magazine and a contributing writer for Esquire. He also appears regularly on National Public Radio.
