It has often been remarked that there is no distinctly native American criminal class except Congress. But that, I fear, is a touch too harsh for a Wednesday. To be fair to our representatives, they do occasionally take a break from the arduous task of spending other people’s money to return home and engage in what they call a “District Work Period.” In the common tongue of the citizen who actually earns his bread, this is known as a recess; in the eyes of the cynical, it is merely a parade.
When a Congressman departs the humid air of Washington, a strange metamorphosis occurs. The statesman, who but forty-eight hours prior was buried in the pockets of a rail magnate or a telecommunications king, suddenly appears in your local grocery store wearing a denim shirt that has never seen a day’s labor and a smile that was polished by a committee in Virginia. He calls this “connecting with his constituents.” The constituent, however, looks at this sudden appearance with the same squint-eyed suspicion a farmer gives a fox in a hen-house. We are told they are home to “listen.” If that is the case, they have developed a remarkable ability to listen while doing all the talking.
The official ledger will tell you these weeks are spent in “service.” And indeed, they are! They will find a bridge, or a road, or perhaps a particularly sturdy fence, and snip a ribbon with a pair of oversized shears. They act as though they laid the bricks themselves, conveniently forgetting that you, the taxpayer, provided the mortar, the bricks, and the shears. Then comes the Town Hall—a theater of the highest order—where the Representative stands upon a stage and invites “dialogue,” which is a Washington word for “shouting at one another until the clock runs out.”
The most delightful fiction of the recess is that it is not campaigning. To suggest such a thing in DC would be a scandal! No, they are simply “reporting to their employers.” It just so happens that this reporting involves a fleet of cameras, a flurry of handshakes, and a sudden, passionate interest in the price of local corn—an interest that will evaporate the moment the wheels of the Boeing 737 leave the tarmac for the return trip to the capital.
The American people have a long and storied history of distrusting their government, and for good reason. We see the “recess” for what it is: a brief intermission in the play where the actors come down into the aisles to convince the audience not to throw rotten tomatoes before the second act begins. A cat, at the very least, has the decency to look ashamed when it brings home a dead bird it didn’t catch. A Congressman expects a standing ovation for the same feat.