Senator Edwards for lunch. After he asked me how I found life in Washington and I told him I barely left the office, he told me another story. “Yeah, it’s not like it was when I first got here,” he said. “It used to be
civilized
. The media was on our side. We’d get our work done by one o’clock and by two we were at the White House chasing women. We got the job done, and the reporters focused on the issues.” He passed for dramatic effect and added, “It was
civilized.
”
As much as I loved Kennedy, Bill Clinton occupied a level of professional politics that was all his own. Despite his many controversies, when he was engaged, no one had better instincts, a better command of the issues, or a better network of powerful, loyal supporters. In a town full of great egos, no one disputed this assessment. One of the most illuminating duties I performed while in Washington involved driving Senator Edwards, Senator Chris Dodd, and a couple of other Democrats to a meeting with Clinton where he allowed them to pick his brain. I waited outside, and when my charges returned and we got back on the road, they all sat in stunned silence. Clinton had been so impressive that they didn’t know what to say. Finally, Dodd muttered, “I don’t care how long I live. I’ll never be that good.”
The experience with Dodd and the others proved the value of being the guy who drove for a senator. Ironically, for someone who often served as a driver, I have an incredibly bad sense of direction, which was why I once tried to get out of driving Edwards to Andrews Air Force Base for his first ride on Air Force One. I didn’t know the route and told the senator to have someone else drive, but he insisted he knew how to go. We left with just enough time to get there but got terribly lost. The Secret Service called several times, and the president finally left without us. Edwards missed his flight, and of course he said it was my fault. Within a few weeks of beingin Washington, I had two strikes: the mix-up with Kennedy and the Air Force One fiasco.
F
ortunately, most days didn’t bring dramatic challenges or encounters with intimidating world leaders. On most days I worked from early morning until well past dinnertime, juggling phones, reviewing hundreds of requests for appointments, and playing palace guard whenever the senator decided he had had enough and just closed his door to rest. When the Senate was in session, I had to keep track of floor votes—signaled by the bells system—and make sure the senator got to the chamber on time. On occasion, this would require me to race outside to the Mall (where he might be jogging) or to the Senate gym, where a lot of members liked to hide from their staff s, the public, and lowly members of the House of Representatives, all of whom were denied access.
As much as senators may project an aura of deliberation, dignity, and decorum, the facts of life inside the world’s most exclusive club are much messier. Many times, senators cast votes on the basis of a signal from a staffer or a party leader, and they have no idea about the matters being considered. Aides often control the flow of business; I once heard that the cloakroom staff—who were among the most powerful people on Capitol Hill—delayed bringing the senators to the chamber for a vote because they wanted to see the end of an episode of the TV program
24.
On several occasions I would have to chase down the senator, because he had gone for a run and refused to wear a cell phone or pager. More than once I put him in my car so he could get to the cloakroom on time. He’d stand in the doorway of the Senate in shorts or sweats to signal thumbs-up or thumbs-down to have his vote recorded.
No one talks about how rules are bent and senators cast a lot of blind votes, because the illusion of a serious legislative body at work is useful to us all. It reassures voters, who want to believe that their men and women in Washington are
civilized
. The media was on our side. We’d get our work done by one o’clock and by two we were at the White House chasing women. We got the job done, and the reporters focused on the issues.” He passed for dramatic effect and added, “It was
civilized.
”
As much as I loved Kennedy, Bill Clinton occupied a level of professional politics that was all his own. Despite his many controversies, when he was engaged, no one had better instincts, a better command of the issues, or a better network of powerful, loyal supporters. In a town full of great egos, no one disputed this assessment. One of the most illuminating duties I performed while in Washington involved driving Senator Edwards, Senator Chris Dodd, and a couple of other Democrats to a meeting with Clinton where he allowed them to pick his brain. I waited outside, and when my charges returned and we got back on the road, they all sat in stunned silence. Clinton had been so impressive that they didn’t know what to say. Finally, Dodd muttered, “I don’t care how long I live. I’ll never be that good.”
The experience with Dodd and the others proved the value of being the guy who drove for a senator. Ironically, for someone who often served as a driver, I have an incredibly bad sense of direction, which was why I once tried to get out of driving Edwards to Andrews Air Force Base for his first ride on Air Force One. I didn’t know the route and told the senator to have someone else drive, but he insisted he knew how to go. We left with just enough time to get there but got terribly lost. The Secret Service called several times, and the president finally left without us. Edwards missed his flight, and of course he said it was my fault. Within a few weeks of beingin Washington, I had two strikes: the mix-up with Kennedy and the Air Force One fiasco.
F
ortunately, most days didn’t bring dramatic challenges or encounters with intimidating world leaders. On most days I worked from early morning until well past dinnertime, juggling phones, reviewing hundreds of requests for appointments, and playing palace guard whenever the senator decided he had had enough and just closed his door to rest. When the Senate was in session, I had to keep track of floor votes—signaled by the bells system—and make sure the senator got to the chamber on time. On occasion, this would require me to race outside to the Mall (where he might be jogging) or to the Senate gym, where a lot of members liked to hide from their staff s, the public, and lowly members of the House of Representatives, all of whom were denied access.
As much as senators may project an aura of deliberation, dignity, and decorum, the facts of life inside the world’s most exclusive club are much messier. Many times, senators cast votes on the basis of a signal from a staffer or a party leader, and they have no idea about the matters being considered. Aides often control the flow of business; I once heard that the cloakroom staff—who were among the most powerful people on Capitol Hill—delayed bringing the senators to the chamber for a vote because they wanted to see the end of an episode of the TV program
24.
On several occasions I would have to chase down the senator, because he had gone for a run and refused to wear a cell phone or pager. More than once I put him in my car so he could get to the cloakroom on time. He’d stand in the doorway of the Senate in shorts or sweats to signal thumbs-up or thumbs-down to have his vote recorded.
No one talks about how rules are bent and senators cast a lot of blind votes, because the illusion of a serious legislative body at work is useful to us all. It reassures voters, who want to believe that their men and women in Washington are
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