I am NOT the Original Poster. That is u/Competitive_Oil5227. He posted in
hotels Thank you to
u/Particular_Heron8263 for this recommendation!
Mood Spoiler: wtf but also I'm kind of in awe of the audacity? Original Post: January 2, 2024 Today I got a package in the post from my mother. Which was odd, as she just came to visit me in chicago over Christmas.
I open it and there’s a two foot tall Baccarat crystal vase in the package and a post it note that says ‘please call me love mom’ stuck to it.
I’m perplexed as I’m not a fancy crystal vase kind of guy.
Well, turns out that she was staying in a fancy suite at a hotel over Christmas that had this object displayed and she took a liking to it. So much so that she took it with her.
As I looked at it I could see chunks of that white putty that people use to stick things down with. So she literally must have pried it off.
And the hotel noticed, as they added a $1200 line item to the bill that arrived. My mother apparently does not like it that much. She also removed a robe, but I guess she is ok with paying $125 for that item as it was not included in her package.
So it’s now my job to take this back to the hotel and explain to some poor desk person that my mother took it in error and could you please remove it from the bill.
Please tell me that they will do this? If they don’t I will feel the full wrath of an old lady, as anything less than a full refund will be seen as a failure on my part.
Relevant Comment: You're a grown adult afraid of your mom? Call the cops on her: "So, you’re saying I’m a weak individual because of my approach to dealing with my slightly crazy parent, and your advice is that I call the police on my 83 year old mother and report her for felony theft? That sounds like an excellent plan…should I try to find some angry policemen that will use truncheons to break her will?
Oy vey."
Top commenters tell OOP to apologize profusely and (obviously) blame his mother. Many also tell him to make up an excuse for her, like she has dementia or has some other challenge Update Post: January 4, 2024 (2 days later) To recap, my mom stole a very large and very expensive vase from her hotel suite. The hotel added it to her bill and she sent it back to me to return for her and most importantly get her card refunded.
I took all your advice and walked into the hotel with the full intention of claiming my mum has dementia and didn’t know what she was doing. And honestly with the size of the vase it seemed very plausible.
I also knew from the hotel insiders comments to ask for the shift manager and was honestly worried that I was about to go down to felony theft. I even put a paper check in my wallet, just in case I ended up having to pay for something and put on my nice overcoat.
The entire drive downtown I was cursing my mother. But anyone on here with an 83 year old stereotypical Jewish mom will know that sometimes you just have to do things as the fallout from her would be worse than anything a hotel could dish out.
The front desk fellow couldn’t have been nicer. When I gestured to the box he didn’t even ask why I needed to see the shift manager, just asked me to wait while he was paged.
The shift manager arrives, I open the box and display the vase inside. It still had a post-it note stuck to the front that said ‘please call me love mom’ on it. Before I even got half of my story out he excuses himself and disappears.
The desk fellow walks over and asks if I’d like to sit down and takes me to this little area with a desk and offers me coffee. I’m now imagining that the police have been called and I’m triple cursing my mom.
In walks in a fellow who is the hotel general manager. ‘I hear that Mrs. X has sent the vase back. Is everything ok?’
I start in on the dementia story, he stops me...‘I first met your mother in 1982 when I started working here. There was a young boy who had climbed into the lobby fountain and was about to urinate on the statue and your mother asked me to fish him out as she was wearing difficult shoes. I am guessing that was you?’
I’m confused, but tell the fellow that was my brother and the story had become a family legend.
‘She has a hobby of removing things during her stay and we have historically just added them to her bill. Am I to take it she does not want to keep this?’
I’m thinking...how much money has she spent on stolen towels and other hotel crap? And all I can do is thank the fellow for looking out for her. He follows up with ‘when she was here last year I worried that may be be the last time we would see her. It made my Christmas the day I saw her reservation request’. Which was about the nicest way anyone could ever say ‘your mom is very old and I assumed she was dead’.
I’ll be checking her luggage next time.
Relevant Comments: Maybe GM added expensive items to the room hoping your mom would take them off his hands: "I hate to say it, but I think they might. As I was standing in the downstairs lobby of the hotel waiting for the valet I noticed they had a display case of Baccarat crystal stuff built into the wall, which I assume was all for sale. I can’t imagine they routinely supply rooms with $1200 vases."
I take it she's a well-off klepto and her money excuses things? "The crap that my mom has always routinely gotten away with is astonishing simply because she looks very well heeled. I used to dread school events when I was a kid because of how weird she treated people. Like she wouldn’t even take time to de demeaning to people…she just honestly didn’t notice most people that were around her. Now that she is old she totally abuses that as well…people end up doing things for her simply because she make it obvious she expects them to and you can’t say no to old ladies."
This sounds like a Hallmark movie and fake/some of the more sad details: "I left out a few of the less attractive parts of the story (like the fact that she had mailed the thing back to me in a 1990s box that once help a Sears vacuum cleaner, which had people glaring at me…and the fact that the valet guy charged me 45 bucks to hold my car for 20 minutes) to make it a little more appealing. The entire phone call I had with her when this project got dumped on me was…well, acerbic."
