I arrived in Washington at the beginning of December. I guess one advantage of already being itinerate is that it does not take much effort to move. One two-day cross-country drive from Texas to DC in a U-Haul van carrying my meagre possessions was all it took. I found a cheap and decidedly crappy basement apartment on U Street and started work the day after I arrived.
In many ways working in Congress is just like any other job. It is an office full of people with their own histories all working together. However, unlike any other job, you also might be told to write an amendment to a banking bill -- which I was -- despite my absolute lack of experience in anything related to banking bills, apart from a general handle of legislation as a concept.
I was put in the charge of the Congressman's longest serving staffer -- his fat, grizzled and foul-mouthed chief of staff Russell. Russell was a dozen Washington stereotypes rolled into one ball of sweat and bourbon fumes. His Chicago accent could often be heard from outside in the corridor screaming obscenities at whichever poor sod had been so unlucky to cross his path. Where the Congressman was the model of cross-the-aisle diplomacy while maintaining his principles, Russell was as flaming one-eyed partisan as you might ever meet. It did not take more than an hour before he had told me the President-elect -- whom I had spent the last year and a half of my life trying somewhat pointlessly to win Texas for -- was a, and I quote, "Namby-pamby weakling who'd sell out his own mother if he thought it would win him Ohio."
Frankly, nobody outside the office and most of the people in it -- who called him not quite to his face, but certainly to his side, The Bastard -- could understand why the Congressman kept him around. I think most people assumed it was nostalgia -- the two of them had gone to the University of Chicago together -- but I was not convinced as the Stephen Kearny I knew did not tolerate underperformance.
I kept my head down and observed, and in the process discovered two important things. Firstly, it was pretty easy to get Russell's respect if you could show him that you could get results, take his abuse in your stride and were willing to blame the Republicans for anything. I had no problem with any of these things, so I quickly became his go-to guy. With Russell's respect also came a type of fierce loyalty -- one that was not entirely rational. I first noticed it when I was arguing with one of the other legislative assistants about the wording of the terms of reference for a committee inquiry into financial advice regulation. We had reached an impasse and took it to Russell for his decision. Without even reading the options Russell simply said to the other LA "We're doing what Alex says. He's smarter than you." I ran away happy that I had won, but a little disconcerted that his decision was made entirely on trust.
The second thing that I learned from observation related to Russell's loyalty. The real reason that the Congressman put up with his bad behaviour was that he gave Russell everything that he really cared about to work on because he knew Russell would do everything within his power to get it done. I initially thought it was just in a professional capacity, but after a while, I realised that Russell also managed a lot of the Congressman's personal affairs as well. As Russell's new right-hand man -- a position that I am assured by several people in the office could not have been said to exist at any time in the past -- a lot of this low-profile, but of high importance to the Congressman work was coming my way. It started off with things like putting the squeeze on a wavering committee member to support a consumer protection provision. However, I knew I had gone full Sopranos when I was sent out to make sure a car dealer fixed the Congressman's seventy-three-year-old neighbour's new Honda Fit which had a dodgy starter motor.
I tell you this all to give you context, as it was Russell who began to introduce me to two of the key themes of this story: access and excess. I will start with Russell's personal brand of excess as it was the first of any great note I experienced in Washington -- but certainly not the last.
I had survived for the first six or so months in Washington and Congress had just broken from a ten-day recess. The Congressman had gone back to Texas to do town halls organised by his district office and I was looking forward to a quiet weekend. On Saturday morning, I was woken by my phone ringing. I looked at the display to discover -- to my horror -- that it was Russell calling me. I assumed something had gone horribly wrong, so I hit receive and waited for the string of expletives that would start the conversation, but instead, I was greeted with "Get up. I'm taking you to my country club. Do you own a collared shirt?"
I was so taken aback I focused on the one part of this statement I could process and replied "Of course I do. I wear one to work every day."
Russell made an exasperated noise like a seal clearing its nose and said "Not that kind of fucking collared shirt. You know what I mean...a what's it called...a fucking polo shirt."
Still not completely understanding what was going on, I replied "Yeah I've got one."
Russell snapped back "Good. Put it on. I'll pick you up in ten minutes" then hung up.
Ten minutes turned out to be four minutes, which I discovered when a car's horn started blaring outside my door. I ran outside to find Russell sitting in a silver Maserati convertible. I jumped into the passenger's seat and he was off at top speed before I could even get my seatbelt on.
Over the howl of the wind, Russell yelled "Do you know how to play golf?"
I yelled back "Not really" as we careened out of DC into Virginia.
Russell cracked into a grin and yelled back "Good. I might beat someone for once."
We finished the rest of the highspeed drive in relative silence -- that is from us, the wind noise was still furious. Russell screeched through the gates of a very expensive-looking club and came to a stop over two parking spots. He then pulled a set of golf clubs out of the trunk and threw his keys at the head of a shocked-looking valet, before stalking off towards the clubhouse. I followed in his wake and was swiftly directed to the pro shop where I was kitted out with a pair of golf shoes and some clubs. When I emerged, I found Russell sitting in an electric cart looking impatient. My bum had only just hit the seat when we were off, not as fast as the Maserati, but somehow more alarmingly.
Playing golf with Russell turned out to be just like doing anything else with him: chaotic and full of swearing. He did not seem to care in the slightest about the success of his shots. He would just pull up next to the ball, grab the closest club to hand, try to hit it as hard as he could and repeat. The result was, that in three hours of play and despite my golf experience being limited to the mini variety, I ended up only four shots behind him -- although that was twenty-four over. When we were done, he gave me an almighty wack on the back and said "Good fun eh kid? Now let's go get some lunch. It's the only reason I bother coming. Well, one of the reasons. We'll do the other one later."
The restaurant in the clubhouse turned out to be quite extraordinary. When we had both had our fill, along with a few beers, Russell stood up abruptly and said "Alright. Time for a steam. Good for getting the toxins out."
