The iCongressman (3 page)

SENATOR VIANO

I despise how the House of Representatives conducts business.
Sitting here in the House visitor gallery for all of ten minutes, I understand
why it’s considered the lower chamber. Too many people serve here, all of them
wanting their opinions entered into the record so they have something to brag
about back home. I guess that’s a pitfall of needing to get reelected every two
years. I would rather suffer through menopause again rather than have to deal
with this on a daily basis.

Following the daily prayer, the Pledge of Allegiance, and
approval of the previous day’s Journal, the Speaker of the House has the
prerogative to start the day with recognition of members for a series of
one-minute speeches. To illustrate the gifted cleverness of the men and women
of this chamber, these brief orations are commonly known as … “one
minutes
.” No creativity whatsoever in coming up with that
moniker.

Since the issue du jour is our impending government-inspired
financial meltdown, it’s the topic of choice for representatives asking for
unanimous consent to address the House. Speaker Albright rarely makes an
appearance to serve as Chair, but the fifty-two-year-old professional
politician knows this will be a busy and important day. He is handsome in a
lawyerly kind of way, with salt and pepper hair and a moderately expanding waistline.
The constant scheming and political worry accompanying his position gives him
the appearance of perpetual constipation though.

 
“I thought I saw you
up here. How are you, Senator?” the balding gentleman says as he sits down in
the seat next to me. I give a brief smile to the man who was once my right-hand
man during the one and only term I served in the Senate. Gary Condrey was a
superb chief of staff and shrewd political operator. I miss his counsel and
company.

“Fine, Gary, thanks.
Yourself?”
I mumble,
returning my attention back to my smartphone.

“I’m working for one of the dumbest men I have ever met, but
otherwise okay. I know you hate this place, so what brings you to the House
Chamber?” Gary inquires, knowing full well how unlikely it is I would ever just
show up here.

“The continuing resolution.”

“Ah. You’ll never see it hit the Floor today because of the
Hastert Rule
.” Also known as the “
majority of the majority” rule
, it’s
an informal governing principle used to limit the power of the minority party.
Speakers of the House have been using it the since the mid-1990s to justify not
bringing bills up for a vote. Yes, this is our republic in action. “I didn’t
realize you missed politics so much, Marilyn.”

“I don’t. My husband is rich, so what else is there for me
to do?” Of course, that’s a complete lie. For the better part of two decades, I
groomed myself to make a run at an open Senate seat in Virginia. My predecessor
was in office for so long, he practically had a room named for him in the Senate
wing of the Capitol. When he finally died, I got my shot, and with Gary’s
expert help, eked out a win against a tough Republican candidate.

My victory was a short-lived one, however. In the six years
I served in the Senate, I was never able to raise enough campaign contributions
to survive another hard-hitting fight. Virginia is considered a purple state,
meaning its citizens will swing their votes to Republicans or Democrats
depending on which way the political prevailing winds are blowing. When I was elected,
we had it at our backs. Six years later, a stiff headwind caused me to lose in
a landslide.

I have spent every moment since my concession speech
devising a plan to reenter public life. Support within the Democratic Party for
my resurgence as a possible candidate is lukewarm at best. I need something to
make me an invaluable asset again, and I will not rest until I find it.

“The Chair recognizes the gentleman from Connecticut for one
minute,” I hear Speaker Albright announce from his dais. A strapping young man
approaches the podium set up in front of the rostrum with a swagger and
confidence in his demeanor only gained through military service. With short
brown hair and muscular build evident even under his suit jacket, he could
moonlight as a bouncer in some hot Georgetown nightclub and the patrons would
never guess he was a congressman.

 
“Is that the guy who
ran his campaign on social media?” I ask, tapping my former chief of staff on
his arm when it dawns on me who the man I’m admiring is.

“Huh? Uh, yeah, that’s Michael Bennit.”

Not exactly what I expected. I was too caught up in the
struggle of my own campaign to pay much attention to the Bennit-Beaumont media
circus. After my horrific loss, I fell into a self-imposed exile and didn’t
follow the subsequent special election Bennit won a year ago to earn a seat. I
always assumed the iCandidate was some homely guy who lived out of his parents’
basement. I was wrong. He doesn’t look like a politician, per se, but more
reminiscent of a leader capable of inspiring people to travel through hell and
back with him wearing smiles on their faces.

 
“When I taught
history, the Constitutional Convention was always one of my favorite topics,”
he begins. “The thought of fifty-five delegates from disparate backgrounds and
colonies gathering at the Philadelphia State House every day during a
sweltering summer to hammer out a new form of government is such a romantic
idea.

“Two and a quarter centuries later, I stand here baffled how
the body they labored to create has become so dysfunctional. We are on our
fifth continuing resolution for the budget only because both sides are more
interested in finding a way to blame each other than sitting down and
negotiating. Not only are you adversely affecting the government’s ability to
perform its function, but more importantly, the negative effects are being felt
from Wall Street to Main Street. From volatility in the stock market created by
uncertainty, to general unease in the economy, your inability to take action
here is having an impact on every American.”

I am willing to bet Bennit’s class was an entertaining one.
He knows what he’s doing, at least insofar as his oration is concerned. No
wonder his students were quick to join his staff. The Speaker doesn’t seem to
share my opinion as he sits there pining for the opportunity to shut him up.

“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.”

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.