"Its very true. I omitted some of the tedious / frustrating bits and made mom sound a lot friendlier than she is in reality. The sort of sad undertone to it all...we had to have a family meeting earlier this year because my mom has absolutely blown through money on truly ridiculous things (excluding her purloined items, the hotel bill for her one week stay was still more than my entire monthly income) and its very possible that we will have to sell her home to pay for care. Had she been even slightly less extravagant with things she would have been able to die in bed at home with private nurses."
So... how many family 'heirlooms' are from the hotel? "It makes me think that her large collection of decanters at her house might have a dodgy back story. I can remember asking her once why one of them was monogrammed QE2 and her telling me that it was a gift from a ship captain….that may have been the origin but it probably wasn’t a gift the ship was aware of making."
More on the fountain story: "It was for sure my brother…in my father’s version of the story my mom was pregnant with me at the time with swollen feet and refused to wear tennis shoes and he had to help wedge her feet into heels. In my god mother’s version (who lived in a condo above the hotel) my mom’s doctor had said it was ok for her to resume drinking at the 8 month mark (!?!) so her feet were both swollen and she was not quite sober."
Mini story about OOP's mom: "Honestly, I have so many stories of life with her. In particular when I was younger...the actual experience of living most of them was embarrassing / dreadful but they sound hysterical if you take out the cringey parts. I am still friends with my college dorm roommate and every time I see him there is the ritual retelling of my mother's horror of the stained light blue institutional wall to wall carpeting in the room. Somehow she managed to schedule and smuggle in carpet installers to put in plaid wool carpet...and the RA was too intimidated by her to do anything about it."
And here's one last longer story about OOP's Mom in the Comments (Same Day) Here is the best one. In reality it was terrible....but it sounds hysterical. 1996. I have a learners permit. My dad's family had horses (which also sounds better in print than the reality) and our family would always gather at Churchill Downs for the derby.
This is about a four hour drive.
My mother insists that I drive the lead car, which is an off white Buick Estate Wagon that she had shipped off to Massachusetts and real wood paneling applied to the exterior. This is what happens when a Jewish lady who originated on the upper west side tries to fit in with my dads uuber waspy family. She also insisted that I bring a friend, so I have invited my best friend (who was absolutely terrified of my parents) and I have a couple of teenage cousins in the back seat. My mother has opted to sit in the very rear seat...which faces backwards. She claims she is doing this so she can smoke without bothering anyone. Super helpful.
Following behind is almost like the cast of Gilligans Island...my brother and his wife (who competed in Miss America) in a truly awful brown rolls royce from 1980 something that has had the hubcaps stolen, my father and three or four of his cronies in a maroon colored Lincoln navigator, and my great aunt who has one of those anonymous 1990s sedans. My aunt is wearing a hairpiece from the 1960s, so the top of her hair is a lovely ashy brown color but the bottom is a lifeless grey...she is also wearing those giant blu-blocker sunglasses that they used to advertise on late night TV. I feel like she also smoked?
Mom is wearing her version of leisure wear, as she does not want to get wrinkled and will change when we get to Kentucky. Hanging from a hook is an outfit that would have made the queen proud...jade green skirt, matching jacket, her favorite hermes blouse covered with horse things, and a feather covered jade green hat that was large enough to require it's own zip code.
We drive, my mother smokes, my parents constantly call each other via built in car phones. My friend continues to be terrified because my mother keeps asking her questions and she keeps clutching her inhaler, as there are not operable windows int he back where my mother is and the smoke is swirling about. At one point the entire caravan pulls over to get gas and my mum attempts to use the bathroom to change in but rejects it as unhygienic.
As we are just about to pass over the state line my mother decided that she will change in the car and tells us all to keep our eyes forward.
Then I see police lights behind me. I know that I was not speeding, but realize quickly that my mother has very likely been mostly naked in the back seat and that may be frowned on in rural Indiana. I pull over, my friend looks at me with cow eyes.
The entire caravan goes past us but they all pull off over to the shoulder. The car phone starts ringing, which no one answers. And a state trooper walks up to the car. He asks if I know why I was pulled over...and I say 'is it because my mom is in a bra in the back seat?' He also seems completely confused as to why all these other cars have pulled over...and my aunt is hanging out of her window watching the situation from behind her giant sunglasses.
Well apparently that was not the entire problem...as when my mother looked over and saw the state police staring at her in her bra from the other lane, she decided to PULL OUT A BOTTLE OF BOURBON out of her purse and pour herself a drink in a little silver cup and toast the trooper.
The trooper asks if I am aware of the situation. I was near tears as I handed him my little paper learners permit card.
Then my mom decided to get out of the car to talk to the trooper. She has managed to transform herself into whatever it was that she hoped for when she bought the outfit. However, she can't seem to figure out how to open the rear door and made it go down like it was a tailgate.
I am not quite sure what is happening, I do hear the trooper telling my mother to stay in the vehicle and I hear her tell that she is having door difficulty, is currently halfway out of the car, and his only option is to assist her getting fully out or she was about to fall on the highway and put that on his conscience. Then she handed the trooper her hat to hold as she adjusted everything on her outfit.
My father claims that at one point the trooper had his hand on his gun but he feared more for his safety than my mothers.
Honest to god, any other person would have probably been taken to jail, possibly shot, definitely lectured to. But my mother stood on the side of the road and let the trooper know what an inconvenience he was causing by making us stop. There was a moment when the bottle of bourbon was brandished at him while she found her drivers license. Semi trucks visibly slowed down...not out of concern, but out of curiosity.
