Sweat

“So some seventy-five percent do not have college degrees.”

“That’s the math.”

“This seventy-five percent is the working class. The garbage men, the security guards at the mall, the factory workers.”

“Yes, sir. They are.”

“There are over three hundred factories in the state of Mississippi, making everything from ladders to furniture to rebuilt diesel engines. Three hundred factories, ten thousand jobs, supporting fifty thousand men, women, and children. That is a lot of mouths to feed, Senator Day.”

“Yes sir, it is.”

“With that in mind, what did you come here to discuss?”

“A vote in favor of support for overseas labor. A vote against an international minimum wage would be, to put it as plainly as I can, in my best interest.”

“Senator, I know you support overseas labor. I know you have manufacturing constituents with overseas interests. But things in the Northeast aren’t the same as the concerns of the Deep South. Mississippi is not sitting on Harvard or M.I.T. Mississippi doesn’t have a major U.S. city within its borders. It does not have one of the largest ports in the U.S. It does not have a thriving financial district. Manufacturing is all Mississippi has left. Hell, it’s all we ever had. Except for cotton.”

Senator Day waited for the initial storm clouds to blow over. On Capitol Hill, waiting was a profession in itself. In a world of talkers, a conversation was never dead.

“You’re also on the Education Reform Committee aren’t you?” Senator Grumman asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“You believe in the ‘No Child Left Behind’ movement, don’t you?”

“Yes, actually I do.”

“How about the ‘No State Left Behind’ movement?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mississippi ranks forty-seventh in education. We have been asking for additional education funding for years and we haven’t received one Indian Head nickel. Did you know there are only six public schools in the whole state of Mississippi where students can access the internet? Six schools.”

“I was not aware of that.”

“How many schools in Massachusetts have internet-access?

“I’m not sure of the exact number.”

“More than six?”

“Yes, I’m sure it is more than six.” Senator Day gave his first offer in the negotiation. “I will see to it that you get approval for the education funds your state is requesting.”

“That’s good…for starters,” Senator Grumman said, looking out the window, hiding his smile. Sensing a fish on the line, the senator from Mississippi set the hook and started reeling. He spilled his tears over state roads, and the need for a larger chunk of federal funds for Mississippi asphalt.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Well then, I guess there is only one thing left.”

“What’s that, Senator Grumman?”

“What are you going to do for me?”

Senator Day read between the thick dark lines. Another check, another payoff. A personal endorsement to the re-elect Senator Grumman fund, available for immediate withdrawal. Senator Grumman pulled out a cigar as Senator Day left his office. Orange juice and a Cuban, the breakfast of champions. He had reason to celebrate. Senator Day had just guaranteed the great senator his re-election.

One vote down, two to go.

The Rupp Building was the oldest office facility still in use by members of the U.S. Senate, standing two doors down from the U.S. Supreme Court with its impressive staircase and soaring Roman columns. The Supreme Court blocked the morning sun, casting an a.m. shadow of righteousness that appropriately stopped at the foot of the Rupp Building and Senator Al Wooten’s office on its east side.

Senator Al Wooten, ex-college basketball player and Oxford scholar, was the tallest official in the Senate. He was also on a permanent vacation and wasn’t afraid to let everyone outside of his constituents know it. He was in his first term, planned on a second one, and as long as he played it cool, he figured he would set a record for Senate tenure. He had reached the apex of his career. He had no ambition to go further. Why should he? He knew life couldn’t get any better, and he was willing to do anything to remain where he was. Six years was a long time between elections. He had four more years of R&R ahead of him. With good health, good luck, and good weather, he would be shooting par at Congressional by the start of his next term.

Senator Wooten was a man of many words, and not afraid to use each and every one of them. The gregarious senator showed up for votes on the Senate floor without fail. He made sure to give his two cents on whatever the issue was, just to be on record, proof to his constituents that he was hard at work. What no one knew was that Senator Wooten pushed the electronic vote button at his assigned seat in the capitol with the randomness of a roulette wheel. Less for the really important issues, the ones that affected him directly, he let lady luck form public policy.

He had developed numerous voting systems, all equally lacking in political acumen. Who cared how he voted? How many constituents actually follow the votes of their senators and congressman on a daily basis?

Exactly.

Senator Wooten’s favorite vote-deciding factor was the number of guests in the far section of the visitor’s balcony. An even number of visitors earned a “no” vote. An odd number ensured a “yes.” The Anti-Deforestation Bill, and millions of century-old hardwoods, had passed by a single vote, thanks to the elderly gentleman with the cane who returned from the bathroom just as the senator was ready to lower his thumb.

The fact that Senator Wooten didn’t care how he voted didn’t mean he underestimated the value of a vote. Senator Day came to find out how much it would cost for the senator to put down the flip of the coin for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor.

Senator Day walked into Senator Wooten’s office and announced himself. “He is waiting for you,” Senator Wooten’s middle-aged secretary answered, her wire-frame glasses hanging around her neck by a silver chain.

The opening conversation was a rerun of the one he had just had with Senator Grumman. Senator Day forced his way through the niceties with a smile, as if it had been years since anyone had asked him about his life, his wife, or his upcoming child. He explained the vote at the upcoming Senate committee, and Senator Wooten understood.

“So you want me to change my opinion and vote against an international minimum wage,” Senator Wooten asked, cutting to the chase after five minutes of heavy hints and innuendo.

“Well Senator, I’m never sure what anyone’s opinion really is until I see how they vote, so I can’t say whether I’m trying to change yours.”

“Senator Day, it wouldn’t get me very far if I told you I was ready to go along with a vote in favor of a bill that would lead to more overseas job flight. You’re here for a reason. If I tell you I was ready to vote in favor of overseas labor, what would that get me? Votes aren’t free, Senator. So for the sake of progressing this conversation to a mutually beneficial conclusion, let’s assume I am voting against overseas labor. Let’s assume I am in favor of an international minimum wage for U.S. firms doing business overseas. Let’s assume I believe legislation is the only thing that will drive jobs back to the U.S.”

“Overseas labor is not a popular topic these days. Your assumptions merely confirmed my suspicion on your position.”

“No, overseas labor is not a popular drum to beat in the current political environment. But I don’t let public opinion interfere with business either. Constituents just aren’t privy to all the information that we as senators have at our disposal. I believe I was elected to make educated decisions for my constituents. Whether they realize it or not.”

“Thank you for your honesty, Senator.”

“You invest in real estate?”

“Dabble a bit.”

“You ever heard of Wellfleet Bay?”