Big Brother's flunky gets really depressed

My old friend Winston Smith was at a window table, exactly where he said he'd be. He was drinking gin and looking rather dour, just like the old days.

Our meeting place, the Chestnut Tree Cafe, was nearly deserted. After all these years, it was going out of business, another victim of the recession.

"So," I said as I took my seat, "how's it going?"

Winston heaved a sigh. He'd mentioned on the phone he had a new job with the government but hadn't said what.

The cafe's lone waiter, the only employee I'd ever seen in the place, inched closer to our table, as eager as always to eavesdrop on our conversation but as disinterested as ever in taking my order.

We both awaited Winston's reply. "Awful," he said, finally, staring sullenly into his drink. "Just awful."

The waiter frowned in commiseration and then - ignoring my gesture for a drink - slowly began packing salt and pepper shakers, one by one, into a cardboard box atop the table next to us.

Winston had worked for the Bush administration for the past eight years, and it clearly had taken its toll.

The luckless fellow had had a cubicle-eye's view of every screwball, Constitution-trampling program that Cheney, Rumsfeld and crew dreamed up.

Early on, he was part of the Pentagon's short-lived Total Information Awareness program. He was supposed to figure out a way to identify terrorists based on their gait - until, that is, the media found out about the Ministry of Silly Walks and ridiculed it out existence.

Winston moved on to what he called the Ministry of Truth, planting bogus, upbeat stories about the war in Iraqi newspapers - until, that is, the media discovered it, too.

Later, he joined the Ministry of Wrong Numbers. He spent his days listening to wiretapped conversations and deleting the accidental intercepts of pizza orders, giggling pre-teen girls, telemarketing calls and the like.

"So, what are you doing now?" I asked.

Winston sighed again. "I'm head cashier at the Ministry of Mooches."

"The what?"

"I distribute bailout money," he replied.

"Well, that sounds rather exciting," I said with as much cheer I could muster. "You're helping restore America's economy and ensuring our money is spent wisely. Good for you!"

"You'd never know how tedious it can be giving away billions until you've actually done it."

I blinked. "Well, I read that the Government Accountability Office had raised concerns about the lack of adequate oversight of the money. Is it really that bad?"

The waiter chuckled derisively.

Winston took a sip of his drink. "Who do you bank with?" he said.

I fumbled for the name. My banks had gone through so many mergers through the years I routinely referred to it as BankBankBankBank and have trouble remembering its real name.

"Well, whoever it is," Winston said, "I can help your bank buy another bank."

"But I thought the bailout money for banks was supposed to be used to ease the credit crunch, not to enable banks to buy other banks."

The waiter rolled his eyes.

"Interesting concept," Winston said wearily.

I pressed on, trying to be chipper, "So, will you be working on the auto bailout too?"

"Yeah. I could probably set you up with a nice SUV, cheap."

"Wait a minute," I protested. "Aren't the automakers supposed to invest in green technology? Aren't there strings attached to this $15 billion?"

Winston raised two fingers to imitate scissors. "Snip, snip."

"So let me get this straight," I said, exasperated, "You've gone from working for Big Bro -"

The waiter cleared his throat loudly.

"The government," I said, continuing, "where everything you did was focused on uselessly monitoring other people or re-defining reality to excuse a series of abysmal policy failures. And now you're paying no attention whatsoever to anything?"

Another sigh. "When will you learn?" Winston said. "In the government, two billion plus two billion equals five billion."

The waiter leaned in and whispered, "At least."

There was a long, awkward pause.

"What about you?" Winston said, addressing the waiter. "You need a bailout?"

Daryl Lease is an editorial writer at The Virginian-Pilot.

E-mail him at daryl.lease@pilotonline.com.