Then we all heard, clear as day though a little slurred 'Sir, if you care to look at that license you will see the address. That address matches the registration to this car. That address is across the street from the governor's mansion.' (that part was true) 'That young man driving the car is my son, who just got his permit but was doing an admirable job, and that young lady in the front seat is our friend Ms. Bayh, who used to be the governor's daughter but recently became a senators daughter after he won an election. (this part was 100% fabricated, as my friends parents owned a hardware store). My husband is up in there and I won't even bore you with who he is in all this. Now I suggest you go back to you car and think about how you want to proceed with this. I am going to walk up to my husband's car and let him know that you were worried about my safety as I was indisposed while changing after our long car trip and that we will be shortly on our way.'
And as my mother walked away from the state trooper and past my window she turned around and said 'and you need to read up on your law book, as I was far enough away in that back seat from the driver of this aut-o-mobile to make pouring myself a bit of Bourbon perfectly legal in the state of Indiana.'
The relevant argument probably would have been her difficulty in supervising my driving while she was mostly naked and possibly intoxicated in the back seat...and I still don't know why she decided to lie about who my friend was....but the trooper must have realized that this was not a battle that was going to ever be won and no citations were issued.
prev. Ch's 18-20 Chapter 21 - The Appointment
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“
Finance has grown so powerful, so proud, so despotic that one must believe it can go no higher and must infallibly perish before many years have passed.”
- Nicolas Ruault, on the eve of the French Revolution
“Modern bourgeois society is like a sorcerer who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells.” - Karl Marx, 1848
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When Geo’s private plane reached cruising altitude, everyone could finally relax.
Everyone except Howie. His eyes played tricks on him. He thought he saw vague outlines of refracted light inside the plane, like wiggling hot air above dark pavement on a hot day. The vague refractions slowly wiggled into more solid curves, like glass, and then they became human shapes, like ghosts.
The translucent ghosts plied long oars out of the plane’s windows, rowing through an ocean of clouds as if the jet were an ancient slave galley. Everyone else on the plane kept talking as if nothing was happening and Howie tried to convince himself the ghosts weren’t real. He maintained his composure until one of the them turned to look directly at him with silvery eyes that were empty, ancient, and infinite.
Howie was so startled that he jumped up out of his seat, bumped his table, and spilled his drink.
“Howie? Are you okay?” Clayton asked. “I’ll get you a napkin. Can we get him a napkin?”
And the visions were gone.
The flight attendant handed Howie a monogrammed cloth napkin with the logo of Geo’s prison industries and he did his best to clean himself up.
“Thank god we’re alright,” Governor Abbie said, “except your shirt. I had no idea about the shootings! It’s really so much different when you’re in one. Somebody should do something.”
“Second amendment,” Geo said.
“Their favorite,” the Governor confirmed. “I don’t even think anyone can name a third. Does anyone know the third?”
“I thought I saw ghosts,” Howie said.
“Don’t be superstitious,” Governor Abbie said. “Wait, does anybody have Jhumpa’s Bible? We need to get you sworn in. Is there any booze on this plane? Double-M’s?”
She meant Mood Magic, a premium drug manufactured by Ximrix. Everyone knew it was premium because the first X in ‘Ximrix’ was pronounced like a Z. At that time, pronouncing an X like a Z was the state of the art in pharmaceutical phonics.
“I’ve got one,” Clayton said. “Just don’t report it as a donation.”
He winked.
“Thank you,” the Governor said.
“I got Jhumpa’s book at the symposium,” Geo said. “I have it around here somewhere. Can you grab that book?” He asked the flight attendant.
Before it devolved into a massacre, the Best of All Possible Worlds Symposium was intended to be a release party for Jhumpa’s modern retelling of the Bible. She paradigm-shifted the ancient text so it was friendly to modern business. The twelve disciples had become a board of directors, Jesus was CEO, and God was re-framed as the founder and overall majority shareholder of the universe. The Holy Spirit acted as general counsel and dispatched his angelic vice presidents to accomplish company business.
According to Jhumpa, the Lord should be a model for every capitalist and aspiring capitalist. And indeed, for many Americans, he already was. Though their savior was poor, many Americans thought praying to him would make them rich.
In time, it would become fashionable for all public servants who wanted to demonstrate their commitment to the Management Party to take their oath on Jhumpa’s bible.
The flight attendant handed it over.
“Perfect. Let us begin,” Governor Abbie said. “Okay Howie, raise your right hand.”
Howie wasn’t sure what to expect as Clayton, his assistant, Geo, and Governor Abbie stood up and held hands in a circle, while Howie stood in the center. They began to quietly hum. At first he couldn’t hear the humming over the sound of the plane’s engines but then the background noise magically receded.
At first Howie was amused but then it became strange. Their humming went in and out of tune, sustaining dissonance during long notes, as if it was intentional. But then the dissonance found melodic resolution until they stopped humming and opened their mouths. Then, they began to moan dissonant vowels. These also resolved into choral melody but then that collapsed when they began to use their tongues and teeth to produce consonants. Howie heard a breathy chaos of startling
T’s and sibilant
S’s and cutting
K’s. And then whispers multiplied, as if he was hearing more than just the voices on the plane. The sounds were like obsidian waves knifing their way through a stormy sea.
