WAITING FOR REAGAN

On Thursday afternoon I decided to take up my place in line on the Mall outside the U.S. Capitol and wait (and wait and wait and wait) for as long as I had to until it was my turn to file past Ronald Reagan inside the Capitol rotunda.

Fearing ten-hour lines, I had planned to bring a book with me. Hearing just before I left that lines were closer to four or five hours, I decided to bring along the latest Atlantic Monthly, each issue of which basically is a book, and the latest issue of the Oregon Commentator, each issue diligently mailed to yours truly by the current editors.

I didn't know which Metro stop was closest to the start of the line, so I guessed and hopped off at Capitol South. Bad choice. As it was I had to walk at least ten blocks, thanks in part to the obnoxious but necessary barriers obstructing access to the east end of the Mall, but also to the fact that Capitol South was nowhere near the line. (Smithsonian would have been much better.)

Also notable, the reader boards inside the Metro scrolled a message that began: "In Remembrance" and (paraphrased) went: "In honor former President Ronald Reagan, the Metrorail will close at the regular time of midnight tonight," followed by info on the late-night Metrobus running between the Capitol and someplace in DC nowhere near me. So, in remembrance of the former president, the Metro will close at the normal time? How generous!

On the Mall it was not obvious where you had to go to get in line. Oh, the line itself was easy enough to see, but twice as I was approaching it I was stopped by Mall police and told I was heading in the wrong direction. Eventually I saw the entrance: five officers standing next to a handwritten "Enter" sign.

So I got in line. And waited. And waited. The organization here was much better, but obvious. Still a couple hundred yards from the Capitol itself, metal barricades directed the line back and forth for fifty yards (at least) in columns or rows five deep. I looked ahead five "lines" ahead. Lucky bastards. Lucky bastards who had been there for hours ahead of me, though. After that fifth column (no pun intended, not that it would make any sense anyway) the line broke away past the reflecting pool (not the long one by the Lincoln Memorial, thankfully) and through the tree-lined area leading up to the Capitol itself. Far off in the distance, I could see people way up on the Capitol steps, minutes from getting in. I tried to put them out of my mind.

Despite being dressed in a long-sleeve collared shirt and slacks, it wasn't all that hot, I thought -- but soon enough, the line took me out of the shade and into the sun's glare. Weather forecasts had predicted T-storms for the day, so a lot of people had brought umbrellas. Now those umbrellas were being used for shelter from the sun. Old men (excuse me, members of the Greatest Generation) sat on fold out chairs. Tank tops were rolled up to reveal (mostly pleasant) midsections. Good thing the Red Cross was there to hand out Wal-Mart brand water, "Sam's Choice," that was also ubiquitous at the WWII dedication a couple weeks past. (The label boasts of the water's being "enhanced by adding essential minerals for an even more satisfying and refreshing pure taste." Yeah, right. (The copy is exact because the bottle I got two weeks ago is still sitting in my refidgerator. It's that good.)) My first bottle was cold, but subsequent bottles hadn't the benefit of sitting in a bucket of ice. I don't see why not. They'd had the foresight to buy what looked like acres of water, but not acres of buckets and ice to cool them. Seriously, I've never seen more bottled water in one place. Wal-Mart surely made a killing. How very American; Reagan would have approved.

And of course this was all about Reagan, the leader of the free world who changed both his country and the world and also loved jellybeans (licorice especially). Further up along the line handmade tributes to the former president had been placed here and there -- snippets of his speeches, brush-painted thanks to the man for his accomplishments, flowers and more flowers and yet more flowers. Outside the line a woman was taking pictures, and somebody asked if she was from the media. Actually, she said, she was Ronald Reagan's nurse at George Washington University hospital in 1981 after that jerk shot Reagan. The pictures were just for her scrapbook.

Departing from the snaking rows and approaching the tree-lined area, security demanded, one by one, that we reveal our cell phones. Mine had a camera, and so I had to check it in. I deposited it into a brown paper bag, filled out a little form (that amusingly enough asked for our phone numbers) and hoped it would meet me on the way out.

In all I spent over four hours in line. Which means I could probably rattle off an endless string of anecdotes about the scene. But I'll save you; this is longer than I intended as it is. Eventually, after explaining to a group of tourists that the statue atop the Capitol dome is a Roman guard (what am I, a tour guide?) and offering a few more factoids about the place (sans pedestal the Statue of Liberty could fit inside the Rotunda, FYI) I got inside. Just before entering, I looked back down the hill at the line and thought: suckers.

Once in the building, (non-Roman) guards asked that we doff our hats and file into two separate lines, right and left. Without thinking, I moved to the left -- Reagan would not have approved -- and walked up the stairs into the Rotunda. But as it was, the two lines made two passes past the casket, which meant for most of the first pass I went past the man moving left to right. Ronald Reagan most definitely would have approved of that.

Also, there was a section for the press, and it included at least a dozen press photographers. So what did they want my cell phone for? A sign saying "no photos" would have sufficed. This was, as I mentioned, a very solemn occasion. Surely even the tank top-clad tourists would have behaved.

And the moment itself was unique. Appropriately solemn and almost silent, this was altogether different than the time I first visited a tourist-overrun Rotunda last September. On my way out the door I made several "last" glances at the casket, until finally making a final last glance and walking out. It didn't look any different than it did (for hours, endless hours) on C-SPAN, but I was glad I'd done it.

On the way out I went back to reading Mark Bowden's endless article about Al Sharpton (and his treachery) in the Atlantic. I followed the girls in front of me through a lobby, down some stairs, around a corner, past Orrin Hatch and his entourage and eventually ... into the basement? Here I was by the private Capitol subways, where a line of staffers waiting to get in stretched off into the distance in the large hallway. Obviously I had taken a wrong turn. The girls, I realized quite quickly, were Hill staffers. I should have paid more attention. My first thought was: I'm dressed exactly like a staffer! This is my chance to ride the Hill's secret subway! I'll ride it to the Hart/Dirksen and take the non-secret subway back home! My second thought was: I want my phone back.

So I went up to an officer and asked the way out. Rather than being given directions, I was told to wait for an escort. Another officer arrived, and led me toward the exit. I asked how long the staffers had to wait in line. He asked: How long did you wait? About four hours. He replied: "They're waiting about two." (This had been reported on Wonkette at the time, but I didn't see it until today. I read that often.)

I exited the building on the under-construction East face and headed in the direction he told me would take me down to the proper exit. But within a minute I was stopped by yet another Mall policeman, who told me this was an off-limits area. Which way did I have to go? Way back in the opposite direction, around the barriers and down Constitution. Only then could I cross back and get to the approved exit. This was at least four times the distance. Here I'd already spent five hours from leaving my front door to exiting the Capitol.

But I had no choice, so that I did, and retrieved my contraband picture-taking phone. While there I took a few moments to sign one of a dozen (filled) condolence books. What do you say to a deceased man of "the ages," in a few lines of a book that no one will read? Addressing my comments to the man himself, I told him he was the first president of my childhood, that I didn't know much about him then but had learned a lot in subsequent years, and that I was thankful for all that he did. And that I hoped there were licorice jellybeans in heaven.

From there, I picked up one final bottle of overrated water and walked up Pennsylvania to the Archives-Navy Memorial metro stop, and hopped the regular subway home.

---

posted by WWB at 9:17 PM |