my new desk beside the door to the senator’s private office. The person who sat closest to me, who had been Will’s assistant, was supposed to show me the ropes, but she was unhappy about being passed over for the job I had gotten. (The Edwardses had clearly led her to believe she would get it.) Although we ended up being close friends, we had a rough start, and she won round one. She told me a bit about working with the senator and his key people and how to set the schedule and then left me to fend for myself. I could feel her smile at my back as she watched me, the upstart from North Carolina, fail miserably. I could not cope with three desk phones that seemed to ring constantly (and often simultaneously) and a stream of people who just showed up at my desk demanding time with the boss. I kept a cheat sheet on my desk, but I still had to learn a new vocabulary—what’s the cloakroom?—and the meaning of the bells that kept ringing (they signaled votes on the Senate floor). While all this was going on, I experienced frequent moments of startled amazement as famous men and women rang the phone. Once John McCain called to speak to the senator, and I looked up to see him on television at the same moment.
I thought I was handling things fairly well when suddenly the door marked “Private,” which led to an outside hallway, swung open with a bang and a loud voice boomed, “Edwards! How the fuck am I gonna get you elected president if I can’t get you on the fuckin’ telephone?”
I looked up to see Senator Edward Kennedy barreling toward me. He had some papers in one hand, and in the other he held a leash attached to a big dog with curly black hair. (Called a Portuguese water dog, the breed would become famous when Kennedy gave one to President Obama’s family.)
Only Kennedy could get away with keeping a dog in the U.S. Capitol, and only Kennedy could charge through a private entrance and expect to see my boss immediately. He was stopped by a door that had been closed when Senator Edwards announced he needed to lie down on his sofa and get a bit of rest. When I told Kennedy I would get the senator for him, he asked why no one had answered the many calls he had placed to the private telephone that was one of the three on my desk.
Senator Kennedy then explained that the telephone I had been using all day to place calls was, in fact, a sort of hotline for the White House and senators. It was not to be used except in an emergency. As the door to the inner office opened and Senator Edwards appeared, I was in the middle of apologizing. Both men started to smile, and I could tell the little crisis had passed. Kennedy’s face softened.
“Did you know this used to be my office?” he asked, leaning down to me, his voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. He then launched into a story from 1980, when he ran for president and was assigned a Secret Service detail for protection. One day while Kennedy was in his office, the agent on duty slipped away for a moment with an aide with whom he was having an affair. (“This was before it was cool to be openly gay,” said Kennedy.) In the time when the agent was gone, a would-be attacker slipped into the office with a knife. “Fortunately, the agent returned in time and he tackled the guy, right here!”
Kennedy slammed his hand on my desk with a whack, which startled me and made Senator Edwards laugh. The two men then retreated to his office, where they talked politics for a while. When they emerged, Edwards said, “Hey, Andrew. Don’t use that line anymore.” Later, Kennedy would invite me to his “hideaway” office in the Capitol building. Tucked in nooks and crannies behind unmarked doors, these private offices are prized bits ofreal estate that few people ever get to visit. Kennedy’s was filled with pictures of his family and one of John F. Kennedy’s famous rocking chairs.
At about this time, I saw Senator Kennedy again at the Capital Grille, where he met
I thought I was handling things fairly well when suddenly the door marked “Private,” which led to an outside hallway, swung open with a bang and a loud voice boomed, “Edwards! How the fuck am I gonna get you elected president if I can’t get you on the fuckin’ telephone?”
I looked up to see Senator Edward Kennedy barreling toward me. He had some papers in one hand, and in the other he held a leash attached to a big dog with curly black hair. (Called a Portuguese water dog, the breed would become famous when Kennedy gave one to President Obama’s family.)
Only Kennedy could get away with keeping a dog in the U.S. Capitol, and only Kennedy could charge through a private entrance and expect to see my boss immediately. He was stopped by a door that had been closed when Senator Edwards announced he needed to lie down on his sofa and get a bit of rest. When I told Kennedy I would get the senator for him, he asked why no one had answered the many calls he had placed to the private telephone that was one of the three on my desk.
Senator Kennedy then explained that the telephone I had been using all day to place calls was, in fact, a sort of hotline for the White House and senators. It was not to be used except in an emergency. As the door to the inner office opened and Senator Edwards appeared, I was in the middle of apologizing. Both men started to smile, and I could tell the little crisis had passed. Kennedy’s face softened.
“Did you know this used to be my office?” he asked, leaning down to me, his voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. He then launched into a story from 1980, when he ran for president and was assigned a Secret Service detail for protection. One day while Kennedy was in his office, the agent on duty slipped away for a moment with an aide with whom he was having an affair. (“This was before it was cool to be openly gay,” said Kennedy.) In the time when the agent was gone, a would-be attacker slipped into the office with a knife. “Fortunately, the agent returned in time and he tackled the guy, right here!”
Kennedy slammed his hand on my desk with a whack, which startled me and made Senator Edwards laugh. The two men then retreated to his office, where they talked politics for a while. When they emerged, Edwards said, “Hey, Andrew. Don’t use that line anymore.” Later, Kennedy would invite me to his “hideaway” office in the Capitol building. Tucked in nooks and crannies behind unmarked doors, these private offices are prized bits ofreal estate that few people ever get to visit. Kennedy’s was filled with pictures of his family and one of John F. Kennedy’s famous rocking chairs.
At about this time, I saw Senator Kennedy again at the Capital Grille, where he met
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