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Dennis Hastert promises to consider new
legislation on bottled water
"The people have spoken clearly,
and they demand that we in Congress take our snouts out of the public
trough," shouted House Speaker Dennis Hastert, his face turning even redder
than usual, as he pounded his fist on the podium and peered ahead with a
look of steely reserve.
"Cut," said the director.
As filming for the commercial
wound down for the day, Speaker 'Denny' Hastert bounded over to greet us and
give FGAQ a bit of his precious time. Hastert, who is often referred
to as the John Candy of the Rotunda, was eager to share his views on
lobbying reforms over a quick martini, as long as I was willing to pick up
the tab. And drive. And pick up his dry cleaning. He had a deal.
"You don't have a driver," I
noted, slipping behind a prime table at The Monocle. "Why is that?"
"Oh my heavens, heh heh heh, oh
boy, don't I wish." Hastert's belly shook like a bowlful of jelly, and his
entire appearance took on a Claustian glow. "Let me tell you a little
something, my friend. This is a mighty expensive city, and you just don't
earn enough as a simple congressman to where you can go out and hire
yourself a driver. Why, I make barely enough money to stay afloat. Forget
about all the gilded trimmings. Not that I'm complaining. I didn't come to
the House to make money, after all. But, yeah, you'd have to be
independently wealthy to afford a driver in this town... either that or be
taking bribes, heh heh heh."
I nodded and looked for the
waitress.
"Teddy Kennedy has a driver,"
Hastert added, after momentary reflection. "John Kerry, too."
I mentioned that these were
indeed wealthy men who probably didn't need bribes to be able to afford a
driver. Hastert nodded sagely. The twenty dollar bill that I was waving over
my head had proved ineffective, so I replaced it with a fifty. I turned to
face Hastert and brazenly fired off my next question. "What's up with all
this brouhaha?"
"Brouhaha? You're right, my
friend, that's exactly what it is. A great big steaming pile of brouhaha.
Senators putting their wives on the payroll of phony charities. Congressmen
taking expensive gifts and fine vacations and - this is off the record -
hookers in exchange for voting for a piece of legislation. It just turns my
stomach to think about it, I'll tell you that. And as much as it pains me to
admit it, it's not just the Democrats that are involved in this scandal. I'm
pretty sure there are some Republicans involved as well."
"Really?," I responded. My plan
had worked perfectly, and my fifty was now on it's way to be converted into
liquid currency. I silently resolved that I would ask for change back when
the waitress returned.
"Oh yes, I'm afraid so," said
Hastert, perhaps a little too offhandedly. "Pelosi, Reid, they've got dirty
hands, needless to say, but on our side there's Tom Delay. That's off the
record, just in case he gets lucky. Vulgar little man. And I hate to say
this, but I'm keeping a close eye on John McCain. You know, he was involved
in that Keating scandal back in the eighties, and once you go black, I'm
afraid you don't ever go back."
"My, my," I commiserated, as the
waitress placed our glasses on deep blue napkins.
"Miss, may I get change with
that?" I asked, one hand reaching for my martini, and the other reaching out
for cash. The waitress scowled and handed back twelve dollars in ones.
"My friend is just kidding,"
Hastert said to the waitress, panic in his voice. "What the hell do you
think you're doing, wise guy" he hissed across the table to me. "Give that
girl the money back ."
"What?," I stuttered
mealy-mouthed, my faux pas spreading crimson across my cheeks. "That's a big
tip."
"Thirty percent is not a big
tip," Hastert shouted. "Are you trying to make Denny Hastert look
like a cheapskate son of a bitch in public?" He finished his drink in
one extended gulp.
"No, no," I recoiled, at loss
for words or actions. "What do you usually pay?"
"Pay?" the big man
bellowed. "Now why in the world would I go and do something crazy like
that?"
He had a valid point, of course,
but he had moved on to another table before I had had a chance to admit it.
I had let him down, and now my interview was dead, a victim of my simple
lack of grace. A new martini was already winging it's way over to the
Speaker by my former waitress, who shot me a dirty look before whispering
into the congressman's ear. The two glanced my way and laughed.
It's hard being the new reporter
in a company town, but I would learn, I would learn. I settled back into my
seat, loosened my tie, and slowly scanned the bar. I could pick out at least
eight congressmen in the room, along with a handful of senators, a couple
White House aides, and probably a score more power brokers that I was still
too green to recognize. And look at my competition; every one of them was
talking to reporters. |
