Mark Gilleo - Sweat

“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.”

“You believe in the ‘No Child Left Behind’ movement, don’t you?”

“Yes, actually I do.”

“How about the ‘No State Left Behind’ movement?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Mississippi ranks forty-seventh in education. We have been asking for additional education funding for years and we haven’t received one Indian Head nickel. Did you know there are only six public schools in the whole state of Mississippi where students can access the internet? Six schools.”

“I was not aware of that.”

“How many schools in Massachusetts have internet-access?

“I’m not sure of the exact number.”

“More than six?”

“Yes, I’m sure it is more than six.” Senator Day gave his first offer in the negotiation. “I will see to it that you get approval for the education funds your state is requesting.”

“That’s good…for starters,” Senator Grumman said, looking out the window, hiding his smile. Sensing a fish on the line, the senator from Mississippi set the hook and started reeling. He spilled his tears over state roads, and the need for a larger chunk of federal funds for Mississippi asphalt.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“Well then, I guess there is only one thing left.”

“What’s that, Senator Grumman?”

“What are you going to do for me ?”

Senator Day read between the thick dark lines. Another check, another payoff. A personal endorsement to the re-elect Senator Grumman fund, available for immediate withdrawal. Senator Grumman pulled out a cigar as Senator Day left his office. Orange juice and a Cuban, the breakfast of champions. He had reason to celebrate. Senator Day had just guaranteed the great senator his re-election.

One vote down, two to go.

The Rupp Building was the oldest office facility still in use by members of the U.S. Senate, standing two doors down from the U.S. Supreme Court with its impressive staircase and soaring Roman columns. The Supreme Court blocked the morning sun, casting an a.m. shadow of righteousness that appropriately stopped at the foot of the Rupp Building and Senator Al Wooten’s office on its east side.

Senator Al Wooten, ex-college basketball player and Oxford scholar, was the tallest official in the Senate. He was also on a permanent vacation and wasn’t afraid to let everyone outside of his constituents know it. He was in his first term, planned on a second one, and as long as he played it cool, he figured he would set a record for Senate tenure. He had reached the apex of his career. He had no ambition to go further. Why should he? He knew life couldn’t get any better, and he was willing to do anything to remain where he was. Six years was a long time between elections. He had four more years of R&R ahead of him. With good health, good luck, and good weather, he would be shooting par at Congressional by the start of his next term.

Senator Wooten was a man of many words, and not afraid to use each and every one of them. The gregarious senator showed up for votes on the Senate floor without fail. He made sure to give his two cents on whatever the issue was, just to be on record, proof to his constituents that he was hard at work. What no one knew was that Senator Wooten pushed the electronic vote button at his assigned seat in the capitol with the randomness of a roulette wheel. Less for the really important issues, the ones that affected him directly, he let lady luck form public policy.