Debt Bomb

by Michael Ginsberg

  “Oh honey, I’m not surprised,” said Rachel. “I could count on one hand the number of Hill meetings I’ve been to that started on time.”

  As her breathing settled, she motioned for Andrea to join her in a small vestibule across from the conference room that used to be a phone booth. No one had bothered to fill the hole in the vestibule wall and the stubs of telephone wires protruded from it.

  “Just some last-minute advice before you go into the lion’s den,” Rachel said. “Don’t forget, just because you care about the debt doesn’t mean these guys are going to like you. You might get a rude reception in there.”

  “You’ve got to figure they’ll like my debt-cutting message. That’s their jam, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe. But you know what they did to me. They trashed my boss as too ‘Establishment’ and unwilling to fight the tough spending cut battles. They ran some gadfly, called me and my boss ‘Establishment losers,’ and got the voters to boot us out of office.”

  “You sound so cynical,” observed Andrea.

  “I can’t help it,” said Rachel. “These guys ended my political career. That poppycock salesman Mason swaggers around Capitol Hill calling himself the ‘Chief RINO Hunter.’”

  ‘Republicans In Name Only,’ muttered Andrea in disgust. She was well acquainted with this epithet from her days in the South Carolina Republican Party’s leadership.

  “That’s right. And anyone they decide has deviated a scintilla from what they think is true conservatism they brand as a RINO and purge as a heretic. If you’re mild-mannered and seek consensus and compromise instead of fighting endlessly, good luck. They’re going to call you a squish.”

  “But I’m a grassroots activist, not a politician. Why wouldn’t they endorse me? The only reason I’m running is the national debt. These guys are the House Debt Rebel Gang, for goodness’ sake. I’m a one-trick-pony, and it’s their trick! They should eat me up.”

  “Don’t be so sure,” cautioned Rachel.

  “What do you mean?”

  “If you aren’t part of the Debt Rebellion, you’re ripe for purging. All this branding people ‘Establishment’ and ‘RINOs’ and whatever else is a great way to push rivals aside and get ahead. Toss around a few pejoratives, brand someone a scarlet Moderate, designate yourself the tribune of True Conservatism, and watch your fortunes rise and your rivals crumble.”

  Andrea loved the way Rachel said RINO in her southern accent, drawing out the i into an ah, so it came out Raaaahno. But she realized their conversation was getting loud and looked around to see if anyone was listening.

  “Shhh! People can hear us. Rachel, don’t let your anger cloud your judgment. Your boss didn’t stop the spending. The Debt Rebellion was the only group talking about the debt.”

  Rachel shot Andrea an exasperated look. “Was talking about the debt, sweetie. Was. Past tense. President Roberts promised not to touch Medicare and Social Security, and Mason didn’t say ‘boo.’”

  “Forget Mason,” Andrea said. “There are thirty congresspersons in the Debt Rebel Gang. If I can’t get Mason, there are twenty-nine others I can get.”

  “You think any of those lemmings are any better? Congressman Stokely just said ‘Deficits don’t matter anymore’! Heck, some of these people were making money off this Debt Rebellion stuff the whole time.”

  “What are you talking about?” Andrea asked.

  “Frank Palmer, for starters.”

  “Mason’s chief of staff?”

  Rachel nodded. “Yeah, him. That little shyster got rich off of claiming the mantle of Debt Rebellion leadership and raking in donations. Talk about a racket. Those unsuspecting activists who really cared about the national debt had no idea. These guys shouldn’t be in Congress. They should be defendants in a RICO case.”

  “Rachel, listen, I know you’re still mad about your boss losing. But this is not about him, or you, or me. I put aside my accounting practice to do this. It’s unconscionable we’d make our kids pay for our retirements and health care and all the rest. Your kids, my kids, everyone’s kids: that’s why I’m doing this. They have to be able to see that, right?”

  “I just know what makes these guys tick. Especially Mason. Don’t be so sure they’ll find your ‘I’m a homespun activist who only cares about the national debt’ act all that compelling.”

  The door to the hearing room opened.

  “Andrea Gartner?” the man who had opened the door said.

