The iCongressman, page 3
part #2 of The Michael Bennit Series Series
“The problem is you collectively don’t care about the consequences to ordinary Americans. You’re a bunch of sadists, content to drive the United States off a cliff rather than work together.” And there is the excuse Albright needed to shut him down.
“Mister Bennit, you are out of order,” Speaker Albright commands from his seat in front of the American flag.
“Frankly, I don’t give a damn, Mister Speaker. The country is getting screwed by the people in this room and all Americans need to hear why,” Michael Bennit declares theatrically.
“Not on the Floor of this Chamber, Mister Bennit,” the Speaker responds, rising from his chair and leaning forward aggressively. “What you say to the press gathered outside is your business, but here, I get to arbitrate your language and force you to cease your assaults on members. I am taking back the balance of your time.” As chairman, he gets to recognize who speaks and who doesn’t, and does so with extreme prejudice.
“Why am I not surprised you want to muzzle me, Mister Speaker? You’re one of the ass-clowns driving us toward the cliff.”
“Mister Bennit, slanderous language will not be tolerated in the House of Representatives! I am going to recommend you be censured for your behavior. Now go take a seat before I instruct the sergeant-at-arms to remove you from the Floor.” Bennit thinks about it for a moment then shakes his head, moving to a desk near the rear of the room as Speaker Albright’s glaring eyes burn a hole in the back of his head. “The Chair recognizes the gentlewoman from Minnesota for one minute.”
“Well, you don’t see that every day,” I utter, amazed at what I witnessed. His scale of open defiance is almost unheard of in Congress.
“You practically do with him. This will be his second censure to go with at least a pair of reprimands.”
“Interesting,” I say, meaning it. Since being defeated last election, my quest for angles and opportunities to get back into politics has been fruitless. My primary focus has been searching for a way back into the good graces of my party. Perhaps what I should be considering is a way to stick it to those who abandoned me once my star stopped shining so brightly. Bennit could offer me a chance to both return to politics and get even.
“What’s interesting?” Gary asks, consumed with the task of writing an e-mail on his Android phone.
“Bennit is. Nobody racks up such a disciplinary record without making some powerful enemies.” I turn to my former friend, ally, and trusted advisor and cover his phone with my hand to command his attention. “What am I missing, Gary?”
“Rumor has it the Speaker and the rest of the Republicans are trying to drive him out,” he says, a note of indifference creeping into his voice. Obviously, after the beating he put on Winston Beaumont, the Democratic Party is not keen on jumping to Bennit’s aid, regardless of whether doing so would irk the GOP or not.
“I can see that,” I say, crinkling my brow. “The question is, why? He’s going to lose the next election, right?”
“Probably.”
“So why keep gunning for him?” I ask Gary, eliciting an unhelpful shrug.
Bennit has the establishment spooked, and I want to know how and why. Fortunately, I know exactly who to call to find out. There is one person in my sphere of influence who was close to the situation during Bennit’s first campaign. Although I’m sure he’s not on this rogue congressman’s Christmas card list, it won’t hurt to watch what happens.
“You have that look on your face you get when you are about to do something crazy. Anything you want to tell me?” Gary asks, sincere in his desire to help me. He must be bored in his current job.
“No, it’s nothing,” I say, only half meaning it. I may eventually need to loop Gary in to my thoughts, but now is not the time.
“So why the amused face the Joker has in Batman movies right before he blows something up?” Ugh. One thing I could never tolerate about Gary was his obsession with superhero films. The recent serial release of Marvel and D.C. Comics-themed 3D IMAX abortions masquerading as cinema was like Christmas morning for him and a personal nightmare for me.
“Just ought to be fun to see what happens to this Bennit guy once Albright gets done with him.”
-FOUR-
MICHAEL
Johnston Albright is my new Robinson Howell. Like my former principal, he desperately wants me out of the building he runs, constantly threatens me, and uses every transgression he can to hasten my exit. The only difference between the two is the Speaker of the House doesn’t dress like Mr. Furley from Three’s Company like Howell does.
The man who has become the bane of my existence only needed two weeks to get a censure resolution drafted and voted on. It probably would have happened faster if not for the scheduled constituent work week the representatives spend in their districts. I hope much of that time was used to explain to the electorate why their government would rather try to destroy the economy than compromise on a solution.
For the second time in my year of political service, I’ve been summoned to stand in the Well of the House Floor while Speaker Albright reads a humiliating censure for my behavior. This resolution shows the bipartisan spirit in this country is, in fact, alive and well—at least so far as I am concerned. The measure passed by an almost unprecedented four hundred twenty to two vote. Twelve members voted “present,” the equivalent of abstaining, and the Speaker did not cast a vote as tradition mandates. Only one person stood with me in voting “no,” and I have never even met the guy who cast it.
More than two-thirds of the membership has decided to attend my public flogging, providing a clear picture of exactly how they think of me. Maybe it’s not personal. I am the twenty-fourth person to receive a Congressional censure, although the only to have ever received two. Quite the accomplishment, and a dubious claim to fame for someone who is politically castrated. So, perhaps they are present to witness history with the reading of House Resolution 1233. Yeah, wishful thinking.
