"Wayne, you are never going to get what you want."
"Carl, we have to fight..."
I held up my hand to stop him. "You've had your turn, now it's mine!", I told him sharply. He settled down, none too graciously, and gave me a mean look. I ignored him. "As I was saying, as long as Bill Clinton or any other Democrat is in office, you are never going to get more than a piece of the pie. You are going to have to fight the long fight, years, in fact, and probably never get everything. There is no way we can get rid of the stuff in the Brady Bill. We just don't have the votes. I can get the override with the reciprocal permitting and the shall-issue ruling, but the only way is to keep the magazine capacity limit in place. End of story. You ain't going to get any more than that, and if you don't like it, get over it!"
He looked like he had a head of steam about to explode, and he cut loose on me. I just sat there and sucked it in, and then shrugged theatrically. "So what!? It don't matter! Sure, you can buy all the Congressmen you want, but you ain't going to be buying all the Senators that you need. Hell, I've got more money than you, and I couldn't buy that many! You need to work on the edges. Maryland? Massachusetts? They'll never vote for this, even if I lined their pockets in gold. Start working on the ones on the fence, and keep your mouth shut and settle for what you can. We get this now, and then in two years we run Clinton out and try again."
The thought of Clinton losing re-election mollified him slightly, and after a bit, I got him out of there. My biggest worry was that he would demand more than anybody was going to give him, and then throw sand into the gears in response. That was a problem with true believers; it was either their way or no way.
I wondered, if this passed, could I get to meet Charlton Heston? He was the head of the NRA, a figurehead position, but really ... he was Charlton Heston! How often do you get to meet Moses? I hoped Wayne could calm down enough to bring out the big guns. A photo op with Heston might convert a few recalcitrant Senators. This was a good ten years before the Alzheimer's took him, and he was still quite clear and cogent at this point, and extremely popular.
There were some other conservatives who began thinking they had more pull than they really did. Grover Norquist was really pushing hard on his reducing taxation kick, and was going to every Congressman and Senator to get them to sign his 'pledge.' He already knew my feelings on the subject, but made an appointment (demanded it, really) and slapped it down on my desk. I wadded it up and tossed it in the circular file while he sat there and stewed. "Carl, don't think we don't have influence. How would you like a vicious primary fight in two years!", he warned.
"Grover, how would you like a nice liberal in the Maryland Ninth in two years?", I responded.
"Don't try that threat with me."
"Threat? That's no threat, that's a promise! Let's play Suppose for a bit. Suppose you do find somebody to run against me next time around Now, I know damn near every Republican in the district but I suppose you can find a hard core conservative in the western part, or you can bring in a ringer from somewhere else. Now, suppose you give him a few million to attack me. Do you think I can't afford to counterattack? Grover, I have more money in my wallet than your whole group has in their bank accounts! Now suppose that your guy is good, really good. He might win in a nasty primary bout, or he might lose, but weaken me in the process. What happens in either case is that we then lose to the Democrats, who will listen to you even less than I do. Grover, you can defeat me, but you can't win the district."
He argued on, about the moral imperative of what he was doing and about how Democrats really wanted fiscal discipline, too. I let him ramble on and then hit a hidden button under my desk. That buzzed my secretary, who would enter and inform me that I had an urgent call, allowing me to rid myself of nuisances.
One amusing incident occurred around this time. I was over at Tusk Cycle talking to Tusker late one afternoon, and Bucky was working in the shop. He was a high school senior now, and planning on college. He was tall and lanky, a lot like his father, with the same flaming red hair, although it was just an unruly mop, and not down his back. (Tusker's was turning gray, which I needled him about on occasion.) He came through, and I asked him, "So, where are you planning on going to college?" Tessa had informed her son that he was going to college, and not hanging around the shop for the rest of his life.
He glanced at his father, and then looked back at me. Then he looked back at Tusker, who said, "Well, go on, ask him!"
I gave the pair a curious look, and Bucky stuttered a bit and asked, "Uh, Uncle Carl, I was wondering, uh, would you write me a recommendation letter?"
"Yeah, sure. Where to?" I glanced at his father, who was amused by his son's nervousness. Bucky was a good kid, with good grades. He had two hobbies that I could detect, motorcycles and girls. If he was into anything more serious, I couldn't see it.
My namesake breathed a sigh of relief, which I found amusing. Was he actually worried I would say no? I snorted in derision and glanced at his dad, who looked amused. "Well, tell him where you want to go!", urged Tusker.
"I applied to the University of Pennsylvania. Maryland, too, but the University of Pennsylvania is my first choice. I want to study business, and they're supposed to be really good.", came out in a rush.
I looked over at Tusker, who was obviously proud of his son. "The University of Pennsylvania, hmmm? The Ivy League! Pretty good for the son of an itinerant bicycle repairman."
"Fuck you, Carl.", laughed Tusker, who flipped me the bird. "I'll tell Tessa you said that, and let you put up with her."
"Heaven forbid!" I turned back to Bucky. "Well, why not. My old man went to Pennsylvania. Wharton's a good school for business, too. I bet the Buckman Group has hired a few MBAs from there over the years. You figuring a letter from me on Congressional stationery might help?" Before he could answer, I looked back at my old friend. I raised my right hand and rubbed my thumb across my fingers. "The Ivy League? You are going to have to repair an awful lot of bicycles!"
He laughed some more. "Now I really am telling Tessa!"
"Give me a couple of days, and I'll get something for you." I jotted a note to myself and stuck it in my pocket.
The next morning I was in the front office with Mindy and a few of the others, and I mentioned it to her. She simply nodded and pulled one of the stock recommendations we had around the place. We red-lined a few sentences and added a few replacements, so that it was obvious I actually knew the kid, and she promised to get it typed up on some Congressional letterhead for my signature.
Marty came through as she was reading the final version, and he commented, "If he really is a friend of yours, whatever you do, don't tell them the truth! Any namesake of yours must have majored in beer and cheerleaders in high school!"
I had to laugh at that, as did a few others there, and Mindy said, "We should write up a real recommendation for him!"