The Rationing

by Charles Wheelan

  The First Lady’s motorcade left the White House with a parade of media vehicles in tow. Claire Yegian’s editor texted, “Go to NH.”

  34.

  THE STRESS AND FATIGUE WERE EVIDENT AROUND THE CONFERENCE table. On breaks, the White House staff would swoop in to clear away plates and cups, but the room still had the stale feel of a common area in a college dormitory during finals. The Majority Leader had finally taken off his jacket. The Strategist had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The room was cool, but many of us looked like we had been sitting in the same place for too many hours (and probably smelled that way, too). I wanted real food, some exercise of any kind, and a shower. It was not going to happen anytime soon. As soon as I left the room, I would have to get on a plane and fly to New Hampshire.

  The Chief of Staff called us back to order. “I want to thank the Acting Secretary for bringing up the issue of how we might distribute our stock of Dormigen if we were to come up short,” she said. “I know we hope it will not come to that, but I agree that we ought to plan for every contingency.”

  “Don’t we have some system for allocating scarce medicine?” the Strategist asked.

  “No,” the Acting HHS Secretary said. “We have situations where individuals cannot afford the medicines that are available, but we do not have any policy governing scarcity. It’s just not something that typically happens.”

  “What about donor organs?” the Strategist asked.

  “That’s a whole separate system that has a lot to do with matching the tissue type of donors and recipients. It really doesn’t offer us much guidance.”

  “So how do we distribute Dormigen right now?” the Strategist asked. It was interesting to watch his mind work, like a precocious child who cannot help but ask more questions. Others in the room were clearly eager for the Acting Secretary to start his presentation, but the Strategist was oblivious to the looks that were being exchanged across the table.

  “Dormigen is no different than Band-Aids or aspirin,” the Acting Secretary answered. “It’s expensive, yes, but it’s plentiful. When the supply is running low, you order more. And when you order more, it comes. No one has ever considered anything different.”

  The Chief of Staff steered us back on track. “Why don’t you tell us what you have in mind?” she said to the Acting Secretary.

  The Acting Secretary stood and buttoned his suit jacket over his sizable stomach. It was a gesture of formality that I found oddly affecting, as it seemed to signal some kind respect for the moment. “Mr. President, members of the Cabinet Working Group, thank you for this opportunity to present my ideas. I’m particularly appreciative since, as you all know, I’m merely a placeholder in this position.” These opening remarks were not as stilted as they may now seem. Like the small gesture of buttoning his suit jacket, the formality of the Acting Secretary’s remarks gave a certain gravitas to the moment, which was all the more noteworthy because of his normal levity. The Acting HHS Secretary had been the person least in awe of the President throughout this process, yet here he was showing the most deference to our situation when it came his turn to make a recommendation. “I don’t have a fancy presentation,” he continued.

  “Good,” said the President. “Just tell us what you want to tell us.”

  The Acting Secretary nodded respectfully. He looked around the table slowly, almost as if to generate suspense. “My idea is very simple, though don’t for a second think I haven’t given it a great deal of thought. I propose that the available doses of Dormigen be allocated to those who need it based on a lottery. Everyone with a Social Security number is eligible. We will draw numbers—electronically, I assume—and the persons with the Social Security numbers selected will receive the available doses.”

  “People are going to live or die based on a lottery?” the Speaker asked scornfully.

  “My dad went to Vietnam because of a lottery,” the Acting Secretary said, not missing a beat. He had obviously anticipated that question.

  There was silence around the table, and not even much movement, as if the cabinet had been frozen in place, or was posing for one of those old-fashioned photos that required stillness for twenty seconds. The Majority Leader spoke first. “A lottery? That doesn’t feel right.”

  “Which one: for Vietnam or for Dormigen?” the Acting Secretary asked pointedly.

  “Hold on a second,” the Strategist interjected. “Why don’t we just sell the stuff? Supply and demand. That’s what we do when we have a shortage of anything else.”

  “You can’t be serious,” the House Speaker said.

  “Why can’t I be serious?” the Strategist said. I could not tell if he was being literal, or if he was just trying to provoke her.

  “You propose that we give a lifesaving drug only to those who can afford it?” she said, genuinely incredulous.

  “Hello! Welcome to America!” the Strategist said loudly, almost yelling but not quite. “That’s what we’ve been doing with health care for the last eighty years.”

  “It’s not the same thing,” the Speaker said.

  “Really? I passed at least four homeless guys on my way here this morning. Do you think those guys are sleeping on the street because they have a special affinity for the outdoors?” The Strategist was more visibly emotional than I had seen him. I could not tell if he was angry because of the social injustice of the situation, or because the Speaker refused to accept his logic.

  “They’re mentally ill,” she said. “They have substance abuse problems.”

  “Then why don’t they get treatment? Because it would conflict with their regular golf game?”

  The Speaker paused, taking a breath to calm herself before she responded. “I have supported higher funding for those programs at every turn. I sponsored many of those bills.”

  “Did they pass?” the Strategist asked.

  “Ask the President about that,” the Speaker replied tartly.

