“That’s fine — though I may still be in the meeting.”
“Let’s make it two hours. Does three o’clock work?”
Again, I take it back. Even when he doesn’t want to, Barry can’t help but push. It was the same way in college. Every time we’d get ready to go to a party, we’d get two calls from Barry. The first was to check what time we were leaving. The second was to recheck what time we were leaving. Harris always called it overcompensation for the blindness; I called it understandable insecurity. Whatever the real reason, Barry’s always had to work a little harder to make sure he’s not left out.
“So I’ll speak to you at three,” he says, hopping up and heading out. I tuck my notebooks under my arm like a football and plow toward the door that connects with the adjoining hearing room. Inside, my eyes skip past the enormous oval conference table and even the two black sofas against the back wall that we use for overflow. Instead, like before, I find the small TV in the back and-
“You’re late,” Trish interrupts from the conference table.
I spin midstep, almost forgetting why I’m here. “Would it help if I brought hot dogs?” I stutter.
“I’m a vegetarian.”
Harris would have a great comeback. I offer an awkward grin.
Leaning back in her chair, she’s got her arms crossed, completely uncharmed. At thirty-six years old, Trish Brennan has at least six years more experience than me, and is the type of person who says you’re late even when she’s early. Her reddish hair, dark green eyes, and light freckles give her an innocent look that’s surprisingly attractive. Of course, right now, the hottest thing in the room is the small TV in the back. I have to squint to see it. Forty-two yeas, ten nays. Still looking good.
As I pull out the chair directly across from her at the conference table, the front door of the hearing room swings open and the last two staffers finally arrive. Georgia Rudd and Ezra Ben-Shmuel. Already prepped for battle, Ezra’s got a sparse poor-man’s-environmentalist beard (
Each armed with an oversized redwell accordion file, they quickly head to different sides of the table. Ezra on my side, Georgia next to Trish. All four horsemen are here. When it comes to Conference, I represent the House majority; Ezra does the House minority. Across the table, Trish and Georgia do the respective same for the Senate. And regardless of the fact that Ezra and I are in different political parties, even House Republicans and Democrats can set aside their differences for our common enemy: the Senate.
My pager vibrates in my pocket, and I pull it out to check the message. It’s from Harris.
I glance over Trish’s shoulder, toward the TV in the back. Eighty-four yeas, forty-one nays.
Crap. I need the
“Can we please get this going?” Trish asks. It’s the sixth day in a row we’ve been trying to stomp each other into the ground, and Trish knows there’s still plenty to go. “Now, where’d we leave off?”
“ Cape Cod,” Ezra says. Like speed-readers in a race, all four of us flip through the hundred-page documents in front of us that show the spending difference between the House and Senate bills. Last month, when the House passed its version of the bill, we allocated seven hundred thousand dollars to rehabilitate the Cape Cod Seashore; a week later, the Senate passed its version, which didn’t allocate a dime. That’s the point of Conference: finding the differences and reaching a compromise — item by item by item. When the two bills are merged, they go back to the House and Senate for final passage. When both bodies pass the same bill, that’s when it goes to the White House to be signed into law.
“I’ll give you three hundred and fifty thousand,” Trish offers, hoping I’ll be satisfied by half.
“Done,” I tell her, grinning to myself. If she’d pushed, I would’ve settled for an even two hundred.
“The Chesapeake in Maryland,” Trish adds, moving to the next item. I look down at the spreadsheet. Senate gave it six million for stabilization; we gave it nothing.
Trish smiles. That’s why she was kissing tush on the last one. The six million in here was put there by her boss, Senator Ted Apelbaum, who also happens to be the Chairman of the subcommittee — the Senate equivalent of my boss, Cordell. In local slang, the Chairs are known as Cardinals. That’s where the argument ends. What Cardinals want, Cardinals get.
In quiet rooms around the Capitol, the scene is the same. Forget the image of fat-cat Congressmen horse- trading in cigar-smoke-filled backrooms.
My pager again vibrates in my lap. Harris’s message is simple:
I take another look at the TV. One hundred seventy-two yeas, sixty-four nays.
Sixty-four? I don’t believe it. They’re over halfway there.
For the next two minutes, Trish lectures about why seven million dollars is far too much to spend on Yellowstone National Park. I barely register a word. On C-SPAN, the nays go from sixty-four to eighty-one. It’s impossible.
“… don’t you agree, Matthew?” Trish asks.
I stay locked on C-SPAN.
“Matthew!” Trish calls out. “You with us or not?”
“Wha?” I say, finally turning toward her.
Tracing my gaze back to its last location, Trish looks over her shoulder and spots the TV. “That’s what you’re so caught up in?” she asks. “Some lame vote for baseball?”
She doesn’t get it. Sure, it’s a vote for baseball, but it isn’t just any vote. It actually dates back to 1922, when the Supreme Court ruled that baseball was a sport — not a business — and therefore was allowed a special exemption from antitrust rules. Football, basketball, all the rest have to comply — but baseball, the Supreme Court decided, was special. Today, Congress is trying to strengthen that exemption, giving owners more control over how big the league gets. For Congress, it’s a relatively simple vote: If you’re from a state with a baseball team, you vote for baseball (even the Reps from rural New York don’t dare vote against the Yankees). If you’re from a state without a team — or from a district that wants a team, like Charlotte or Jacksonville — you vote against it.
When you do the math — and account for political favors by powerful owners — that leaves a clear majority voting for the bill, and a maximum of 100 Members voting against it — 105 if they’re lucky. But right now, there’s someone in the Capitol who thinks he can get 110 nays. There’s no way, Harris and I decided. That’s why we bet against it.
“We all ready to hit some issues?” Trish asks, still plowing her way through the Conference list. In the next ten minutes, we allocate three million to repair the seawall on Ellis Island, two and a half million to renovate the steps on the Jefferson Memorial, and thirteen million to do a structural upgrade on the bicycle trail and recreation area next to the Golden Gate Bridge. No one puts up much of a fight. Like baseball — you don’t vote against the good stuff.
My pager once again dances in my pocket. Like before, I read it under the table.
I can’t believe they’re getting this far. Of course, that’s the fun of playing the game.
In fact, as Harris explained it when he first extended the invitation, the game itself started years ago as a practical joke. As the story goes, a junior Senate staffer was bitching about picking up a Senator’s dry cleaning, so to make him feel better, his buddy on staff snuck the words