  Andrea stuck her head out of the vestibule. “Yes?”

  She recognized Frank Palmer from the pictures in the Debt Rebellion’s emails. He was almost six feet and slightly built. He seemed nervous, his sandy hair somewhat disheveled, and his brown eyes darted back and forth behind round, rimless glasses.

  “Greetings, my friend, I’m Frank Palmer, Congressman Mason’s chief of staff. The Debt Rebel Gang is ready to meet with you now.”

  Andrea nodded, praying no one had heard her conversation with Rachel. She was nervous enough, and Rachel’s tirade was only making things worse. She had one foot out of the vestibule when Rachel grabbed her arm and pulled her back in for one last piece of advice.

  “Before you go in there, remember that no one died and appointed these guys the arbiters of conservative purity.” Rachel stared into Andrea’s eyes and wagged her finger. “You might be a soft-spoken consensus builder, but you’re a rock-solid conservative on the debt. After all their talk, these guys did nothing about the debt under Roberts. Whenever you think you might be getting in trouble, just remember that when it comes to reducing the debt, these guys are full of it.”

  Andrea nodded, but her friend’s reassurance wasn’t much help. Her pulse and breathing accelerated. Then she remembered the last thing her husband said when he dropped her off at the airport: “Your whole family is rooting for you, honey. Go in there and make us proud.”

  She took a deep breath, exhaled, and headed into the meeting.

  The Debt Rebel Gang gathered in a small but ornate wood-paneled hearing room in Longworth every Tuesday morning. The room ordinarily was used for full public committee hearings, but various groups of congresspersons liked to use it for private meetings because of its grand feel.

  Members of the Gang were seated on the raised dais in the front of the room. Their haughty faces and lordly postures left no doubt they enjoyed flexing their muscles in front of supplicants like Andrea coming to kiss their ring and win their endorsement. Draped over the dais was a flag featuring an upright elephant wearing boxing gloves, the Gang’s logo.

  “Head in and take a seat at the witness table,” said Frank Palmer. “A few of the members are on a brief break. They will be here shortly. Can I offer you anything?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Andrea replied, swallowing her words from nerves.

  “Okay. Chairman Mason will be here in just a moment.”

  The room took Andrea’s breath away. The three-tiered dais was made of fine polished mahogany. Carved into the wood paneling above the dais was the seal of the United States, with the intricately detailed olive branches and arrows in the American eagle’s talons and the American motto, “E Pluribus Unum,” etched crisply into the banner above the eagle’s head. Between the lights on the walls hung oil paintings of past Speakers of the House, Appropriations Committee chairs, and other notables. Overhead a massive bank of klieg lights sat arrayed to spotlight hearings. Expensive flat-panel screens flanked each side of the dais. It reminded her of the Lyric Theater in her Baltimore hometown, which had seemed like the biggest thing she’d ever seen when she was a kid.

  She was relieved to see the witness table wasn’t too high for her short frame. On the table were four bottles of water for candidates. Each bottle had the logo of the US House of Representatives printed on it.

  Unbelievable. Congress has its own custom water? They couldn’t get pallets of water from Costco like everyone else? Andrea’s accountant mind reflexively tallied the cost of this one room and concluded it had probably cost mill
ions of dollars to outfit. She shook her head at the extravagance but couldn’t help but be awed by the imposing scenery. Here she was, Andrea Gartner, anonymous accountant to anonymous local middle-class lawyers, doctors, and families, about to address thirty powerful members of Congress.

  Cam’s words echoed in her ears: You’re an accountant.

  By now thoroughly intimidated, she timidly seated herself at the witness table as the thirty members of the Debt Rebel Gang stared down at her from the dais.

  Hundreds of candidates for Congress had been coming in week after week from all over the country vying for the Debt Rebel Gang’s endorsement. Today, the candidates from South Carolina’s Second District came to make their case.

  A door on the left side of the dais swung open and a middle-aged man of average height and stocky build with narrow eyes, thinning light brown hair, a bulbous nose, full cheeks, and round black-rimmed glasses theatrically entered the room.

  Lewis Mason, Congressman from Kansas.

