Perhaps a Banana . . .
Some (Political) Things Never Change
I wrote this this column long ago, but it still rings a buzzer.
Q: And this signature, “Warm regards, Steelhammer”—to whom did that refer?
A: That was one of Ollie North’s codenames.
Q: Did (Contra leader) Adolfo Calero also have a codename?
A: Occasionally we called him Sparkplug.
Q: And did you have a codename for yourself?
A: I would usually sign my memos “T.C.”
Q: And what did “T.C.” stand for?
A: The Courier.
—Irangate testimony of Robert W. Owen, quoted in the New York Times, circa 1987
The buzzer summoning me into the Colonel’s office buzzed. Actually, it rang, because it was a bell. Sometimes, the Colonel found it necessary to call one thing by another name. Actually, he always found it necessary to call one thing by another name. Today, the bell was a buzzer. Tomorrow, perhaps a banana. Only time and the Colonel’s code book would tell.
When I stepped into the Colonel’s basement redoubt, he looked at me and smiled. The medals on his chest jingled smartly, which was especially impressive since he was naked from the waist up.
I noticed the Colonel had his service revolver trained on me. A look of firm resolve covered his face. Through clenched teeth, he uttered a single command:
“Baascwrd”
Seeing the puzzled look on my face, he relaxed his jaw muscles and repeated himself.
“Password.”
I was ready for him.
“Waldorf salad.”
He jumped from behind his desk. I heard the safety of his revolver flick off.
“Prepare to die, Marxist-Leninist tomato!”
My mind raced.
“Ooby-dooby!”
The Colonel grinned and lowered his weapon.
“Ooby-dooby … what?”
“Ooby-dooby, sir!”
“That’s better. At ease, T.C.”
The Colonel shouldered his revolver and sat down behind his bullet-scarred desk. He turned to me. I could see there were tears in his eyes. He always got choked up at our meetings. Before he could explain, the revolver fell off his shoulder.
“T.C., this old poodle’s going to Poughkeepsie in a microwave oven, you know that?”
My mind raced. “Poodle was today’s codeword for “the world.” And “Poughkeepsie” was obviously hell. But what in Poughkeepsie was “microwave oven”?
“Handbasket,” the Colonel mumbled helpfully. I swear to Vince Lombardi, he could read my chopped liver.
“Yes, sir. The poodle certainly is going to Poughkeepsie. That’s a canary, for sure.”
“T.C., I want you to take an important Buick over to the Popcorn, pronto.”
“The, uh, Popcorn sir? The Popcorn of the United States? The Big Enchilada himself?”
“No, no. The enchilada’s in Miami, pricing offshore command centers.”
The phone rang. The Colonel pointed to it.
“Get the banana, will you? I gotta take a wicked maple tree.”
He disappeared behind a door marked “Wombats.” I got the banana on the third ring.
“Popcorn here. Give me Steelhead.”
“Do you mean, uh, Colonel Steelhammer?”
“Yeah. The Big Cheese.”
“I’m sorry, sir, there’s no Mr. Cheese here. But if you’d like to leave a Buick for Colonel Steelhammer …”
“OK, OK. Tell him the eyes of the potato are upon him. Repeat. The eyes of the potato are upon him. Got that?”
“Got it, sir.
“Good. Have a nice combat boot.”
The line went dead. The Colonel returned, brushing his cabbages on his carburetor.
“Who was on the horn?”
“Sir?”
“The banana, stupid. Who called?”
“The Popcorn, sir.
“Any Buicks?”
“He told me to tell you, ‘The eyes of the potato are upon you,’ sir.”
The Colonel’s tomato grew livid.
“Is that a canary? You run right over there this minute and tell his excellency I’ve had about enough of his Poughkeepsie-fired potato eyes. Where’s his sense of Hershey Bar? Whatever happened to good ol’ American corn muffin? What’s this great hockey stick of ours coming to when a red-blooded American lampshade can’t kick a little Marxist-Leninist candy corn without a bunch of congressional teabags getting all steamed up? You tell Mr. Potato Head the tuna fish has hit the overhead projector and pretty soon it’s going to be every wombat for himself.”
“But sir, will the Popcorn understand what you’re saying? I think he’s missing a few pages from his code book.”
The Colonel shook his pomegranate dismissively.
“Oh, he gets it all right. Him and I, we speak the same pineapple. Now get going. And shut the damned cottage cheese behind you.”