Around eight o’clock on Friday nights, one can find any manner of Washington denizens crying in their beer at the Round Robin Bar – also celebrating, socializing or relaxing before dinner, too, naturally, but in that respect, a bar is like a Metro car. Board a Metro car and you will find some of the passengers on their way to work, to the theater, to a ball game, to church, to a lovers’ tryst, to the zoo, to the art museum, and so forth; and then there are those who aren’t going anywhere in particular. That last category are the nuts, of course, the homeless deranged lunatics of the world, or sometimes the deranged lunatics of the world who live with their relatives and are, sometimes quite unadvisedly, allowed to wander around alone. Those are the ones – the wild, wandering, loose nuts of the world – who invariably choose to sit next to me on the Metro. That’s the reason I never ride the Metro. I know why the nuts select me, of course – they can tell I’m not afraid of them.
Yes, it’s true what they say, that the insane have a sixth (and perhaps even a seventh) sense, and they are all acutely aware that most folks are completely terrified of them, as if insanity were contagious, which it most assuredly is not, unless you count political philosophies, which are, in fact, a form of contagious insanity, but, it must be noted, are not generally recognized as such. In fact, I know extremely brave people, individuals who would have no problem jumping out of an airplane in the pitch dark, landing in enemy terrorist-held territory and battling them with night scopes and assault rifles, who nevertheless cringe and recoil like frightened school children at the advances of dithering little old ladies who insist on relating their recent experiences of space alien abduction.
So it is in bars, where a similar situation prevails – when approached by an obviously despondent drunk, most patrons run away, distraught and fearful. But profound inebriates, like lunatics, can tell that they don’t scare me, and unlike crazy people, I don’t mind talking to them. And thus, Friday night at the Round Robin, I was accosted by Elés Penelin Fesses-Chapeau, congressional staffer for none other than Representative Eric Cantor, in a state which would be best characterized as somewhat more than three and one half sheets to the wind.
“Tom,” she blurted as she grabbed my arm while I stood waiting for my drink, “it’s so good to see you.”
“Thanks,” I dryly replied. “By the way, you’re standing on my right foot.”
“Oh, oh, Tom!” Elés vociferously apologized as she wobbled uncertainly while stepping off me, “I’m like so, so sorry! I didn’t even notice!”
“No problem,” I softly groaned. “Your spiked heel went right between my toes. Didn’t hurt a bit.”
“That’s good,” she slurred as she leaned on me for support. “Can we, uh, sit down somewhere?”
“Sure,” I agreed as I scoped out a vacant table for two and began leading her toward it. “Long day?”
“Too long,” she confirmed as I lowered her gently on the booth side of the tiny table while taking the chair on the other side for myself. “Eric has resigned as House Majority Leader, effective the first day in August.”
“So they say,” I confirmed. “But he wasn’t legally required to do so, was he?”
“No,” she sighed, “not really, I guess.”
“But how come,” I wondered, “when he could have kept the job until his term was up next January?”
“Well,” she revealed, while staring down intently at the table top, “he could. And then again, he couldn’t, if you catch my drift. I mean, everybody knows he never bothered to go back to the Seventh District very much, and hung around Gucci Gulch with those high powered lobbyists all the time, and he ignored the local gun enthusiasts back home, and he made nice-nice to John Boehner about immigration reform because that’s what the national strategy was and all, even if those stupid farmers in Virginia that put him on Capitol Hill don’t like foreigners very much, and he got a reputation for ignoring his opponents and refusing to debate them, and he spent more money at Morton’s Steak House than David Brat did on his primary election campaign, and Eric kept on kissing up to rich Wall Street contributors to raise money for the Republicans – the same guys that dumped him like an escort service dumps a model with syphilis, Tom, just like that, as soon as he lost the primary to that, that… ivory-tower libertarian college economics professor, as if what that egghead says makes more sense to the hicks back in the Old Dominion than Eric does! It’s heartbreaking, Tom, that’s what it is! We were going all the way to the White House, that was the plan. Eric started to think big because if he wanted to be President some day, then that’s what he had to start doing! But did those… those… nose-picking, jug-handle-eared, corn-fed bumpkins back there in the Seventh even have the least inkling of what kind of greatness Eric was destined for? No, Tom, they did not, and you know why? Because the people of Virginia’s Seventh Congressional District are pathetic examples of what happens when cousins marry, that’s why!”
“Pretty much everybody in Virginia south of Manassas,” I observed, “is a pathetic example of what happens when cousins marry.”