  He hurriedly climbed the stairs of the dais, put down a pile of papers, and seated himself in the chairman’s seat. He quickly adjusted the microphone and wasted no time starting Andrea’s endorsement interview. “We’ve had a chance to read your résumé and background.”

  No “thank you for coming,” no opening statement, no nothing. It was like the old People’s Court on television she watched when she was home from school on snow days, where Judge Wapner would greet parties with a brusque “I know you’ve been sworn and I’ve read your complaint.” These guys were all business.

  “Andrea Gartner, South Carolina. Why are you running? And why should we endorse you?”

  Andrea hesitated and took a sip of water, followed by a deep breath to steady her nerves. She leaned into her microphone. “That’s a fair question, Congressman Mason. I’ve been a leader in the South Carolina Republican Party for years,” she said, unnerved by the entire Debt Rebel Gang staring down at her. She couldn’t believe the words coming out of her mouth. They were nothing like what she practiced. “This is my first time running, but I’ve gotten a lot of campaign experience from my leadership positions in the local and state party organizations. Professionally, I’m an accountant with a degree in economics from the University of Pennsylvania. I’ve been in private practice for fifteen years and I’ve been married for ten years with two children . . .”

  She could see from the Gang members’ bored expressions she was getting nowhere. She took another sip of water. You’ve got this, she told herself. Stay focused. She felt a wave of control, of inspiration, of her spine stiffening. She took a breath. Now she was ready.

  “Mr. Mason, Gang members, honestly, I’m running for one reason only.” Her voice was firm now. “The United States is utterly dependent on members of the public and foreign countries to buy our debt. If they decide they don’t want to loan us money and we can’t finance our debt, the country goes broke. We won’t have a dime to spend. No Social Security. No Medicare. This thought terrifies me. And we’re doing this on the backs of our kids and grandkids. If we don’t cut our deficits and pay down our national debt, they will be paying for all the things we’re spending money on now. No one is speaking for them. I want to be their voice. Believe me, Congressmen, I have lived this. My father died when I was young and left my family in a pile of debt. I don’t want other families to go through the same hardships. This country needs financial help. I have two kids at home, and I’ll be damned if I saddle them with debt they have to pay tomorrow so I can get free government goodies today. There is nothing—absolutely nothing—I hate in this world more than ruinous debt.”

  Andrea began gesticulating for emphasis as she built momentum.

  “You’re the only people who have raised this issue. You inspired me to run. I’m an accountant. Balancing books is what I do. With me on your side you’ll have as credible an ally for debt reduction as you can possibly imagine.”

  The Gang members had no reaction whatsoever.

  What am I doing wrong? she wondered. Cutting the debt is these guys’ calling card. Their raison d’être. What gives? Keep going. Maybe they’ll come around.

  “Congressmen, if you—”

  “Thank you, Ms. Gartner, but I’m afraid we can’t endorse you this election cycle,” interrupted Mason.

  The words sent a shock through Andrea’s body. She’d barely gotten two minutes to state her case and the Debt Rebel Gang had already rejected her. And the way Mason emotionlessly dismissed her only added to the shock. All those years of helping candidates who were worried about the debt, and she got three sentences in before these guys rejected her?

  “Come again?” Andrea said.

  “We’re endorsing Dan Morgan.”

  Seriously? Dan Morgan? That ridiculous opportunist?

  She’d known Dan Morgan from her local Republican work. When cutting spending was all the rage, Dan Morgan was a deficit cutter. When Republican-controlled Congresses were spending like drunken sailors but conservatism demanded absolute support for President Roberts, Morgan was there. You could always count on Dan Morgan to get a double dip of the Republican flavor of the month.

  Ryan and Cam were right. Politics was a dirty business. And once again, she’d gotten the short end of the stick.

  Mason continued, “Dan Morgan has been an unwavering supporter of the Roberts Agenda. You spent your time blasting the debts and the deficits at a time when President Roberts needed all the support he could get. We need a team player, not a Johnny-one-note. Dan’s reliable. You aren’t.”