  “Did they pass?” the Strategist repeated.

  “Usually not,” the Speaker answered. “I don’t understand where you’re going with this.”

  Because the room was so quiet and still, we all noticed as the President shifted in his seat and took off his reading glasses. He stared at the Strategist with an expression I had not seen; his whole bearing seemed to soften, as if the White House porters had whisked away the anger and frustration of the past week along with the coffee cups and dirty plates. “John, I appreciate what you’re saying,” the President said. He rarely called staffers by their first names, so I noticed when he did. “You’re right. You are absolutely right.”

  “Don’t patronize me,” the Strategist warned.

  “I’m not patronizing you,” the President said. “God knows I’ve learned that lesson.” There was some chuckling around the table. Even the Strategist smiled slightly. The President continued, “There is no doubt that we have a system in which . . .” He paused to gather his thoughts. “Life is not fair.”

  “Life is not fair anywhere, Mr. President, but it is uniquely American to deprive poor people of basic necessities that we as a society could easily afford to provide for them.” The Strategist was calmer now, having had a chance to express his thoughts. The President nodded in acknowledgment but said nothing. I could not for the life of me figure out what was happening. The Strategist was no flaming leftie; if anything, he had been the most caustic critic of some of the Speaker’s proposals. He described the $22 minimum wage proposal as “a policy designed by a kindergarten student who had been hit on the head during block-building hour.” That was his exact comment. For obvious reasons, journalists loved interviewing the Strategist, and for equally obvious reasons, the White House tried to make sure it happened as infrequently as possible.

  I looked at the Chief of Staff, but her expression betrayed nothing.

  Finally, the President spoke again, “John, how is auctioning off Dormigen going to make any of that any better?”

  “It would
hold a mirror up to society,” he answered. “It would say, ‘This is what we have become. We are the richest society in the history of civilization, but if you can’t afford the basic necessities of life, you’re fucked.’ ” The Strategist was emotionally taut. He was speaking like a first-year college student in a late-night bull session, but his thoughts were coming from a much deeper, more emotional place. I thought he might cry, which seemed almost inconceivable based on all that I had seen and read about his detached, ironic view of the world.

  Some of us began unconsciously looking down the table to the Acting Secretary of HHS, perhaps because he still technically had the floor, but more likely because he had the highest emotional intelligence of the group. Maybe he was the guy who could say the right thing as we confronted this awkward situation. The Acting Secretary fixed his warm gaze on the Strategist. “John, I wish you could have met my dad,” he said. “Let’s just say that when he came back from Vietnam, he was one angry man. Actually, if I’m being honest, he was pretty angry on the way over, too, but when he came back—one very angry black man. Because, shit, if it’s bad to be poor and white in this country, it really sucks to be poor and black.”

  “Yes,” the Strategist said, inviting him to continue.

  “He’d watch the news and read his newspaper, sitting in this big armchair with a footstool, right in front of the television. And he would tell anyone in earshot everything that was wrong with the country. I’d be running around the house looking for a chemistry book or my football cleats, and he’d insist on reading some article out loud. He’d yell, ‘Did you see what that clown Bush did?’ And then he’d read me the article, stopping after every paragraph to offer commentary, like some kind of talk radio show in our living room.

  “So one day my mom comes home and tells us she’s running for the school board. Truth be told, there were three open seats and only three candidates, so really she volunteered for the school board. But her name was on the ballot, and we all went together and voted for her, and then she was on the school board. Bless my mother, she was a kind soul, never one for direct confrontation, but don’t get me wrong, that woman could get her point across. So when my dad started grumbling about some injustice or another, she would say, ‘Can you read that to me when I get back, honey, because I’ve got a meeting to get to.’ My sisters and I would look at each other and smile, because we knew what she was really saying was, ‘If you’re so upset about the situation, why don’t you get your big fat black ass out of that chair and do something?’ ”

  The Strategist smiled, as did others around the table. The Acting Secretary continued, “Something changed after my mom joined the school board. She served for fourteen years and she made a lot of difference. We could see it. She’d say one night over dinner, ‘We need a better library,’ and then two or three years later, we’d be sitting at some ribbon-cutting for a new library. Don’t get me wrong, my dad still spent a lot of time in that chair. He died there. I mean he literally died in that chair. But he lived to see me get elected mayor, and he lived to see Barack Obama become president. I spent the better part of a day trying to get him a ticket to the inauguration, and we went together. When it was over, and we were still sitting in our seats, he turned to me and he said, ‘You need to keep doing what you’re doing.’

  “Now, to be clear, he was right back in his chair the next week, yelling at the television. But that’s the phrase that stuck with me: ‘You need to keep doing what you’re doing.’ ” The Acting Secretary paused and looked around the table. “I’m sorry. I’ve gone on for too long.” He turned to the Strategist. “John, I am sorry about your brother. I really am. For what it’s worth, that’s exactly the kind of thing that would get my dad all riled up. It’s just plain wrong. But you know, and I know, that this is not the time to make that point.”

  “I know,” the Strategist said. “Thank you.”