Howie sensed something ancient about the sound. Though it contained multitudes, it seemed primordial and indivisible. It sounded like the same force that ensured Life would continue while simultaneously taking individual lives away.
The voices were immutable and inarguable and now they were making Howie a Senator in the United States of America, such as it was.
Chapter 22 - Why So Serious?
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“
Success in circuit lies.”
-Emily Dickinson
“
We got a reader, here!”
- Bill Hicks
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And then, with a sudden whoosh, all the voices were gone. The background noise of the plane returned. Howie panted with fear. He had never been through a political appointment before.
“Alright, you’re officially a member of the senate!” Governor Abbie said. “Let’s have a toast.”
Clayton’s assistant popped open some champagne. The flight attendant handed out glasses.
The plane’s shadow moved in and out of the shadows cast on the ground by the cloud-dappled sky. The cumulus clouds were scattered toward the horizon like a tray of cookies baking in the golden light of the late afternoon. The bulbous clouds were the leading edge of the occluded front that was moving across the country.
The clouds made Clayton nervous. He didn’t want their shadows to interfere with senators who voted by Punxsutawney rules.
“How many shadowcasters for the vote?” He asked, using the slang term for those senators.
“Almost a majority,” his assistant said. “The catatonic caucus has twenty three life-enhanced Senators and twenty one able-bodied who vote along with them.”
“Longevity Conference, please,” Geo said. “Our elders deserve respect.”
“Sorry,” the assistant said.
Howie knew that everyone else on the plane supported Punxsutawney rules but he thought he should speak up and voice his true opinion, now that he was a Senator.
“It still surprises me that lawmakers choose to vote based on whether or not they cast a shadow,” Howie said, “even if they’re healthy enough to vote normal.”
The plane was full of people who had risen to their positions by assiduously assessing the direction of political winds. They were startled by Howie’s opposition.
“‘Normal’ is a value judgement,” the assistant said. “We try to stay away from that.”
“It’s tradition,” Clayton said, “even for able-bodied senators. They’re respecting the ancients. We used to worship the sun, now we vote by it. Almost the same thing. Completely natural.”
“It leads to the best of all possible worlds,” Governor Abbie said.
Howie didn’t completely trust them. Their depiction of the legislative body didn’t completely square with the way he was raised to think about America. With the terror of his swearing-in ceremony behind him, he took his new responsibilities seriously. He sincerely wanted to be a good Senator.
“Should I read the bill before I vote on it?” Howie asked. “I heard it’s supposed to make it so congress won’t have to vote in DC anymore. Is that true? Does that mean it won’t be the capitol?”
Clayton lifted his empty glass, expecting another pour from the flight attendant.
“In our hearts, DC will always be the capitol,” he said. “But right now it’s too dangerous to vote there. Things are falling apart.”
“Budget cuts,” Geo said.
“Can’t be helped,” Governor Abbie said. “Because tax cuts.”
“To spur growth and innovation.”
“Right now, the government needs to stay mobile,” Clayton said. “The circuit needs to keep moving. We can gather anywhere, as long as they have security-”
“And donors,” Geo said.
“And catering,” the Governor added.
“Then we’ll be able to make decisions,” Clayton said. “Or, you will, since you’re the Senator.”
He hoped to move on to other topics. He was disappointed.
“But should I do any homework before the vote?” Howie asked. “Do we have any more information about what’s in the bill? When do I get to see a copy?”
The other fliers felt the tension of self-sufficient workers whose hands-off boss, for whatever reason, suddenly decided to be bossy. Custom dictated that lawmakers did what they were told by a coalition of their biggest donors. If donors couldn’t reach a consensus, then the action was auctioned. At no point in the delicate dance between donors and donees were the latter supposed to actually
read. Economic studies suggested that lawmakers learning to read would endanger half of the jobs in DC, most of which which depended on spreading summaries, studies, rumors, or just plain gossip about the upcoming plans of the powerful.
Governor Abbie tried to break the tension with a laugh.
“Are senators
reading bills, now?” She asked.
“Haven’t they been doing that the whole time?” Howie asked.
“The higher you rise, the less you have to read,” Clayton said. “It’s one of the perks.”
“Reports got page counts,” Geo said, “not as a brag, but as a kind of warning.”
“Despite its nerdy reputation,” the Governor said, “Washington DC is actually a very television-centric city.”
“Pierre L’enfant built it as a backdrop for interviews,” Clayton said.
“Voters like pillars,” Geo said.
“They all test well,” Governor Abbie said. “All of them. Corinthian, Ionian..”
“Even Doric,” Clayton said. “Just basic doric. They give a permanent feeling that makes voters think they’re in good hands.”
Howie was unfamiliar with stylistic differences between pillars but he couldn’t let his ignorance of a minor fact obscure the bigger picture. After all, he was a Senator, now. He had more serious things to worry about.
“But how will voters support the bill if we haven’t read it and debated it?” He asked.
Governor Abbie was relieved. Finally, a simple explanation.
“No, no,” she said, “you’re not accountable to the
voters, you’re accountable to the
donors.”
“Staff talks to voters,” Geo said. “You talk to guys like me.”