  “But reducing the debt was your signature issue. You all inspired me to get active and fight to reduce spending and debt. I’m here because of you,” Andrea said, her voice rising to a crescendo. “I’m an accountant, and what America needs right now is an accountant!”

  The look on Mason’s face said it was time for the impudent suburban grassroots nobody to shut up and leave things to the political professionals.

  “Ms. Gartner, Dan Morgan is a true outsider,” reiterated Mason. “You’re a professional and a Penn grad, the very definition of the elite. No thanks. We’ve made our decision.”

  Andrea fished in vain for words. Mason’s summary dismissal had shattered her equilibrium. She fought to restrain the tears welling in her eyes. Blood pumped through her vessels as her frustration and anger built to a boil. Her grandfather used to get like this when some momzer, “bastard” in the Yiddish he spoke at home, angered him. Someone cut him off on the road? Momzer. Someone tried to rip him off on a home repair? Momzer.

  But Andrea couldn’t control her anger with the precision of her grandfather. Instead of releasing a litany of curses, she’d become tongue-tied, unable to fight back. She’d failed, like she failed with Cam, like she always failed. No matter what she’d done for the party, she wasn’t good enough for the Debt Rebel Gang.

  Out of words and on the verge of tears, Andrea couldn’t summon a response. That was when she noticed him: the congressman in the back row of the dais on the far right. He had said nothing and sat expressionless. No comments, no questions. Not even a head nod. But his perfectly coiffed and parted silver mane, chiseled face, and ramrod-straight frame gave him a gravitas that stood out from the other members of the Gang.

  It was Congressman Earl Murray. While everyone else was finishing Andrea off, he remained silent. Now and then he wrote in his notepad or whispered something to an aide seated behind him. Andrea had made eye contact with him a couple times but had gotten no reaction. She half-wondered if he was sleeping with his eyes open. His silence was surprising. He was running for president in the crowded 2028 field. Many pundits thought he had no chance. Why wouldn’t he take the opportunity to get a little speechifying in?

  Angry and frustrated, Andrea decided the time had come to leave. “Just so you all know, I never thought of myself as ‘Establishment’ or ‘anti-Establishment’ or ‘RINO’ or ‘True Conservative.’ I just thought I was a little accountant and volunteer who cared desperately about re
ducing the national debt. But if you all insist on assigning me to ‘Team Establishment,’ I’ll play for it.”

  “What do you think you’re going to do?” Mason chortled. “One little accountant can’t cut the debt without being on my team. And one little accountant definitely can’t make a difference on her own. It’s why we’re up here and you’re down there, begging for our support.”

  Andrea was about to let loose momzer and a whole litany of her grandfather’s choicest Yiddish insults—maybe she had a little of him in her after all—but she hesitated. She was afraid to create an enemy. She didn’t know when or how, but something told her she would be facing Mason again.

  She stood and hustled out of the room, her back hunched and her hand over her face to hide the tears preparing to burst forth. Rachel leaped from her seat in the gallery and followed her out.

  The sound of her heels against the marble floor echoed like machine-gun fire as Andrea charged down the hallway. She bolted past the security guards at the entrance of the building and headed into the small park next to Longworth. She stopped beside a bench and kicked the nearby trashcan, then punched at the air. In a huff, she sat on the bench, put her head in her hands, and began to sob.

  Rachel finally caught up, sat down, and put her hand on Andrea’s shoulder. “Look at me, Andrea.”

  Andrea looked up, eyes puffy and red.

  “Quit your crying. That was incredible. Did you hear yourself in there? You spoke truth to Lewis-freakin’-Mason. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

  “Who cares?” asked Andrea. “I didn’t come here for a moral victory. I’ve spent a decade helping candidates who said they were conservatives who wanted to cut the debt. For what? To be rejected in one stroke because someone says I’m . . . ‘the Establishment’? I thought I was safe from that. I’m a deficit-cutting activist, not a politician. But it was all a waste.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” said Rachel. “These guys obviously went in wanting Morgan .Once they decided he was the anti-Establishment good guy, they had to make you the Establishment bad guy. Mason and Morgan are two of a kind. The kind who zip to the head of any parade and pretend it was their idea.”