brendan halpin

I was awakened by the dog barking at 2:30 AM. This was followed by pounding on my front door. I stumbled downstairs to see what was going on, but, it being the middle of the night, I could only see the person on my porch backlit by streetlights.

“Who is it?” I said.

“SECDEF, Motherfucker!” came the response. And I knew Pete Hegseth was on my porch again. Reluctantly, I opened the door.

“Hey,” The Secretary said. “I know you!”

I sighed. “Yes. You showed up drunk here about a month ago asking if this was Hanscom Air Force Base. Remember? I explained to you that it’s over an hour away from here?”

He sat down on the steps in a most ungainly fashion, and, against my better judgment, I joined him.

“Yeah! My old buddy Brian!” He said, lifting a bottle of single-barrel bourbon in salute. He looked at the label appreciatively “Yeah, that’s right, I only drink the good stuff! I’m an important man!”

“That must be nice. I side with Emily Dickinson on the question of being nobody, of course, but can you—”

“Fireball shots!” he said, producing two nips of cinnamon whiskey from somewhere on his person. He threw one to me and said, “Come on! Shoot it!”

I patiently explained that I did not want novelty whiskey. I wanted simply to be left alone that I might salvage a decent night’s sleep. He told me I should drink the Fireball “unless you want a one-way trip to El Salvador.”

Unsure if he was joking, I drank the whiskey. “It tastes like the ‘red-hot’ candy of my youth,” I said. “Only horribly unpleasant.”

“That right there is a quality American product!” The Secretary said, apparently unmoved by, or more likely unaware of, my criticism. “Now listen, Bri—I need you to tell me the deal with this South Weymouth Naval Air Station.”

I sighed. “Surely as Secretary of Defense, you have access to far more information on decommissioned military bases than I, a mere civilian. What’s more, you have access to Wikipedia! The self-same site that I would use to find you—”

“Whoa, whoa whoa, slow down there, professor! Did you say decommissioned?”

“Yes,” I replied. “It’s no longer a Naval Air Station. I believe they’ve built condominiums on the site.”

“Well ain’t that a bitch,” he said. “How the hell are we supposed to invade Canada with no bases in New England?”

I was relatively sure that there were actually active military bases in New England, a hunch I later confirmed on Wikipedia, but, having no desire to assist this dolt in his foolhardy imperialist endeavour, I kept my counsel.

“You know that Hanson Air Force base you sent me to? Love that those kids got a base named after them, by the way. Mmm-Bop? Hell of a tune. Lotta people think it’s just bubblegum pop, you know, but it’s about how people just disappear from your life in the blink of an eye!”

The Secretary’s eyes grew moist, and he hoisted the bourbon bottle and took a big swig. “You know, people think it’s a dream being Secdef, but it changes people. Not me—I’m still Jenny from the Block, so to speak—but everybody else! They look at you different. In a mmm-bop they’re gone.”

He wept.

“There there,” I said, patting the Secretary on the shoulder.

He wiped his eyes and nose on his sleeve and looked up. “Anyway, Hanson Air Force Base. Do you know it’s a non-flying base? A non-flying Air Force base! What the hell sense does that make?”

I have only ever used civil aviation, but even I am aware that a large contingent of ground personnel are necessary to keep planes in the air.

“And now you tell me the naval air station is closed? So how do we invade…I don’t know. Vancouver? That’s a city in Canada, right?”

Given the Secretary’s inebriated state, I couldn’t resist a bit of a jape. “Any campaign against our neighbor to the north has to start with Mooselevania, that disputed island in the middle of Lake of the Woods, Minnesota.”

This of course was the home of a cartoon moose and not a real location at all, but I didn’t think The Secretary would know this. And indeed, he whipped out his phone, opened Signal, and sent “Mooslevania” to a group text.

“Signal. Great stuff. You know what I sent last week?”

“No, but, I do have to work in the morning, and—”

“Houthis guys think they are! Get it? Who. These—”

“Very witty, Mr. Secretary,” I said. “And while I do treasure our little chats, I’m afraid I really must insist that we call it a night. I have to work in the morning.”

“Lame! What happened to you? You used to be cool, man!”

Clearly the Secretary had mistaken me for someone else. He attempted to stand and quickly plopped back down on the steps.

“Listen, buddy, can I crash on your couch? I’m a little buzzed.”

“Surely you have a driver you can summon,” I said. The idea of having this man within the walls of my home was too loathsome to bear.

“Oh yeah! Perks of the job! Thanks, buddy! You’re a real one!” He began tapping his phone. “Pick me up here, send location. Oh, god dammit, I sent that to some chick!”

“Oh no,” I said. “You’ve been careless with sensitive information. Surely a first.”

“Hey, I was careful with the sensitive info! I didn’t tell you it was Brittany Murphy! Oh, shit, now I did! LOL! You know, from Clueless? Always liked her. Hit her up a while back. Haven’t heard back, but I’m pretty sure she’s just playing hard to get.”

Given that Ms. Murphy had died in 2009, I wondered who The Secretary was actually texting, but as I am not paid to be a security consultant for the Department of Defense, I let the matter drop.

“Well, I must return to my bed,” I said. “Safe trav—” I began, but he had already staggered away.

I slept fitfully, and when I awoke, I thought I might have dreamed the whole encounter.

I clung to this hope, shaking my head at what horrors my subconscious was capable of producing. But when I found a nip of Fireball in the pocket of my robe and a puddle of vomit at the foot of my front steps, I knew it had been all too real.