I return to reality as Speaker Albright gets rolling with the juicy part of the resolution. “Representative Michael Bennit be censured with the public reading of this resolution by the Speaker; and Representative Bennit further refrain from defaming or degrading the House, criticizing the Speaker’s personal conduct, and impugning the motives of another member or members by charging falsehood or deception.”
Censures are not taken lightly by the Washington elite, even if I have developed a nonchalant attitude towards getting disciplined in this circus fun house. Congress has not historically doled out censures haphazardly, with the last one being Charles Rangel’s in 2010. You have to go back nearly twenty years to find the one before his. I earned my two in rapid succession, and harbor little doubt expulsion will be the punishment for my next misstep.
“Is there anything the gentleman from Connecticut would like to say?” I hear Speaker Albright query from the rostrum. Yeah, I have something to say, but it won’t be politically correct. In fact, I have a gesture or two I’d like to make as well.
“Not at this time, Mister Speaker, thank you.” I turn and walk up the long aisle to the rear exit under the scrutinizing eyes of my colleagues. As much as a moment like this deserves the middle finger, the footage of the crass gesture would be the lead story on every evening newscast in the country, and the last thing I ever did in Congress.
No thanks to leadership of both parties, enough reporters are here to start our own Woodstock. Connecticut‘s native news organizations do not employ permanently assigned Washington correspondents, so both the Republicans and Democrats practically bused down state news media to ensure the voters back home hear about their derelict representative. Although her duties with the Washington Post are investigative, and don’t include covering Congress, even Kylie was instructed to attend.
I wager a guess that the editors at her paper thought it might heighten my embarrassment to be disciplined in front of my girlfriend. In any other relationship, there may be some merit to that. Fortunately for me, Kylie is the most supportive woman I have ever known. She offers the best advice she can to help me navigate the treacherous waters of Washington politics. It’s hopeless, but her support is a far cry from anything my ex-fiancée Jessica ever provided.
Although Kylie swears otherwise, I don’t belong here. After all my time in Special Forces and in front of a classroom full of students, I fancy myself a doer, not a talker. With so many problems facing this country, I wanted to be a part of the group responsible to help figure out solutions. If such a body of people exists, it certainly isn’t Congress.
Now I am left questioning everything I thought and hoped I knew about the American government. As a high school history teacher, I read countless books about how the Framers debated and argued over the document that became our Constitution in the summer of 1787. I always thought that, despite watching the posturing the bloviating politicians engage in on Meet the Press, behind the scenes would be different. Out of sight from prying cameras is where the real negotiating, debate, and compromise was done. Damn, was I ever wrong.
“Congressman Bennit,” a voice announces from behind me with the volume of a wall of concert speakers. The marble and ceramic tile floors of the Capitol’s hallways exaggerate every noise, no matter how muffled. The echo of a single conversation requires both parties to talk at a near whisper unless they want their words broadcast to everyone in the vicinity. On the occasion where a crowd of more than ten people gather in the hall, the resulting din sounds like the end zone of a Seattle Seahawks home game.
“I’m Francisco Reyes, proud representative from the great State of Texas. I’m glad to finally have the honor of meeting you,” he says after catching up with me and shaking my hand with serious enthusiasm.
“Please, call me Michael.”
“Only if you call me Cisco.”
At first glance, this guy is pretty unimpressive. He has typical Latino features—dark hair, dark eyes and a mocha skin that acts as a perma-tan. He may be short in stature, but he strikes me as big in attitude, charisma, and likability.
“Fair enough, Cisco. I want to thank you for being the ‘plus one’ on my censure vote. Siding with me on anything is the kiss of death around here. Why’d you do it?”
“Since it’s apparent we icandidates are automatically persona non grata around here, I figured I would just spend the next six months pissing people off,” Cisco says with a smile that leads me to believe he is not only serious, but enjoying his work.
“Yeah, well, you’re off to a good start then. This must be a memorable first day for you.”
“Are you kidding? It took me forty-five minutes to get in the building this morning because the Capitol Police thought I was a landscaper.” I laugh at his self-depreciating humor, although part of me wonders if there is an inkling of truth to his words. “It’s not funny. I’m tempted to show up in my lawn mower tomorrow just to complete their image of me.”
“At least they are thinking of you. I’ve become nothing more than an afterthought around here. The sum of my legislative aptitude is the remarkable ability to collect censures and reprimands.”
“We all have our talents,” he replies with a chuckle. Cisco is a guy’s guy. I’ve been talking to him for two minutes and can already tell he’s the Real McCoy politically, and someone I could share a beer with at a Yankee game. “You would think with a looming showdown over the debt ceiling and budget for the hundredth time, the parties would have something better to spend their energy on.”
“In my short time in Washington I’ve learned important things get done only on the precipice of a crisis. Until the political risks of inaction exceed the risk of doing something, both sides are content to play chicken with each other.”
“And the rest of America gets screwed in the process.”