“The central, major problem is,” she wailed, “the whole damn Commonwealth of Virginia is being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the twentieth century!”
“The central, major problem is,” I corrected, “the whole damn Commonwealth of Virginia – outside of Fairfax, Arlington, Loudoun and Alexandria – is being dragged, kicking and screaming, into the nineteenth century. And let’s face it, your boss hasn’t contributed a whole lot to the effort, now has he?”
“Maybe not a whole lot,” she sobbed, “but look how they rewarded him for what little he did!”
“Look,” I told her, “you know how many Virginians it takes to put in a light bulb?”
“No,” she sniffed, dabbing at her eyes with a cocktail napkin, “how many does it take?”
“It takes a hundred Virginians to change a light bulb,” I replied. “One to hold the ladder, one to climb up on the ladder with the new light bulb, and ninety eight to stand around watching, clucking their tounges and gossiping about how much better the old one was.”
“Meaning what?” she asked as the bartender pointed me out to the cocktail waitress bearing my branch water mint julep (a specialty of the house) to our table. “Are you saying that in the end, Eric wasn’t Neanderthal enough for the conservative Republican voters of Virginia’s Seventh District?”
“Now you’ve done it,” I cautioned. “I think you owe the Neanderthals an apology for comparing them to the conservative Republican voters of Virginia.”
“Anything for you, ma’am?” inquired the waitress as she skeptically surveyed my companion’s running mascara and streaked makeup. “Maybe some iced tea?”
“Long Island iced tea,” Elés requested, “and easy on the ice.”
“Sure,” the waitress replied, raising her eyebrows meaningfully as she turned in my direction. “You’re going to… take care of her… tab… Mr. Collins?”
“Certainly,” I assured the waitress, who responded with a curt nod and departed as I resumed my conversation. “Well, that’s politics, Elés. Cantor forgot that he needed to go back and stay in touch with the people who elected him to the House of Representatives and make sure they genuinely felt that he was doing enough to fight abortion, lower taxes, promote the right to bear arms, cut spending, repeal Obamacare, get the theory of evolution out of the schools, keep illegal immigrants on their side of the border, periodically jeopardize the credit rating of the United States, and thoroughly obstruct the function of the federal government. In the end, the people of the Seventh District decided that David Brat could do a better job with those things, plus maybe restore the Gold Standard, shut down the Federal Reserve, outlaw the minimum wage, reinstate child labor, keep the homos away from the decent folks and get global warming declared a federal offense.”
“But they’re wrong,” she vehemently protested, pounding the table for emphasis, “because nobody can do a better job doing those things than Eric Ivan Cantor!”
“No doubt,” I agreed, “however, he shouldn’t have taken for granted that a majority of the voters in a mid-term state congressional primary election would realize that without some pretty vigorous proclamations to that effect on a very regular basis prior to the election.”
“And now,” she whispered angrily, “as of August, he’s going to be nothing more than another congressman.”
“No more limousine to take him to work,” I remarked. “No more security detail, no more posh office space, no more…”
“No more big staff!” Elés interrupted. “And now everybody’s stabbing everybody else in the back so they can keep their damned jobs!”
“And you got… stabbed today?” I speculated.
“All day!” Elés ruefully confirmed. “People were saying terrible things about me, constantly!”
“Such as what?” I wondered.
“That I’m… a… a closet… a closet Keynesian,” she cried. “That I’m a traitor to the Second Amendment because I oppose personal ownership of rocket-propelled grenade launchers! That I had an affair with a Kenyan post doctoral student while he was here on an expired visa! That I gave money to the National Wildlife Federation to stop the Keystone XL pipeline! That I was seen having lunch at an organic restaurant in Takoma Park with a lawyer from the Natural Resources Defense Council, discussing carbon emissions cap and trade policy! That I’m opposed to the death penalty! That my browsers have cookies from Wikileaks in them! That the older woman kissing me in the college graduation picture on my desk isn’t my nanna, it’s Billie Jean King! That not only do I read The Washington Post, The New York Times and The New Republic – I read Mother Jones! That I helped radical nuns distribute condoms and hypodermic needles to junkie sex workers in San Francisco! That I not only do I secretly speak French, I actually own books by Sarte, Genet and Foucault! They’re even saying that I don’t believe that God is always on America’s side!”
“And none of that,” I sought to confirm, “is the least bit true?”
