by Jim Geraghty
“You read Toffler?!” exclaimed Gingrich in giddy disbelief.
“Hell-lo?” Ava laughed. “He’s only the world’s most famous futurologist, the foremost scholar on how technology advances change society, and the preeminent theoretician of the singularity!”
Humphrey had urged all of his senior staff to read up on Gingrich, but he hadn’t told Summers to do this. He realized her enthusiasm was genuine.
For fifteen straight minutes, the Speaker of the House and Ava mind-melded on all manner of obscure scientific, technological, and sociological topics: Nanotechnology. Genetic engineering. Satellite-based handheld communications. Space exploration. They quickly mapped out a plan to build a Star Trek–level utopian society within a decade and a half.
“I keep telling people, the science that Michael Crichton based Jurassic Park upon is extremely doable, and would really not be that expensive, difficult, risky, or time-consuming!” said Gingrich with an incredulous irritation that seemed incomprehensible to everyone else in the room but Ava.
“Not when you can adjust the growth rate of the species by tinkering with its genetic code!” Ava said. “And who’s to say you have to stop with dinosaurs? How much does the endangered species list change when we can whip up as many animals as we need in a lab to replenish the species? We could have flocks of dodos whenever and wherever we want! What happens when extinction becomes not just reversible, but obsolete?”
Wilkins leaned over to Humphrey. “This is going a little too well,” he whispered. “It’s getting creepy.”
Gingrich stayed a half hour longer than scheduled, and talked with Ava all the way through the building to the front door. He hadn’t explicitly promised funding to create Weed.gov, but his body language and tone suggested a transformative excitement.
Then … nothing happened. Weeks went by. Then months. No bad news came from the Hill—enacting the Contract with America was proving a time-consuming challenge for the new Republican majority—but no good news, either.
Until Humphrey’s secretary received a call, inviting the administrative director to a meeting … with Congressman Bader. The new congressman already established himself as the rookie hell-raiser of the House Oversight and Government Reform Committee.
Humphrey and Wilkins reported to Bader’s office, only to be informed by the secretary that the congressman was expecting them … on the Speaker’s balcony.
They reported to the Speaker’s office, and Bader’s head emerged from a doorway.
“This way, Humphrey. Leave your Boy Wonder,” Bader cracked.
Wilkins glowered and left.
They emerged to a luxurious balcony, and past the wrought-iron gate was one of the most spectacular, and coveted, views in Washington. Just past a lawn lay the Ulysses S. Grant Memorial, beyond that a reflecting pool, a long expanse of the National Mall with the boxy Smithsonian museums on either side, and the obelisk of the Washington Monument. A noisy airplane made its ascent from National Airport. The sun was beginning to set. The traffic noise seemed distant. It was an oasis of relative quiet and open space compared to the cramped offices in the building behind them. Humphrey realized if he had a balcony like this, he might never step back inside his office.
Bader lit up a cigar, and offered one to Humphrey.
“John Hay,” he said, not removing it from his mouth. “Named after Lincoln’s secretary. They grow the tobacco in my district.”
“No thank you, Congressman, my preferred vice is any brown liquor in fine crystal.” The two men stared out at the mall for a moment, and then Humphrey felt compelled to break the silence. “This is a most kind and … suspicious invitation. I figured that to ever enjoy this view, I would need an invitation from the Speaker himself.”
“Newt allows me to use it.” Bader buffed and looked Humphrey up and over. “He and I are getting pretty chummy lately.”
Humphrey sensed there was a bitterness beneath the bragging, and his mind began calculating, analyzing, out loud, almost uncontrollably. “He has given you a special privilege.… He did this because he needed something from you … or if he needed to placate you. By any chance, has the Speaker decided to abandon the effort to cast my staff and me to the fiery pits of budgetary oblivion?”
Bader nodded, and continued to stare out toward the horizon. “Newt says he’s … putting my bill to eliminate the agency on the back burner. Wrong fight at the wrong time, he says.”
