IT’S MORE THAN a decade since my wife Cita and I came to Washington, with the intention of spending a year here before returning to New York. The “why” we came is easy: Irving Kristol, the Pied Piper of the neoconservative set, persuaded us that the intellectual excitement of the Washington policy world would suit us better than more years of the commercial excitement of the New York world. And with Irving and Bea doing the introductions, we quickly became part of a circle that proved intellectually exciting, indeed–people who think big thoughts share them freely, and debate them civilly. Besides, Cita fell in love with the trees. There seem to be a lot of trees in Washington–green ones, red ones, white ones; tall ones, short ones; all sorts of trees. If that’s what turns you on, Washington is the place to be, especially when it isn’t so buried in snow or so searingly hot that to venture out of doors is an act of foolish courage.
But it isn’t the weather that gets to me. Or the boring newspaper that dominates D.C.–bias I can live with, but boring is another matter, and one that New Yorkers, who live in a town in which there is real competition to attract readers, don’t have to up put with. But even boring would be tolerable, if it weren’t for the main business of this town.
No, not politics. Politics can be an honorable profession, practiced by men and women who are trying to make life better for others. Indeed, those who have climbed the greasy pole are generally intelligent, dedicated, and in my experience, surprisingly accessible.
It is the sale of face time. Before I came here I thought that face time was something you bought from the likes of Georgette Klinger who, paid for her time, would do wonders for your face. I was wrong.
Face time seems to be the minutes some supplicant can squeeze from a person in a position–or thought to be in a position, or pretending to be in a position–of what in Washington is called “power.” The wielders of this power can be anyone from the president’s inner circle, to a legislator unknown in his own district, to almost anyone wearing an identification badge around his neck.
It amazes me that these possessors of vast power invariably announce, or have their secretaries announce, “This is the White House calling.” For some, this is indeed true. But others are housed in buildings far less distinguished than the White House. So, when I first arrived in Washington it was my habit to ask these lesser lights how a house can possibly dial a phone, but the uncomprehending silence at the other end of the line quickly taught me that these are not the sort of people I would likely meet at a Woody Allen movie.
So I take the calls–but refuse to stand at attention during the conversation. It is generally some assistant deputy undersecretary of something or other who wants to meet to learn something about some economic issue, and is prepared to devote minutes and minutes to absorbing a complicated subject. Being public spirited, at one time I would agree to a meeting.
Only to find at the last minute that the assistant deputy undersecretary of something or other was too busy, and would I please meet with the assistant to the assistant deputy undersecretary of something or other? Who very shortly before the appointed hour would call to change the date, something far more important than learning the answer to the question that was just yesterday bedeviling him having come up. It is astonishing how many low level bureaucrats are suddenly and regularly summoned to the Oval Office to advise the president how best to run the country.
I have now learned from more experienced Washingtonians that it is common practice for what are laughingly called public servants to line up appointments, and then when the time comes decide which one it is convenient for them to keep. After all, they are offering face time, and as everyone in Washington should know, face time is valuable. You can brag about having spent time with some bureaucrat to clients, or your mother, or your old friends in New York who are still under the illusion that an assistant to the assistant deputy undersecretary of something or other is a person of consequence.
In other towns this would be called rudeness. Here it is simply part of daily life, accepted by consenting adults as the way business is conducted. It’s a good thing that America includes cities like New York, Phoenix, Denver, and other places where real people go to real jobs to create real wealth for Washington bureaucrats to redistribute and waste. Even Los Angeles has a product–navel oranges, I think. Or is it Hollywood lemons?
So why stay? For one thing, there is that congenial bunch of scholars and policymakers who think, debate, share, and have fun. And, there are always the trees.
–IRWIN M. STELZER
