(Washington, DC) In 1988, I once hailed a cab to cross town between meetings and instructed the cabbie to "Step on it!" Tearing east at the busy midday along H street, we suddenly wheeled left and north, away from Lafayette Square Park, and squealed through the corner at the Hay Adams Hotel. Entering 16th street, a figure was caught squarely ahead of us in the crosswalk: Pat Buchanan - in long lightweight black raincoat, armload of dossiers pinned below his elbow. The hack hit the horn, maybe the gas too - certainly there was no sensation of braking - and the figure instantly and gracefully attained a "flying" posture: both arms forward like Superman, body parallel to the pavement.
Vacating the plane of transit, stage right, his belly was surely higher than the hood of our cab and - like Keanu Reeves dodging bullets in The Matrix - his right ankle somehow cleared our right headlight. The dossiers fanned into the air. I herky-jerked right as we sped by, to watch the body land face down at the curb facing St. John's Episcopal Church (St. Matthew the Apostle Catholic Church on Rhode Island Ave. being a brisk 4 minute walk).
4 blocks on, I - no Pat fan then - regaled colleagues with the tale of Buchanan's literal flight from certain death. But I have come to appreciate the guy more and more.
Fate was not yet ready that day for Pat Buchanan, and he's had 22 good years since then, even running for President in 1992 and 1996 - and, as you may have heard, reeling in 3,407 votes in Palm Beach County in 2000 ("a Pat Buchanon stronghold!" - Ari Fleischer). Hallelujah!
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