I journey into darkest DC

One score and some years ago, our fathers brought forth in this county a new committee, conceived in optimism, and dedicated to the proposition that it could persuade Washington DC to support the business community here. Kind of like a snake seeking relief at a mongoose convention.

I was recruited to serve on the committee and make the pilgrimage east to represent our region. Yes, the mind does boggle.

A chartered jet whisked us to the capital and a limo to the office of one of Ohio’s duly elected Representatives. Bill was to be our guide and accompany us to appointments with various officials. But first, a tour of the building, with Congress being the centerpiece.

Wow.

It registered with me. I would be standing within the same walls that echoed some of the most momentous speeches and debates in history. Perhaps one would be raging today! Would it be a milestone in civil rights? A watershed of foreign policy? An economic coup? I would soon know.

Tingling with anticipation, I was the first to hop onto the elevator. I went to push the button that would loft us to the floor of action, but a hand pushed mine aside. “What floor, sir?” a uniformed attendant inquired. I was taken aback. It was an automated elevator. “What floor, sir?” Bill told him, as I was still dumbstruck. The man expertly pushed the button in our behalf.

We alit and made for the hallowed chamber. I sidled up to Bill and asked what gives.

He cleared his throat. “Kind of a hangover from the old days. No one wants to be the one who eliminates the positions.”

We entered at the top of the great hall. I didn’t expect to see throngs of powdered-wigged colonials. On the other hand, I didn’t anticipate seeing a half dozen pages napping on the carpeted aisle steps. One suited gentleman stood at the podium, reading from a voluminous manuscript about railroad subsidy in a perfect monotone.

I grabbed Bill by the elbow. “Where is everyone?”

“Well, we all have this piped into our offices.” I could barely imagine staying awake through this in person, let alone coming through some tinny speaker. I stared at Bill. “And, every office gets a copy of the Congressional Record.”

“And they read all this?”

“”Well, aides go through it and highlight the more significant parts. We all show up for the votes.” I didn’t say anything. “Well, most do.”

Next stop was the rotunda under the Capitol Dome. The apex of the dome is 300 feet above the floor and is dizzying (for me) to look up at.

Bill gave a summarized history of the construction. Someone asked if we could go to the top. I froze. I abhor heights. I don’t even like widths.

Bill said that, at one time, the public was allowed to ascend, but it was now closed to them. I felt orifices unpucker.

Bill continued. The regulation had changed to you could go up there only if accompanied by a Representative or Senator.

Uh oh.

Bill continued. Unfortunately, not many of them can make the climb.

Thank Christ!

Bill continued. But, we were fortunate enough to have one of the very few Representatives who could. Fortunate. Did we want to go? Everyone leaped at the chance. Save for one.

But, I was swept along in the tide and quickly found myself at the entry door. Well, at least I’d have the trip up to steel myself for the view. Wrong!

“Steel” was the operative word, because that’s what the steps appeared to be. I expected some kind of enclosed, carpeted stairway. What looked like scaffolding spiraled upward, winding around the outside of the inner dome. The steps were spare and the structure completely open. The first couple steps reminded me I had bought new leather-soled shoes for the trip.

There was no looking down or sideways. I riveted my eyes on the objective and slid my hands along the skinny pipe rail, never surrendering my grip. I hoped my sweat wasn’t dripping on the guy below me. It was cold.

We emerged at the top of the inner dome. The “safety fence” appeared to have been made from George Washington’s wooden dentures and came up to my knees. Or so it seemed.

Our group eagerly leaned over to peer down into the rotunda. I plastered myself against the wall, a good two feet or so from the precipice.

“Hey, Henry, you’ve got to see this,” exclaimed Paul. I shook my head, but not too much. Didn’t want to lose my balance. He tugged on my sleeve. “C’mon.”

“Just let go and I will.” I leaned by millimeters. The floor was a black & white checkerboard pattern, and created an optical illusion that seemed to be sucking me downward. I snapped back, banging my head on the arching wall. Pain was the least of my problems now.

C’mon, c’mon! How long can you look at a floor? Mercifully, Bill finally spoke. Bill, my man!

“Would you like to go – that’s right, Bill, we would like to go down right this second – outside?”

What?!!! Was he completely insane?

Given the narrow balcony, I had little choice but to go with the flow. We stepped through a narrow doorway and a howling torrent of wind of about 200 mph, by my reckoning, tried to launch us into oblivion. I would’ve pressed myself closer against the dome, but a layer of paint was in the way.

“Henry, you’re missing a spectacular view.” I made my decision right there. If Paul grabbed me again, he had to go over the side.

With so many sights, this could not possibly be a brief dalliance. Did Bill point out the Washington Monument six times or was I just paranoid?

The steep, shingle-sized steps downward made me wonder why I had been so anxious to begin the descent. Once on terra firma, I sucked in a deep breath. Perhaps my first in the past ninety minutes.

From there, it was a skein of meetings about our issues. One pre-fab smile after another. I will certainly take this under advisement. I will surely look into that. I will give this my full attention. Yadda yadda yadda.

One bureaucrat broke ranks and acknowledged my growing skepticism. “I assure you, I have a real interest in this matter.”

“I’m not here for interest. I want commitment.”

“Same thing. That’s what I said.”

I shook my head. “It’s like n a bacon and egg breakfast. The chicken showed an interest, but the pig made a commitment.” He frowned, but I knew he’d use that in his next speech.

Epilogue. I followed up vociferously, but received little more than platitudes for my efforts.

I did publish an account of the trip in the newspaper, which elicited an irate phone call from a Congressman. “You’re misleading and inciting people with that stuff about the elevator operator. That’s peanuts. There’s only sixteen of them.”

“Paid with taxpayer money, Tom. If there’s only one of them, it’s one too many.”

But, that’s the way they think.