Marion Barry, Act XVII

"There are no second acts in American lives" is one of the few truly dumb things F. Scott Fitzgerald ever wrote. Everybody in America gets an Act II, and even an Act III  -- look at how Arnold Schwarzenegger went from bodybuilder to movie star to governor. Here in Washington we have an even better example, as one of the city's most fascinating, gifted and skilled politicians takes the stage for what must, by now, be something like Act XVII.

Love him or hate him, the former mayor of the nation's capital, Marion Barry -- and yes, I should have added "deeply flawed" to that string of adjectives -- is back in the limelight. That's where he thrives, and probably where he belongs.

This week he made headlines by calling a news conference to forgive the assailants who the night before, he reported, had confronted him at gunpoint in his apartment and stolen his wallet. "I don't even want you prosecuted, really. I love you," he said, asking the unidentified young men to turn themselves in. Still, Barry said, he was "a little hurt" at the affront: "There is a sort of an unwritten code in Washington, among the underworld and the hustlers and these other guys, that I am their friend."

That's him, all right.

I began my career at The Post covering Barry's first term as mayor. With his nonstop wheeling and dealing, his inability to stay out of nudie bars, and his charming, in-your-face roguishness, he was a young reporter's ticket to the front page. His three terms in office basically made the careers of a generation of local journalists, a fact of which he often reminds us.

The rest is history -- the sting operation in a hotel room, the woman who lured him there, the mayor leaning back as he takes a hit from the crack pipe, the arrest, the stunned reaction, the immortal phrase: "Bitch set me up."

Barry went to jail, and then, unbelievably, managed a stunning comeback, eventually winning a fourth term as mayor in 1994. In the process he furthered the career of comedian Chris Rock by providing material for a withering routine -- the crack-smoking mayor who got reelected despite behavior that would get you or me fired from McDonald's.

Brilliant at politics but bored with government, Barry performed so poorly that it took years to get the city's finances back in shape. Meanwhile, his health had begun to deteriorate visibly. That had to be his final act.

But no, don't leave just yet. A year ago he reclaimed a seat on the city council -- representing the city's poorest, most downtrodden ward -- and last month, working with nothing but his instincts for political maneuver, Barry bluffed his way into becoming a major player in negotiating a $667 million deal to build a new baseball stadium. For what could have been a make-or-break meeting, the current mayor, Anthony A. Williams, had to come to Barry's office -- not the other way around.

Close friends who follow his health with concern say Barry looks and sounds better than he has in years, now that he's back in the rejuvenating spotlight. He has another little legal problem to resolve -- he didn't bother to file some income tax returns, and the IRS is not amused -- but it's not as if he had a lot of income to report anyway.

That's one reason I'm not making fun of Barry's return: Others may have lined their pockets with public funds during his tenure, but he didn't. And, whether you have any fondness for politics and politicians, it's hard to dislike the guy. Getting reelected mayor after being videotaped smoking crack should make him a shoo-in for the Politicians' Hall of Fame. Barry has as much of that special charisma, that all-eyes-on-me presence, as any politician I've ever met. At 69, he can still light up a room.

Yes, he's what my grandmother used to call "a mess." And no, I can't be sure that we know the whole story of his recent reported robbery. Did he actually open the door to two guys he didn't really know?

But Barry is one of the few politicians these days who bother to notice poor people. He has the ability to connect with single mothers earning the minimum wage, pensioners on fixed incomes, young men slouching on street corners. As gentrification rampages through Washington and other cities, making the streets safe for Starbucks and Pottery Barn, poor people are shoved pitilessly to the margins. If Marion Barry really intends to be their voice, then his Act XVII will be an act of personal redemption.

eugenerobinson@washpost.com