Humphrey managed to stifle any laughter, but not the smile. “I had been hearing something along those lines.”
“And he seems to be gung-ho about this magic computer system you sold him on,” Bader growled.
“Weed.gov,” Humphrey declared.
“Right,” Bader said, although his tone made clear he couldn’t possibly care less about the name of the system. “So … in the interest of … cooperation between your agency and my colleagues, I was willing to go along with the funding for this weed-picker-dot-com thing if you could point to some other program that you deemed … expendable.”
Ah-ha, thought Humphrey. He can’t cut all of my budget, so he wants to find a piece to save face. “Within the agency or elsewhere within the federal budget? Because I’ve always found congressional fact-finding missions to exotic overseas destinations to be a particularly unnecessary portion of our governing expenditures. Bringing the spouses along seems like an unnecessary expense as well—”
“Within your agency,” Bader said, shooting Humphrey a glare that could, by itself, trigger a hostile-workplace complaint. “Surely, any good administrative director could think of some expenditures of his agency that can be eliminated or cut back so that funds can be reallocated to a new computer system.”
Humphrey drummed his fingers on the railing.
“Unfortunately, Congressman, nothing is coming to mind off the top of my head. I would need to look at our most recent budget figures,” he said, shaking his head. He backed away, sensing that the meeting’s purpose was clear and there was no point in hanging around.
“Take a look,” Bader said. “After I get some specific and substantive suggestions and figures, I would … really enjoy having you back up here, to … enjoy some brown liquor in fine crystal.”
“Your hospitality is most kind, Congressman,” Humphrey lied. “And I’ll get on that as soon as possible. My study of Washington has taught me to always partake of an invitation from a congressman when given the chance,” he smiled as he prepared to twist the knife. “Because you never know how long they’ll be in a position to offer that invitation.”
Bader’s mouth smiled, but his eyes didn’t.
HEARING TESTIMONY
HOUSE OVERSIGHT AND GOVERNMENT
REFORM COMMITTEE
HEARING ON MANAGEMENT PRACTICES OF
THE U.S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE &
ASSOCIATED PROGRAMS
JUNE 5, 1995
Chairman: The gentleman’s time has expired. And the next round of questioning, five minutes time allocated, goes to my distinguished colleague from the great state of Pennsylvania, Mr. Bader.
Rep. Nicholas Bader, R-Pa.: Thank you, Mr. Chairman. I’d like to direct my questions to Mr. Humphrey. Administrative Director Humphrey, how many employees does the USDA Agency of Invasive Species have?
Humphrey: I’m sorry, Congressman, could you repeat the question?
Bader: I said, how many federal government employees work at your agency?
Humphrey: Well, that is a different question than your first inquiry, Congressman.
Bader: I’m sorry, what?
Humphrey: Apology accepted, Congressman, but the categories of “employees” and “federal government employees” are not necessarily synonymous. We have contract workers and seasonal workers and unpaid interns and others who do not fit the accepted definition of “federal government employees.” So you are asking for two different figures here.
Bader: Okay, fine. Give me both figures.
Humphrey: Ah. Congressman, because we a
re on the record and lying to Congress is a crime, I am afraid I must be circumspect in my assessments of these figures. I would much rather leave a question unanswered than provide inaccurate information to Congress.
Bader: It’s a head count, Mr. Humphrey, not calculus. Give me a figure.
Humphrey: Congressman, the precise figure is constantly changing with new hires and retirements; it’s unclear if your request includes part-time workers, contract workers, and those on maternity, sick, and other leave; it is unclear how to count those whose primary duties are in interagency working groups, it is unclear whether to count unpaid interns and paid interns; it is unclear whether to count those who contribute to agency publications. Also, because of the seasonal nature of agricultural work, the workload of our agency and the personnel required tend to change with the seasons as well.
Bader: I just want a number.