“Exactly. Tell me something, Cisco. Why did you decide to run for your seat?” I’m assuming he didn’t lose a bet, so I am curious why someone would willingly sign up for this. Although I suppose I did too when I ran the second time.
“You know, I followed you during your campaigns. I read every Twitter and Facebook post and watched your online web chats. I was inspired by your words about what the Founding Fathers envisioned for this government. I think Americans were too. I’m here because of them.”
“So what do you want from me?”
“I was hoping we could work together to help turn this thing around,” Cisco says with noticeable optimism in his voice. His attitude is refreshing, and reminds me of how I felt my first few months here. It wasn’t long after that when I realized how pointless that mentality was.
“A year ago that would have sounded great. But go back into the chamber and take a hard look at the people in there,” I respond, pointing back to the Hall of the House of Representatives. “They don’t exemplify what was imagined in 1787. The vision of the founders is a myth, Cisco, and Americans are self-delusional enough to prefer the myth over reality. There’s nothing either you or I can do to change that paradigm.”
The Texan looks wounded at my comment, but I just don’t have the will to qualify my comments to make him feel better. It is the cold, hard reality, and best he learns now. I wish I had known a year ago.
“Good luck, my friend. I’ll see you around,” is all I can say before fleeing this building to return to the sanctuary of my office.
FIVE-
CHELSEA
I escaped the confines of our office and retreated to my spot on the west stairs of the Capitol to admire the sunset and take a short break from another crummy day here in Washington. The chill in the air, even now in early May, causes me to shiver, even wrapped in my favorite white wool winter coat. My butt is freezing on these stone steps, but the serenity is worth the minor discomfort.
“You changed your hair. It looks good,” Blake Peoni says in greeting as he suddenly sits next to me. Ugh, so much for serenity. Now that we have established he is observant enough to notice my long swooping curls, what could he possibly want?
“And your cologne still makes me want to gag,” I say in retort. Blake is fit, handsome, and has the same Italian features Vince does, but that’s where the similarities end. A half dozen or so years older than us, he’s more experienced, twice as jaded, and has a soul as black as road tar.
“Good to know your hatred of me hasn’t ebbed any over time. It’s a pretty view, isn’t it?” Blake asks, admiring me more than the setting sun. I keep refusing to look at him.
“This is my spot, and I don’t like sharing it.” Blake’s laughter at my comment annoys me, and the last thing I need is more stress today.
“Do you remember that night after the election when you told me your staff used to meet in the same park we were standing in?” he asks, eliciting a curious nod from me. “You are sitting in the exact place I was when Roger sent me up there to go after you guys. So technically, it’s my spot.”
“You are turning ruining my life into an art form,” I scold, rising from the cold stone to walk away. Blake grabs me by the arm gently, and something about the look on his face and the feel of his hand stops me from jerking away from him.
“I’m sorry, Chelsea. I never seem to say the right thing to you. But I’ve been where you are. Part of me still is. I see your frustration with the system, with Washington, and even with Congressman Bennit. Nobody understands that better than I do.”
As much as I want to leave, I know he’s right. The mere thought of my experiences here makes me emotional now. And although I don’t want to admit it, even to myself, I desperately need someone I can talk to who can relate to me. I shudder inside to think that person may be Blake, but I sit back down anyway.
“What makes you the expert on how I’m feeling? What are you even doing these days?”
“Nothing of any interest, I can tell you that,” Blake responds with a deep exhale. “I am the smallest cog in a huge, multi-million-dollar K Street lobbying machine.”
One of the first introductions made to any staffer who arrives in this city is to the advocacy groups housed on K Street in Northwest Washington. The street itself is not the epicenter of lobbyists it once was, but the “K Street” reference serves as a powerful metonym for the entire industry.
“Sounds exciting,” I say, completely disinterested.
“It’s a sympathy job that was given to me at the bequest of a relative who happens to be close to the lawyer who runs the lobby. At least I can pay my bills, and it does keep me in Washington.”
“I guess that’s where we differ, Blake. I can’t stand this town and won’t be able to leave it soon enough.”
“Is Congressman Bennit thinking of resigning?” Blake asks, without a hint of sarcasm or arrogance in his voice. He almost sounds … concerned.
“That’s funny. Quit isn’t in the man’s vocabulary.”
“Good. Then you’re already winning.”
“Winning? This is winning? Maybe I slapped you too hard on that bridge a year and a half ago and jarred something loose,” I say, fighting against my own emotions to stay in control. “Being ignored by, well, everybody, and getting censured twice is not winning.”
“It is when their sole purpose is to get the congressman to resign, which you said he won’t do.”
“I thought they were just trying to make us look bad so they could hit us with it during the campaign this fall.” In fact, I’m certain that’s what they’re trying to do. I have no idea where Blake is going with this, or where he’s getting his information from. I also have no idea why he’s bothering to tell me.
“I thought so too, but I have it on good authority the intent is much more sinister and immediate than that.”
“Oh, really? Are you going to tell me who this ‘good authority’ is, or where you got your information from?”