“Party leaders lead because they fundraise,” Clayton explained. “The money is the important thing. You get the money and your staff gets the votes. Then we win and everyone takes another lap around the circuit.”
Their description of congress unsettled Howie.
“But shouldn’t I know what I’m voting on?” He asked. “Shouldn’t I know some of the details? I’d really like to read the bill.”
“We didn’t appoint you Senator to worry about details,” Governor Abbie explained. “We just need your face on tv long enough to get to the commercial break.”
“And let the interviewer ask one pre-planned ‘tough’ question,” Clayton said. “So it looks like they did their job.”
“Helps ‘em keep their IntegrityTM,” Geo said.
“While retaining access,” Clayton said.
“And if it ends up being an
actually tough question,” Governor Abbie said, “you just babble until they call cut.”
“That’s when you’re safe.”
“Because donors pay for commercials.”
“And commercials pay for news.”
“That’s why companies write press releases,” Geo said, “so the news knows what they’re allowed to say.”
The fasten seatbelt sign dinged on.
They were about to land in DC.
Howie saw plumes of smoke sprouting from the area around the capitol.
“Are those forest fires?” He asked.
“Not quite,” Governor Abbie said.
“Riot fires,” Geo asserted. “In time, you’ll learn the difference.”
Chapter 23 - The Old Post Office
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"We're an empire now, and when we act, we create our own reality.”
- unnamed Bush administration official, quoted by Ron Suskind, 2004
‘So how did this happen? How does history manage to rewrite itself?’ - Frank Luntz, pollster, ‘Words that Work’ ch. 1
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Upon landing, they drove to a hotel remodeled from a tall stone building built in the previous century that had been converted from a post office into a hotel. Glass was placed over an inner courtyard to make a vast lobby atrium and bar. On one side of the enclosed courtyard was an elevated VIP mezzanine level, beneath which was a warren of private rooms.
The lobby was filled with men of all ages. The younger ones stood near the bar and raised shot glasses to each other while the older ones held court from various leather chairs at glass tables scattered throughout the lobby. The young men crisply parted their glistening hair and shaved the sides of their heads to the bare skin. The middle aged ones shaved their skulls completely and modeled their facial hair into goatees. The oldest ones carelessly held onto the few wisps of hair that remained on their mostly bald heads. It was assumed that these were the richest.
Shiny blond women crisscrossed the room or sat upon barstools with their sharp high heels hanging in the air. They held forth to groups of eager men who listened attentively.
Music that sounded like a prayer to extraterrestrials played over the loudspeakers.
The hotel belonged to presidential hopeful Don Midas. His Midas TouchTM was everywhere. His logo adorned every surface in the place, from the glasses to the napkins and even the toilet seat covers. He was a corporate graffiti artist who took whatever licensing deal he could. There were even rumors his logo had even appeared on refugee tents but no journalist could verify it without actually traveling there. None did.
The room buzzed with a unified polarity of desire for contracts, contacts, and sex. The suits were bland but expensive. The dresses were light, tight, and meant to be on the floor by the end of the night.
The screens above the bar normally showed sports but now they showed an empty podium, in anticipation of Don Midas’ upcoming political rally at his casino in Las Vegas. There were rumors that after the speech was over, he and his minions would march down the strip to the nearby Management Party nominating convention.
From a railing on the VIP mezzanine level, Warren Goodwealth and Prince Embièss Embeezee watched the floor below. Governor Abbie gestured up towards them and leaned in to talk to Clayton.
“You think it’s true what they say about him?” She asked.
“Paying the pump?” Clayton asked. “No comment.”
They both laughed.
“You haven’t done it?” She asked.
“I have not had the privilege,” he said.
“Let’s all just shut the hell up about that,” Geo said.
After being cleared by security, they climbed a circular staircase to the mezzanine level. Here, the yin and yang of public and private sectors swirled into grey. Business, pleasure, and public policy intertwined away from prying eyes. Some of the VIPs recognized Howie and raised their glasses to welcome him.
Nearby, a woman in lingerie lay across the tall silver sculpture of a crescent moon. As the moon spun, she poured champagne into the glass of whomever approached. As Howie looked at her, he was startled by the loud roar of a performer blowing a fireball over the edge of the railing, above the thrilled patrons below. In the corner, he noticed a table with the same white powder he had seen earlier in the Barn.
Goodwealth greeted them.
“Mr. Dork! How are you?” He asked.
His free hand shook Howie’s while his other hand held a black leather leash attached to a man on his knees in a black leather suit. His face was covered but his butt was not. One cheek had been branded with the letters ‘DOJ’ and the other had ‘ATR’.
“Who’s your friend?” Clayton asked.
“A regulator,” Goodwealth said, as he tugged the leash. “This one can’t pay its student loans. We haze them before giving them jobs in the private sector. We can’t get rid of entire departments, so they get staffed with one lucky bureaucrat at a time. Are you going to approve my tv stations?” Goodwealth asked the gimp. The gimp nodded yes. “That’s good,” the billionaire said. He unzipped the gimp’s mouth hole, reached into his pocket, and fed him what looked like a dog treat. Goodwealth looked at Howie. “You want to pet him? You ok?”
Howie gripped the railing as tightly as he tried to maintain his grip on reality but when he watched the spectacle down below, it also took on a surreal aspect.