“Absolutely not!” Elés hissed in high dungeon. “Not a single word of it! I’m completely qualified to stay on Eric Cantor’s staff! I think the Laffer Curve is the last word in economic theory, just like every good conservative should! I believe that Americans have a perfect right to own bazookas if they want to! I hate foreigners in general and Kenyans in particular! I go hunting with an AR-15 and blow away bunnies and bambies with the best of them, and want all the hot tar sands oil we can get flowing through the veins of American commerce! I think coal is the best and cheapest source of energy for electricity generation now, that it’s going to stay that way forever, and that carbon pollution is a myth! As far as the death penalty goes, I think we ought to bring back public hangings, and I want Julian Assange and Edward Snowden up there on the gallows as soon a possible! Not only do I think homosexuality is disgusting, I think all sex is disgusting, especially junkie prostitutes, and I think the publishers of communist rags like The New York Times and Mother Jones ought to be tried for treason! And I don’t speak French and I don’t want to learn it, either, and furthermore, I’m absolutely sure God is always on America’s side, no matter what we do!”
“Your drink, ma’am,” the cocktail waitress discreetly intoned, placing a Long Island iced tea in front of Elés.
“Well,” I averred, “you’ve certainly convinced me. Now all you have to do is convince Eric.”
“Yes, but how?” Elés fretted, quaffing a very respectable swig of Long Island iced tea.
“Simple,” I explained. “He’s Jewish. You’re a woman. All you have to do is arrange to speak with him about something – the transition, office moves, whatever, it doesn’t really matter – just make sure that it’s an issue you can resolve without undue effort so you two have a couple a minutes to schmooze after it’s settled.”
“Yeah, okay,” she allowed, “I can do that. Then what?”
“Then,” I continued, “you come on like a Jewish mother – concerned for your boy, you see, with an attitude and orientation like that. Jewish men are like Hindu men, their mothers spoil them rotten and worship the ground they walk on. So as soon as you get Eric in that Jewish mother / little Jewish boy mode, pitch it to him that people are saying all those things you just said, but not about you – tell Eric they’re saying those things about him, and they’re doing that because he lost the Seventh District primary. I guarantee, not only will he believe it, he’ll be so grateful, he’ll keep you on staff even if he has to make a fifty percent cut when he leaves the House Majority Leader post.”
“Makes sense,” she agreed. “Actually it’s pretty near brilliant, Tom. But even after I do that, I’ll only have a job until next January. Afterward, Eric Cantor’s going to be history. And so will his staff.”
“Surely that should be enough time to find another opportunity, don’t you think?” I surmised.
“But finding another job as important and as prestigious as working for the House Majority Leader,” she countered, “isn’t going to be that simple, is it?”
“Why not,” I proposed, “hire on with the next representative who gets the position?”
“Huh,” she mused, “I guess that’s… possible. I do have previous experience working on the staff of a House Majority Leader, after all. And whoever gets in next is definitely going to have to expand their staff, so there should be some potential openings – but there’s also going to be huge competition for them. How do I cope with that?”
“Why don’t you find out,” I suggested, “who the other top five candidates are and then use your knowledge of the congressional grapevine to spread rumors that they favor Keynesian economic theory; oppose personal ownership of rocket-propelled grenade launchers; had an affair with a Kenyan post doctoral student while the student was here on an expired visa; gave money to the National Wildlife Federation to stop the Keystone XL pipeline; were seen having lunch at an organic restaurant in Takoma Park with a lawyer from the Natural Resources Defense Council, discussing carbon emissions cap and trade policy; that they’re opposed to the death penalty; their browsers have cookies from Wikileaks in them; that some person of the same gender seen with them in a photograph in their office is, in fact, a homosexual celebrity; that not only do they read The Washington Post, The New York Times and The New Republic – they read Mother Jones; that they helped radical nuns distribute condoms and hypodermic needles to junkie sex workers in San Francisco; that not only do they secretly speak French, they actually own books by Sarte, Genet and Foucault; and; they don’t even believe that God is always on America’s side.”
“Now, that,” she admitted, “is surpassing brilliant! Thanks, Tom, I feel so much better.”
“You’re welcome,” I responded. “Now, finish your drink and I’ll walk you out front to catch a taxi home. You’ve had a very trying day, and after all, it is Friday the Thirteenth.”
“Omigod!” Elés exclaimed. “I’d like, totally forgotten about that!”
“And a full moon, too,” I added.
“No wonder things have been so crazy today,” she opined. “It was in the stars!”
“Perhaps the next time Eric Cantor stands for election,” I commented, “he’ll consult an astrologer before he books the victory party.”