me a “happy Jewish holiday.” I don’t remember what Jewish holiday it was, or if I even knew it was a Jewish holiday. Reid then bragged to me that he was a “hero” to the then nine Jews in the Senate because he had adjourned the chamber in time for them to get home for whatever Jewish holiday it was. He reeled off the names of all the Senate Jews: Lieberman, Schumer, Barbara Boxer and Dianne Feinstein of California, etc. He concluded with Ron Wyden of Oregon, and when I expressed surprise that Wyden was Jewish—and mock surprise they even had Jews in Oregon—Reid deadpanned, “Yes, there are two of them in Oregon, and we have one of them.” And he hung up without saying good-bye, or shalom.
When wandering alone, Reid will sometimes break into a slight grin, as if he has just told himself a joke. Reid reminds me sometimes of a child—a peculiar child who has an imaginary friend who he speaks to unfiltered when he is alone, or not alone. Reid was once being wired up for a television interview in Las Vegas and was overcome by the need to tell the technician fastening his microphone that he had “terrible breath.” When an aide asked Reid later why he would possibly say such a thing, Reid calmly explained that it was true.
He has a heightened sense of smell. He once complained about the body odor of summer tourists trekking through the Capitol, taking the occasion of a dedication ceremony for a new Capitol visitor center to make his annoyance public. “In the summertime,” he said, “because of the high humidity and how hot it gets here, you could literally smell the tourists coming into the Capitol.”
He is also surprisingly food- and body-obsessed, more evocative of a teenage girl than an earthy old boxer. He will occasionally partake of yoga (in black Lycra stretch pants) with Landra in their Ritz-Carlton apartment. He can be harshly judgmental of fat people and other ill-conditioned creatures. When George W. Bush invited Reid to the Oval Office for coffee as a gesture of goodwill at the end of his presidency, Reid promptly insulted the president’s dog, Barney, who had trotted into their meeting. “Your dog is fat,” Reid told the president.
• • •
R eid often invokes the desert blotch of Searchlight to explain his unfiltered style. He talks interminably about his hometown, even for a member of Congress. Washington politicians love talking about their hometowns, especially when running for reelection. They swoon over how the storied villages embody all that is great about America and how Washington could learn much from the town’s good values. (This is usually around the time their spouse gets an even bigger lobbying job and they buy a new mansion in McLean, Virginia, where they will live out their days.) The hometown can be an especially useful prop if it provides a tableau of personal adversity to overcome. Bonus points if the town name is an evocative noun, like Hope, Arkansas, or Plains, Georgia, or Searchlight.
But Searchlight is especially rich in this regard. Gold was discovered there in 1897, and there have been few highlights since. “The boom peaked in 1907 and quickly faded along with the town,” it says on a plaque in front of the Harry Reid Elementary School. Reid says he plans to be buried in a Searchlight graveyard, next to Landra.
Reid is a master of “that practiced, pale-faced-bumpkin-from-Searchlight act,” says Las Vegas political guru Jon Ralston. This masks a savvy, rough-hewn politician whom Ralston describes as “ruthless” and “Machiavellian.” Still, Reid clearly loves Searchlight, and his hard-bitten story is legitimate. The third of four brothers, Reid grew up in a wooden shack with no hot water or indoor toilet or trees. Only rocks. He tells of leafing through the Sears catalogue, just to browse the items they could never afford at Christmas, and then ripping out pages to deploy later as toilet paper in the outhouse.
“I look at these
When wandering alone, Reid will sometimes break into a slight grin, as if he has just told himself a joke. Reid reminds me sometimes of a child—a peculiar child who has an imaginary friend who he speaks to unfiltered when he is alone, or not alone. Reid was once being wired up for a television interview in Las Vegas and was overcome by the need to tell the technician fastening his microphone that he had “terrible breath.” When an aide asked Reid later why he would possibly say such a thing, Reid calmly explained that it was true.
He has a heightened sense of smell. He once complained about the body odor of summer tourists trekking through the Capitol, taking the occasion of a dedication ceremony for a new Capitol visitor center to make his annoyance public. “In the summertime,” he said, “because of the high humidity and how hot it gets here, you could literally smell the tourists coming into the Capitol.”
He is also surprisingly food- and body-obsessed, more evocative of a teenage girl than an earthy old boxer. He will occasionally partake of yoga (in black Lycra stretch pants) with Landra in their Ritz-Carlton apartment. He can be harshly judgmental of fat people and other ill-conditioned creatures. When George W. Bush invited Reid to the Oval Office for coffee as a gesture of goodwill at the end of his presidency, Reid promptly insulted the president’s dog, Barney, who had trotted into their meeting. “Your dog is fat,” Reid told the president.
• • •
R eid often invokes the desert blotch of Searchlight to explain his unfiltered style. He talks interminably about his hometown, even for a member of Congress. Washington politicians love talking about their hometowns, especially when running for reelection. They swoon over how the storied villages embody all that is great about America and how Washington could learn much from the town’s good values. (This is usually around the time their spouse gets an even bigger lobbying job and they buy a new mansion in McLean, Virginia, where they will live out their days.) The hometown can be an especially useful prop if it provides a tableau of personal adversity to overcome. Bonus points if the town name is an evocative noun, like Hope, Arkansas, or Plains, Georgia, or Searchlight.
But Searchlight is especially rich in this regard. Gold was discovered there in 1897, and there have been few highlights since. “The boom peaked in 1907 and quickly faded along with the town,” it says on a plaque in front of the Harry Reid Elementary School. Reid says he plans to be buried in a Searchlight graveyard, next to Landra.
Reid is a master of “that practiced, pale-faced-bumpkin-from-Searchlight act,” says Las Vegas political guru Jon Ralston. This masks a savvy, rough-hewn politician whom Ralston describes as “ruthless” and “Machiavellian.” Still, Reid clearly loves Searchlight, and his hard-bitten story is legitimate. The third of four brothers, Reid grew up in a wooden shack with no hot water or indoor toilet or trees. Only rocks. He tells of leafing through the Sears catalogue, just to browse the items they could never afford at Christmas, and then ripping out pages to deploy later as toilet paper in the outhouse.
“I look at these
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