“I think he’s feeling another wave,” Clayton said. “I accidentally gave him PsychedeliContin to stay awake.”
Whether from his tired eyes or Clayton’s special pill, the sharply dressed denizens of the atrium down below began to look to Howie like demons, sharks, werewolves, and other toothy beasts. The room had an invisible undercurrent of deadliness that felt like a modern incarnation of the same ancient voices that Howie had heard on the plane.
Clayton whispered to Goodwealth, whose face tightened up as if he was hearing something unpleasant. He raised his voice to be heard over the loud music.
“You want to
read the bill?” He asked.
Howie took a second but then he remembered the conversation on the plane.
“I thought I should know what I’m voting on,” he said.
Goodwealth smiled.
“I think you need to go see the Architect,” he said.
“The Architect?”
“Frank Rove,” Goodwealth said, “the mastermind. He’ll tell you everything you need to know. Run along.”
He lifted his champagne glass lightly by the stem and used his spare fingers to shoo Howie away. Clayton was already waiting at the top of the stairs. He waved for Howie to follow.
The Prince remained silent the whole time, absently staring down to the floor of non-VIPs below, raising his glass to the groups of Americans who caught his eye and who raised their glasses in return.
Howie followed Clayton downstairs, to the warren of rooms beneath the floor of the raised VIP mezzanine area. Here, the music was muted. The wood-paneled hallways had low ceilings. The walls were hung with casual-seeming photos of politicians at play. Howie recognized some of the famous faces but there were many others he did not.
He lost track of where they were as they turned corner after corner and the music got quieter and quieter. They walked past several private rooms meant for private parties. Some doors were ajar and through them Howie thought he saw more black leather.
At the end of one of the hallways, in a wood paneled backroom with no windows, Frank Rove waited. They arrived just as departing businessmen were pinning small glass hands onto their robes.
“Asalaam al-aykum.”
“Aalaykum salaam,” Clayton replied.
A one-handed guard held the door open as he motioned with his empty wrist toward Frank. The room was meant for large dining parties but The Architect sat alone at the end of a long table in the dim light under a low ceiling. The wood-paneled walls were lined with photos and trophies. At Frank’s end of the table, there was a stack of small televisions with every iteration of CSPAN and several cable news channels on mute.
Frank was slightly overweight and balding, with a double chin below thin, wire-framed glasses. He had none of the pretensions of the people out in the atrium. He wore a bib while he ate his steak, potatoes, and greens.
Clayton left the room and closed the door.
"Hello, Howie," Frank said. "Please sit down,” he motioned to the seat at the opposite end of the table with his knife. “I’ll do you the courtesy of cutting to the chase. We need you to vote for this bill. You understand that, right? For the country.”
He waited for Howie to respond while he cut his steak. The knife was sharp and heavy and hardly required any motion to do its work.
"But how can I vote for a bill when I haven't even seen it?” Howie asked. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work, right?”
The Architect laughed.
"You're the first guy who arrives in this town and actually wants to read the bill!” He joked. “Damn, that means I lost a bet.”
“Oh, sorry,” Howie said.
“You know, you could just tell people you read it,” he said.
“But that’s not the truth,” Howie said.
Frank laughed.
“Truth is overrated,” he said. “Truth is what gets on the news and those people barely know what they’re talking about unless I tell them.” He smiled. “Wait, you were on the news for that thing with Rodriguez, right? What’s he like? I’d never met him before-”
He made a throat-slitting motion with his knife and smiled.
“Elian told me the truth would have the power to change things,” Howie said.
Frank laughed again.
“See, I disagree,” he said, making the point with his knife hand. “Common misconception. Truth has no power. Only power has power. And power, at its apex, makes its own truth. Trust me, people try to persuade me all the time by appealing to truth, as if it
means something. But the mere act of persuasion - of
having to persuade me - means that really they’re appealing to my power. You see? Power is truth and truth is power. That is all ye know on earth and all ye need to know. Some poet said that.”
Howie nodded.
“I think he was talking about beauty,” he said.
The Architect spoke with his mouth full of meat.
“Same thing,” he said. He waved his knife nonchalantly. “Now what’s your real problem with the bill? Rumor is Rodriguez turned you left. Is that true?”
“I mean, I dunno,” Howie said. “I guess I liked how he was on the side of the poor.”
“What do you think is gonna get done for the poor?” Frank asked.
“Maybe raise the minimum wage?” Howie asked. “They already passed the other liberal stuff, like gay marriage, anti-discrimination..”
Frank held his finger up to interrupt. He spoke with his mouth full and gulped his wine.
“First of all, a wealthy donor is way more likely to have a gay person in their family than a poor person. They pass stuff they care about for people they care about. Second, Elian is a goddam violent revolutionary. And third, there is no ‘side’ of the poor. Even the poor aren’t on the side of the poor. That’s the genius of our system. They oppress themselves, thinking they’ll get rich, when really they’re just making us rich. They hustle, they grind, they burn the candle at both ends, tell themselves that pain is weakness leaving the body, turn the other cheek. They don’t fight against their suffering; they dignify it.”
He cut another piece of steak before he continued.