  “And as bad as our situation is here, we got to keep doing what we’re doing,” the Acting Secretary added.

  No one said anything. It was as if only the Acting Secretary and the Strategist had permission to speak. What could any of the rest of us add? The tenor of the room had changed for the better, though it would not necessarily last. In that moment, I felt part of something bigger. We would do our best to muddle through. We would join the ranks of other Americans who had muddled through. Maybe sensible people trying to muddle through is the best we can hope for, I thought. Muddling through won World War II. It got us through the Great Depression and the Trump presidency.

  At the time, all this was just a feeling. I could not have articulated those thoughts in the Cabinet Room. Even now I struggle to put words against that fleeting sense of goodwill and purpose. The scientist in me says that the Acting Secretary’s inspiring speech caused a little burst of dopamine in my brain. But maybe that, too, is part of muddling through. Eventually the Chief of Staff said, “I think we all need a short break.”

  I was growing more politically aware, noticing subtle cues and comments that had escaped me just a few days earlier. Our short break, which on the surface looked like any other group of adults lingering near coffee and pastries, was in fact more like a group of political animals gathering near a watering hole. The Majority Leader, with a Danish in each hand, was huddled in a corner with the Secretary of Defense. As I walked by, they were discussing some kind of defense appropriations bill. The Defense Secretary was making a passionate case for something, and the Majority Leader seemed to be agreeing with him.

  The National Security Adviser stood alone on one side of the room, a solitary creature in this political tableau. Her work typically rose above this kind of political give-and-take, and she was too disciplined to eat pastries just because they happened to be there.

  The Chief of Staff had made herself a cup of tea and was now using the break to answer as many calls and e-mails as possible. The mundane details of governing did not stop just because we were in crisis. She sat in a chair by the wall speaking on her phone with someone I assumed to be her assistant. “No, no, no,” I heard her declare emphatically. “Tell the Prime Minister if they announce more settlements, the President will veto the whole foreign aid bill. Period.” She listened for a brief time and then issued more instructions. “Fine. Add Chile to the itinerary and cancel the fundraiser. What else?” She listened again and then exclaimed, “You’ve got to be kidding me! That’s the only open appointment they had this month. Tell her if she can’t make it to the orthodontist, I’m taking her phone away all weekend.” I was struck by how similar the Chief of Staff’s tone was in dealing with the Israeli settlement-building and her teenage daughter skipping an orthodontist appointment. In both cases, I found her threats to be entirely credible.

  If the pastry table was a political watering hole, the Speaker was the predator loitering on the periphery, looking for an opportunity to strike. A coffee break was not to be wasted on tea or phone calls; it was ten minutes to be used for political advantage. I watched her watching the room, like I was on some kind of political safari. Her gaze settled on the Acting HHS Secretary, who was talking to the Strategist. The Acting Secretary had his arm draped over the Strategist’s shoulder in a supportive way. I could hear snippets of what they were saying, something about the Vietnam War. From across the room, the Speaker watched intently, waiting for the right moment. It wouldn’t surprise me if her breathing slowed and her pupils dilated. After about a minute, the Acting HHS Secretary said, “Get something to eat, John.” The Strategist nodded and turned toward the pastry table. Almost immediately the Speaker walked briskly toward the Acting Secretary, who was now standing alone near the wall. The Acting Secretary took a step toward the coffee and pastries; the Speaker quickly inserted herself between him and the food table, making it appear that they came face-to-face by serendipity. In my mind, I could hear the narrator on the Discovery Channel explaining (with a cool South African accent), “The Speaker, an adept hunter, has injected herself between the Acting Secretary and the
pastries, cutting him off from his fellow cabinet members and leaving him effectively pinned against the far wall of the room.”

  The Speaker got right to the point. “We’re wasting our time here,” she said.

  “How’s that, Madam Speaker?” the Acting HHS Secretary replied respectfully.

  “This is a matter for Congress to decide,” she said in a tone that bordered on accusatory.

  “You’ve made that point,” the Acting Secretary replied without emotion. “Would you like some coffee?” He took a step to move around her toward the table, but the Speaker moved quickly to block his path. He was a large man and she was a relatively small woman, so the effect was almost comical. Still, he was not going to get his coffee unless he physically moved her out of the way. “What do you want?” he asked, losing patience.

  “Look, you’re new at this,” the Speaker said with transparent insincerity. “Maybe you’re a little over your head.” The Acting Secretary laughed loudly, drawing looks from elsewhere in the room. (There was not a lot of other laughter.) The Speaker leaned closer. “What’s so funny?” she challenged.

  “I spent seventeen years working with a city council,” the Acting Secretary said. “The people in this room, they’re just like the city council. Some are smarter. Some are meaner. They’re all better dressed. But at the end of the day, politics is politics.”

  “I can make things very hard for you,” the Speaker said.

  “Really?” the Acting Secretary replied. His tone suggested he was unsurprised by the threat but curious what form it would take.

  “You may be an executive branch appointment, but don’t think for a second that I couldn’t make your job go away.”

  “Like today?”

  “Like that,” the Speaker said, snapping her fingers to emphasize the point.