Committees are part investigative, part research, part dog and pony show. They look at the issues, listen to the testimony of so-called experts, create experts where they don’t exist, and discuss pending legislation ad nauseam. They have investigative powers, empowered by the executive branch and based on fear and manipulation. Armed with their rendition of the facts, they present their findings to the rest of the Senate for legislative consideration. As faulty as the process is, in two hundred years, no one has come up with anything better.
For a final time, Senator Day read the letter delivered to his office days before by an anonymous Asian figure. He needed the support of three specific senators on one hotly contested topic. He had a plan, and he straightened himself in the mirror before he left his office and walked down the hall. It was time for the marionette show to begin. Senator Day on stage, dancing and twirling under wires that, unbeknownst to the actor, were controlled by C.F. Chang. They were wires Senator Day was trying to cut. But until he knew the seamstress with his child was no longer a threat to his career, he was going to perform like a star in an off-Broadway dance musical. Costume, high kicks, and all.
Senator Grumman’s voice was still rattling the crystal glass on his desk, small circular waves rippling across his morning orange juice. Grumman, the self-proclaimed great senator from the even greater state of Mississippi, thumped his Bible as hard as anyone on The Hill. His flock of staunch Republicans, from generations of staunch Republicans, followed the senator with blind faith. He got the votes because he ran with God as his running mate, and there are fewer things more important than that in Oxford or Jackson or Biloxi, and the hundreds of small towns in between.
And Grumman had charm. The kind of personal charm that God-fearing southern preachers had. Southern preachers, charlatans, and the occasional trial lawyer. Grumman was born in the most poverty-stricken county in Mississippi, appropriately named Quitman, a name which most of the male population mistook as a directive when it came to employment. For Senator Grumman, it was a fortunately unfortunate birthplace, and one he touted every chance he got. The fact that he wasn’t really from Quitman was a tidbit of info Senator Grumman left out of the story. He didn’t announce, especially during an election year, that his parents were only in Quitman for a spell to help raise funds and rebuild a church that had been wiped out by a tornado. A convincing politician from poor Quitman County was more appealing to the southern constituents than the truth—a former cotton plantation owner’s grandchild. Grumman, graying hair, ever-present red suspenders, and adorner of an ostentatious set of gold cufflinks in the shape of a crucifix with Jesus on them, was a growing figure on the Hill. And he believed that the Good Lord had blessed him with a position to bless himself.
“Senator Grumman,” Senator Day said, entering Grumman’s office with his hand extended.
“Senator Day. How is the wife?”
“She is fine. Just fine.”
“And the soon-to-be-baby?”
“Both are well. Thank you for asking.”
“Have a seat, please,” Grumman said, slowly finding his. “How can I help you, Senator?”
“I wanted to talk politics for a minute.”
“Hell, asking me to talk politics is like asking a fat man to talk about food. Shoot,” Grumman said with a heavy Southern drawl, his bushy eyebrows moving as much as his mouth.
“As you know, the Special Committee is due to give its recommendation to the Senate on overseas job flight and an international minimum wage.”
“Yes, Senator, I am aware of the upcoming need for a decision.”
Senator Day laid his best idea on the table with confidence. “Well as Chairman of the Special Committee, I can propose that the recommendation be made in a variety of formats.”
“Yes, Senator Day, as Chairman, that is within your rights. But you know senators don’t like venturing too far from the standard mark-up process.”
“Yes, of course. Everyone likes the mark-up process. Everyone gets to have their say, common language is agreed upon in a document that is incomprehensible to the average person, and no one can be held accountable for their opinion because one is never individually voiced. Together, we all write up a nice bill-recommendation to the Senate, and there is no ill-will.”
“That’s just the way things are done.”
“Most of the time. But for the Special Committee on Overseas Labor we are going to have a vote. Twelve committee members. Everyone on record.”
“Fine with me, Senator. It’s only a committee vote. It’s only a recommendation. Any proposal we agree to will have to pass the Senate as a whole no matter how the vote goes.”
“Yes, Senator Grumman it does. And with that in mind, I would like to discuss your view on the direction of the committee.”
“No offense Senator. I know you are the Chair, but Overseas Labor is one of the ugliest topics to rear its head on the Hill this session.”
“There are a lot of committees vying for that title,” Senator Day answered. Both senators laughed at the inside joke, a joke that would have cost them ten thousand votes apiece if anyone were listening.
“So what about it?”
“I understand, to the best of my knowledge, the committee is leaning toward blocking an international minimum wage system for multinational companies doing business in certain foreign countries. I certainly know how I’m going to vote, and I have a pretty good idea how the rest of the group will fall out.”
“A minimum wage is about the only move we have to stop American companies from sending every damn job we have to China and India. We are heading down a slippery slope here in the U.S. We are eliminating jobs Americans need. Good Americans. Let me pose a question, Senator.”
“Please.”
“What percent of Americans go to college?”
“Nearly twenty-five percent.”
“So some seventy-five percent do not have college degrees.”
“That’s the math.”
“This seventy-five percent is the working class. The garbage men, the security guards at the mall, the factory workers.”
“Yes, sir. They are.”
“There are over three hundred factories in the state of Mississippi, making everything from ladders to furniture to rebuilt diesel engines. Three hundred factories, ten thousand jobs, supporting fifty thousand men, women, and children. That is a lot of mouths to feed, Senator Day.”
“Yes sir, it is.”
“With that in mind, what did you come here to discuss?”
“A vote in favor of support for overseas labor. A vote against an international minimum wage would be, to put it as plainly as I can, in my best interest.”
“Senator, I know you support overseas labor. I know you have manufacturing constituents with overseas interests. But things in the Northeast aren’t the same as the concerns of the Deep South. Mississippi is not sitting on Harvard or M.I.T. Mississippi doesn’t have a major U.S. city within its borders. It does not have one of the largest ports in the U.S. It does not have a thriving financial district. Manufacturing is all Mississippi has left. Hell, it’s all we ever had. Except for cotton.”
Senator Day waited for the initial storm clouds to blow over. On Capitol Hill, waiting was a profession in itself. In a world of talkers, a conversation was never dead.
“You’re also on the Education Reform Committee aren’t you?” Senator Grumman asked.
“Yes, sir.”