“Rumors of the ones that make it through give the others just enough self-doubt to convince themselves that any failure is their own fault. My bosses pay me to keep that hopeful hopelessness alive. And it’s easy. It’s almost religious, the way they blame themselves for not becoming millionaires. Best thing the elites ever did was change from wealth based on land to wealth based on lending, equity, whatever you want to call it. Make the visible invisible. What’d Carville say? ‘The bond market scares the shit out of me’?” He raised his glass. “We turned power into math. Tell me that’s not beautiful?”
“But shouldn’t we help them?” Howie said. “Isn’t that what all this is for, government and stuff?”
“No,” Frank said, as his silverware tinkled on his plate. “For the ship of state to remain upright, it needs ballast - that’s the people you’re talking about, the dead weight on the bottom. Too much, they drag us down. But just enough? That keeps us upright.”
He sipped more wine and glanced at the screens. There were various shots of protests and riots around the country, even in Washington DC. Howie assumed they were part of the ‘ballast’ Frank was talking about.
“But are you nervous about the protesters?” Howie asked.
The Architect picked up another piece of steak and smiled.
“They say ‘eat the rich but how do they know I’m not already? Hell, this could be a donor right now.” He shook the meat on his fork as if he was scolding it. “Give me more money!” He laughed. “I guess that’s what all them protesters want, too: more money. We got that in common, eh?”
He placed the flesh into his mouth, chewed, and smirked. He wondered if life as a political fundraiser meant that he fed money to power or if it was the other way around. He was feeling philosophical before the big vote. He was excited for things to be settled once and for all.
He looked at Howie and was gratified. So much churn meant most new politicians were too ignorant to be afraid of him. But after his little ‘eat the rich’ bit, he could see that Howie didn’t know what to say. He finished his wine, wiped his hands on his napkin, and stood up.
“I just want to be a good Senator,” Howie told him. “I want to serve the people.”
”Some people do want to be idealistic when they come to town,” Frank said. “You a fan of history? The truth is, capitalism has two phases: slaves and oil. And I got bad news for you, Senator.”
"What?"
"We're running out of oil. If we don't transition to something else that gives us more than we give it, people on the getting end ain’t gonna get so much. They don’t like that.”
“What about people on the giving end?” Howie asked.
The Architect couldn’t tell if Howie was being impertinent or just dumb.
“The ballast?” Frank asked. “They’re not historically relevant, Mr. Dork. The only way they get their names etched in stone is if they die tragically enough to be used. Otherwise, they’re just the space between the words, paper for the ink. Is that poetic for you, like that poet - Coates?”
“Keats,” Howie said.
“Still just a damn hippy, probably,” the Architect said. “All of ‘em. Let’s get out of here. Time for you to go vote!”
Before they ended the meeting, Howie remembered a question Jhumpa had always recommended for new leaders.
“Do you have any advice for me?” Howie asked.
One of Frank’s favorite things was to lie to people who knew he was lying but were unable do anything about it. He would have no such pleasure with Howie.
“I wouldn’t worry about anything,” he said. “You’ll be fine.”
“Okay, thanks,” Howie said. “I know you want me to vote ‘yes’ but I still feel like I would have to read the bill before I could vote on it one way or the other. It seems crazy not to.”
“Well, Howie, if that’s how you feel then I’m going to have to respect that,” the Architect said.
If he couldn’t trust Howie to vote correctly then he might have to go to Plan B. It would be the first time he would do a Plan B in his own country.
The Architect nodded toward the TV. Senators were in the chamber. Jhumpa LeGunn was milling around, waiting for the proceedings to start. She would be the chaplain that evening.
“We’re almost late,” Frank said. “Of course, they can’t really start without us, so I suppose it’s relative.”
Chapter 24 - Capitol Thrill
.
“
The leadership does not want this thing to develop in an all-out struggle as to who knows most about the rules and who can utilize the rules to the fullest extent. We can all play that game, and I hope we will not get into that business.”
- Senator Robert Byrd, 2/21/75
“
The overhaul of the U.S. tax code is being shaped by an arcane Senate rule crafted by a lawmaker who’s been dead for seven years. The Byrd rule, named for Robert Byrd..”
- Erik Wassen, Bloomberg News, 11/14/17
.
Howie followed the Architect and his one-handed security guard back into the sexy atrium of the Old Post Office. This time, when they passed the pictures on the wood-paneled walls, Howie noticed Frank in almost every single one. He never smiled.
When they got to the main floor, the Architect looked up at Goodwealth on the mezzanine above and waved for him to follow. The old billionaire and the Prince went down with the royal entourage while the Clayton, Geo, and Governor Abbie remained behind. Geo approached one of the regulatory gimps.
When Prince Embiess Embeezee descended to the main floor of the lobby, the conversations hushed. Several western businessmen stopped what they were doing to obediently kneel just outside the ring of his security. Without knowing the precise details, they knew it was the best way to receive a piece of his great wealth and power.
Frank led them through the crowd. Almost no one on this level even knew who Frank was but he gained authority as the only person in the building whose eyes were on the door.
They walked out onto the sidewalk as the sun was setting. It was crowded not only with aspirants waiting to get into Don Midas’ club but also with protesters drawn to the capitol by the big vote. When the VIPs couldn’t get to their SUVs right away, a member of the Prince’s security raised his weapon in the air to clear the way. When he fired a round, the crowd scattered.
