It was after that most recent meeting in which Ms. McCowen threatened me with a bovine medical procedure that I decided to join the evening run. The weather was bitter cold, fifteen degrees Fahrenheit, and we well-bundled runners crunched across the thin veneer of leftover snow. Mostly this group consisted of staffers and lobbyists plugged into the D.C. ecosystem, who seem to use the club as much for networking as physical fitness. We jogged up Constitution Avenue, past the Washington Monument, and then cut over onto the Mall at the Smithsonian. I fell beside Seth, our legs falling into synchronized rhythm as we beat across the gravel. Seth not only leads these runs but is a rather impressive repository of D.C. history. When we ran past the Washington National Cathedral, he stopped and led us inside to show us the Space Window. The blue and black stained-glass window depicts constellations in motion, green planets and red stars, and even though the cuts of glass were obviously still, one’s eye seemed determined to watch them swell and swirl.
“Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin brought back a piece of the moon, and it’s actually embedded in the glass,” said Seth. “Not to get corny, but it’s remarkable, right? That a sliver of the moon would meet the sands of our planet and be joined together to create something beautiful.”
I’m not sure why, but when he said that I felt deeply emotional for a moment. That evening, as we rounded the path just shy of the Reflecting Pool outside the Capitol Building, most of the group dropped away. Seth finally stopped and laced his fingers behind his head. The five of us who’d stuck with him trotted alongside. Unticlass="underline"
“I usually only see you in the morning.”
I explained: “I had a maddening day at work.”
Seth grinned and briefly touched my arm. “You work on the Hill. They’re all maddening.”
Until that moment I was unaware that Seth knew of my position. When I inquired how, he shrugged, an almost bashful expression: “You’re sort of dork-famous to a certain set. All the wonks whisper. You’re the NOAA modeler working on the top secret bill. Trust me, Ashir, that makes you famous in this town. I was around that game once upon a time, remember?”
As the rest of the group said their goodbyes, Seth and I continued down the Mall until we reached the Potomac. The water glittered in the city’s lights. Though I’ve become adept at meeting people’s gazes to signal that they have my attention, Seth was difficult to look in the eye. He was Germanic, with bright blond hair and startlingly blue eyes that gave me anxiety. He said:
“I have such an urge to interrogate you about what Randall is up to.”
“I can’t share specifics of the negotiations for reasons I’m sure you understand.”
“No, no, I get it. Hard not to wonder, though. You leave the game, but the game never leaves you.”
“On the other hand, perhaps it would be helpful for me to ask about your experience.”
“What if we got dinner this weekend? You can pick my brain on all of the government’s doomed efforts to curb emissions, and I can tell bad jokes until maybe I see what your smile looks like.”
I felt an old terror claw. Whenever I have a moment like this, I think of my brother-in-law, Peter, who was the person who taught me to be myself unashamedly. I told Seth that was quite the hokey line—and that I’d gladly have dinner with him.
I bring up Seth Young only because our dinner included insight into his experience with the failed Obama-era effort. Many of us are optimistic that this time will be different. In the last year, with two Category 3 hurricanes making landfall, record-setting wildfire activity in California, and finally, the Great Plains dust storm blowing in from the west and coating D.C. in a pink-orange haze, the political establishment finally seems sufficiently terrified. Yet the politics of action remains a vipers’ nest of complications. Yes, clearly, the conservative movement and its proxies practice bad science, but the so-called climate hawk community is often guilty of the same.
It has become internalized in the climate activist culture that in order to alleviate destructive hurricanes and wildfires, certain social policies must be enacted, many of which have virtually nothing to do with greenhouse gas reduction. In other words, universal healthcare schemes are a dangerous distraction, though activists keep demanding they be attached to any bill. To point this out, however, has become heretical. As you may understand from some of the correspondence your office received upon hiring me, there is a contingent of political activists in online forums who believe me to be a “stalking horse for neoliberalism.” Online harassment has followed. As I’ve tried to make clear to politicians and activists alike, science and advocacy make poor bedfellows, no matter the circumstances. Dispassionate empiricism is the only methodological approach that should be pursued.
At our dinner at Charlie Palmer Steak, Seth Young was eager to share his experience in D.C.
“I still can’t stop reading Roll Call. It’s pathetic. But when I was in politics, I was twenty-three and had an ulcer that wouldn’t go away. I was snorting Adderall every day, working seventy hours a week. Starting my business probably saved me from dying of a heart attack at forty. Also, I’m like the only guy from the Obama era who didn’t get a lobbying job or become a bro media guru. But I still can’t help but live and die on the gossip.”
The waitress came, and Seth ordered for us. He’d declared that he would be paying for the meal, but I did not see how that entitled him to choose for me an animal-free steak grown from cell culture with plant-based imitation butter-bacon sauce. When she left, I asked:
“Any gossip you could potentially share that might be of help in passing the legislation?”
Seth let out a low whistle and sipped his wine. He was on his second glass to my first.
“You guys have a tougher climb than you think. When I was meeting with USCAP, everyone thought we’d get something passed, at least the framework of a cap-and-trade system.”
“I’m aware. I’ve read the Skocpol report.”
Our meals arrived. Seth dug into his while I allowed mine to sit for the moment. Through a mouthful of plant protein, Seth went on:
“I train this congressman, a Dem from a gas state who wants this bill gone. Whichever version the Senate passes, whether it’s cap and trade or a tax-and-dividend scheme or a set of regulations, he’s going to back something else. It’s clever. You have these mechanisms which enviros have disagreed on going back to the nineties, and it’s a surefire way to divide and conquer. Then you’re back to another IRA with nothing to punish emissions.”
“That’s already what’s happening in our meetings. In my estimation, simply phasing out fossil fuels is no longer adequate. We need to embark on major R&D to push forward gigaton-scale carbon sequestration and utilization. There is still a great deal of momentum for the tax-and-dividend approach.”
Seth favored me with a skeptical glare. “This is the ‘shock collar’ fantasy?”
“Yes. Tom Levine has been invited to participate on behalf of A Fierce Blue Fire.”
“Oh Jesus. That degenerate Bernie bro. I’ll grant you they’ve created the political opportunity in a surprising way, but no one has proven yet that the GOP will actually play poker. Randall thinks she’s going to get a pass because she has an R beside her name, which is lunacy if you ask me. Once all those industries are threatened, money will start flowing to other options. The base is primed to turn on her the second it gets a signal from Fox News and the right-wing armada.” He pointed behind me to the TV playing on mute over the bar where a striking woman with bright red lipstick and lustrous black hair chopped a hand in the air to make her point. “This Jen Braden floozy is taking it to Randall. People think outlets like Renaissance Media are the white supremacist, conspiratorial fringe, but they’re the vanguard now. Aren’t you going to eat your steak?”