Humphrey: Well, I can give you a number, but I believe you would prefer a number that comes closest to representing the constantly changing actual figure. Perhaps this matter could be most easily resolved if I gave you a range.
Bader: Fine. Give me a range.
Humphrey: Shall I begin with the floor of the possible range of employees of the agency as of this moment, or the ceiling?
Bader: The floor, Mr. Humphrey.
Humphrey: Very well.
(Humphrey consulted with counsel at this point.)
Humphrey: Congressman, our agency counsel recommends that I provide the floor figure of “one hundred.”
Bader: One hundred employees? That doesn’t seem a little low to you?
Humphrey: Congressman, I share your frustration, and would inform you that I dissuaded our counsel from his original suggested floor figure of zero.
(laughter)
Chairman: The committee will come to order.
Bader: Mr. Humphrey, I’m going to keep my language civil for the moment and declare that that number is not particularly illuminating. What’s your ceiling?
(Humphrey consulted with an aide at this point. The consultation continued for several moments.)
Bader: Mr. Chairman, how long until I can hold the witness in contempt of Congress?
Chairman: Simmer down, Mr. Bader. Mr. Humphrey?
Humphrey: Mr. Chairman, I can inform you that the agency has a ceiling of two hundred thousand employees.
Bader: Really? Not a million? You guys feel safe ruling out the possibility that you have a million employees right now?
Humphrey: We do, Congressman.
Bader: Because there are currently about 175,000 Marines in the U.S. Armed Forces, and I think it says everything we need to know about the federal government that it’s even remotely possible that we have more federal workers picking weeds than serving in the Marine Corps. Furthermore, I have the testimony of the Secretary of Agriculture right here, who puts the number of employees of his entire department at around one hundred thousand.
Humphrey: As I thought I made clear, Congressman, the figures at issue are only a rough estimate of a constantly changing figure that—
Bader: Mr. Humphrey, what I think you’re doing is obfuscation designed to keep this committee and the public in the dark about just how large your agency has grown in the twenty years since its founding, and obscuring just what the American people get for the millions upon millions they have poured into your agency over the years. This kind of—
Chairman: The gentleman’s time has expired.
NOVEMBER 1995
U.S. National Debt: $4.98 trillion
Budget, USDA Agency of Invasive Species: $112.2 million
The reports of a breakdown in budget talks had been growing louder, but no one had believed that differences between the new Speaker and President Clinton would lead to an actual shutdown of the United States government. Wilkins had periodically reassured the workers beneath him, “We’re the federal government. We never close.”
But as the deadline approached, the unbelievable had become reality. Congress had failed to appropriate any money to pay the salaries after the next pay period. The Agriculture Secretary had given the word: Be ready to operate only with essential personnel starting the day after tomorrow.
Humphrey gathered all of his employees in a crowded conference room. Some stood in the hallways; those in field offices listened by conference call.
“Women and children first,” Humphrey declared.
“You had to evoke the Titanic right off the bat, huh?” Wilkins groaned.
“I approach the decision of ‘vital personnel’ with some chivalry,” Humphrey explained. “I am certain, once the shutdown ends, we will all be reimbursed for missed pay periods. Higher-salaried staffers are more likely to have accumulated savings to use for expenses during this time than our newer and younger workers. So, despite the fact that my instructions indicate that the younger among you are likely to rank among the nonessential, I … interpret the definitions differently than the Office of Management and Budget guidelines suggest. Any of you who find yourself with dire financial expenses in the near future, send me a memo by the end of the day and I will see to it you are deemed ‘essential.’ Those of you who can afford a delayed paycheck or two, your temporary sacrifice is appreciated. Beyond these arrangements, I myself will be … able to make emergency loans to anyone who needs it.”
Wilkins looked around the room and saw expressions of surprise and awe. For all of his flaws, Adam Humphrey believed in protecting his people.
“How long will the shutdown last?” Jamie asked.