They got in their vehicles and drove in a small convoy from the Old Post Office to the Capitol Building. Along Pennsylvania Avenue, they passed several buildings named for concepts: justice, trade, and art. They also passed the ‘newseum’, an homage to a dying medium which itself had been permanently closed.
The going was slow as they tried to get Howie to the capitol to vote. Protesters walked amid the traffic. The driver had to honk. Everyone seemed angry. Eventually, police were kettling protesters and the crowd became too dense for any vehicles to pass through.
“I can’t get around!” The driver said.
“Why don’t you run them over?” The Prince asked.
“We can’t do that here,” Goodwealth said.
“We’re going to have to get out and walk,” Frank said.
They got out of the SUVs in the middle of the road surrounded by the Prince’s security. They were startled by a loud gang of Selv Collectors who rode roaring four wheelers and motorcycles decorated with multicolored LEDs. They revved their engines to try to scatter the crowd.
On the sidewalk, a man barbecued while a line of people waited. His apron said ‘my meat is red, my fuel burns, and my gun is loaded’.
Someone on a soap box gave a speech.
A gallows had been set up and the low sun cast the shadow of a noose across the steps of the justice department.
Groups of masked men held torches. Invisible fingers of hot air wiggled above the flames and reached up toward the bright orange of the setting sun.
Everyone had come from the states and provinces, out of their tents, out from under bridges, to confront the managers who had created the best of all possible worlds.
Finally, they reached a barricade outside the capitol building. They paused for the police checkpoint but were quickly waved through when one of their superiors recognized Frank Rove.
Farther down the barricade, protesters began climbing. While they distracted the police, others got through the checkpoint. The officers tried to stop them but their force had been decimated by budget cuts. Eventually, they would just let them pass.
Inside the capitol, tensions were high before the vote. Aides nervously criss-crossed the hallways. Everyone wanted to get their amendments into the omnibus bill at the last minute.
Senator Dork and Senator Goodwealth tried to move quickly but a crowd of well-to-do people in the rotunda blocked them. They surrounded a woman who was dressed like an angel. Several shirtless, hairless men attended her. Some waved palm fronds while others flung rose petals at her feet. Another followed with a small wagon of charcuterie and crudité. They handed out morsels to journalists, lobbyists, and staff who knelt before her and kissed her ring.
“Who’s that?” Howie asked.
“Parliamentarian,” Frank said. “We gotta hurry up.”
The Prince stopped to talk to the her and kiss her hand while the rest continued on. Political deadlock meant her role had risen in importance but the inner workings of her office were mysterious even to the professionals who served her. She had become America’s high priestess of budget cuts. So long as any bill matched a tax cut with a corresponding spending cut, she would ensure it was easier to pass. What was so revolutionary about tonight’s bill was the way it cut nearly all taxes and spending. So long as spending and revenue decline equally, so the overall deficit remained the same, her job was fulfilled. This ensured the government would run mostly on donations but many of America’s wealthiest had considered taxes optional for awhile.
“What does she do?” Howie asked.
“She makes judgements on the Byrd law,” Goodwealth said.
“Is that why she has the feathers?” Howie asked.
“You mean the laurel? Oh, I guess those are feathers.”
“And the wings,” Howie said.
“Are those wings?” Goodwealth asked. “I hardly pay attention to the symbols, anymore. When you’ve been in the game as long as I have, you take them for granted. Anyway, she tells us whether we can pass legislation with a simple majority.”
“I thought that’s how all bills were passed,” Howie said.
“Well, no, because sometimes you need the supermajority.”
“Why?”
“For cloture.”
“Cloture?”
“To overcome the filibuster.”
Finally, a word that Howie had heard.
“Oh, right,” he said. “That’s when they stand and keep talking.”
Goodwealth laughed.
“Don’t be naive, Howie. To a force a senator to stand that long would be tantamount to elder abuse.”
“What do they do then?” Howie asked.
“I don’t know,” Goodwealth said. “I’m a generalist. That’s a question for a specialist. Let’s leave the specifics to the professionals and just go vote as we’re told.”
“Can I read the bill first?” Howie asked.
“Oh! Right. I told someone to start printing it before we left the Old Post Office. The first part should be in my office.”
“That’s where we’re going,” Frank said. “I need to get my whip.”
link to ch's 25-28 There are Monograms and Letters all over the (main) characters.
LL on the robe belonging to Lorraine which Dot wears
Dot wears a D chain around her neck
Roy has a big fat T on his belt buckle
There has got to be either an in-joke like an anagram...
...or something more weighty to it. My best guess is: The people who drive the season are marked like that, they are the main characters and want everyone to know who they are. LL and T because they are arrogant and proud (literally the rich and the powerful) but D because she wants her new identity to stick. All of the "little people" (Olmstead, the husband, Danish etc.) don't have this feature (yet). They don't count because they don't really matter to the plot, which would be a nice parallel to the thesis of the season, i.e. the rich and powerful don't give a shit about anyone not belonging in the club. They don't get to matter enough to proudly wear their name.
Wouldn't be surprising if the other characters gained that signifier, once they gain plot relevance. Or LL and T loose theirs once they are torn down. I could imagine Roy wanting to use the belt on Dot to punish her and somehow he ends up loosing it, while Munch ends up with an M or something that he can proudly display to the world.