“That’s up to the president and Congress, but I am taking steps to assure that we are in the innermost of inner loops as this fiscal crisis is resolved,” Humphrey said with a strangely reassuring, confident tone. “For some of you, this will be a brief unexpected vacation.”
A mix of disbelief, nervous laughter, and gallows humor as the workers paraded out. A shell-shocked Wilkins was left alone in the room with Humphrey.
“So how are we getting into the innermost of inner loops?” he asked.
“You and I are about to become surgically attached to Congressman Hargis.”
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 1995
It was the first time Wilkins had been back to the White House since he worked there under Carter.
“I … am thrilled to be back here, Congressman, but shouldn’t you be back at the Hill?”
“I’m here to tell them we are up a creek,” Hargis grumbled as he, Humphrey, and Wilkins sat, shoulder-to-shoulder and butt-cheek-to-butt-cheek on a couch in the West Wing hallway.
“Forty-eight of my Democratic colleagues just voted for the Republicans’ continuing resolution that would require the president to submit a proposal to balance the budget within seven years. To do that, we would have to cut—not reduce the rate of growth, cut—about $160 billion from what we’re spending now.”
“Absolute madness,” Humphrey said, shaking his head. “Just keeping our budget static, with no baseline adjustments in the coming seven years, would be unthinkable.… To meet that insane ideological goal, every government agency would have to cut spending … one and a half percent in seven years!”
“More, really, because they would have to exclude entitlements,” Wilkins murmured.
Hargis ran his fingers through his thinning silver hair. “I’m getting hell in my district, and that never happens. I have to look like I want to balance the budget. And if somebody like me is flipping, there’s no way we can sustain a veto from Clinton.”
Humphrey was as pale as Wilkins had ever seen him.
“My God … it’s going to happen, isn’t it? These barbarians are actually going to …”
“Lucky me,” Hargis chuckled bitterly. “I get to be the one to tell Bill Clinton that for the first time since World War II, the federal government will spend less than the year before.”
Through a window, they caught a glimpse of Clinton in his sweatsuit, reentering the Oval Office. A young brunette aide—an unpaid intern, most likely—emerged fro
m the doorway and told the congressman the president would be ready to see him in a moment.
Hargis entered, and Humphrey and Wilkins were left on the couch, thankfully able to put some space between them. They sighed and looked at each other.
Wilkins was groping for a way to say things wouldn’t be that bad when they suddenly heard an explosion of howling laughter and cheers from a few offices away.
“YEE-HA!”
Several people roaring, laughing, and cheering. Coming from the direction of the Oval Office, Wilkins thought. They rose, walked toward the door, hesitated to open it, and then paced.
After several minutes, Hargis burst out, exuberant and laughing.
“We dodged a bullet!” The overweight congressman was somehow jumping up and down, and he slapped the men on their shoulders like an offensive lineman who recovered a fumble to score a touchdown. Beyond the doorway, they could hear the giddy cheers continuing. “Those sons-of-bitches just faxed over a continuing resolution proposal that makes the concessions we wanted on Medicaid, Medicare, education, and the environment. All they wanted in return was some window dressing on veterans and defense spending.”
“The Republicans?” Wilkins asked.
“Blinked!” concluded Humphrey.
“Does this mean we won’t get cut?” Wilkins asked.
“It means the shutdown’s over, at least until mid-December,” Hargis said. He had to sit down after his little touchdown dance of celebration. “Hoo … We’re not out of the woods yet, but at least now we’ve got a shot. Those fools just declared a temporary ceasefire before we could hand them our surrender papers.”
“A proposal like this means that someone over there is sweating,” Humphrey surmised. “If they concede this now, they’ll probably be likely to concede something else, later.”
DECEMBER 1995
The shutdown ended … and then it began again.
The offices had reopened, and then, like déjà vu, the closure repeated. Once again, most federal workers remained home—as the holidays were approaching, some didn’t mind—and the news was full of breathless reports of the latest tense negotiations.
