The Elevator, the Trolley & Sam Rayburn

I always knew I wanted to work on Capitol Hill. Washington, DC was a magical place to me, full of the smartest people in the world working to protect the noble experiment called “democracy.”

But in my life plan, I expected to end my career there, not start it.

Let’s just say that a funny thing happened on the way to adulthood…

The Backstory

It amazes me how I can look back on the friendships I’ve made and see how those friends have directly affected the course of my life. The road to Capitol Hill started in the summer of 1988 when I attended my first Hugh O’Brian Leadership Seminar. I met the most amazing woman named Jennifer C. (no last names folks, sorry). There just isn’t enough space on the Internet to adequately describe the intelligence, passion, charisma and charm of this woman. Suffice it to say, she’s something.

A few years and lots frank discussions about finances later, I was off to New Mexico State University. (Aggies, oh Aggies, the hills throw back the cry…) My big sister convinced me to sign up for fraternity rush (in fact, she may have sent in my registration for me). Upon hearing this, Jennifer C. took me under her wing and guided me through it. I pretty much had mapped out what fraternity I was going to join, but through Jennifer’s completely non-biased, even-keeled, no-pressure guidance, I ended up pledging another fraternity: Alpha Tau Omega.

It was there that I met Louis V. (among a truckload of other very cool men, most of whom I am still friends with today). Louis is a character. He is the perfect combination of wit, intelligence, charm and devilish mayhem. There are many stories here. Many, many, many stories. Mostly (if not completely) focused on devilish mayhem. But that’s for another time. Right now we just need to know that Louis graduated, moved to Washington, DC and began working for a congressman from New Mexico.

And in the spring of 1995, I would discover just how the path of HOBY-Jennifer C.-NMSU-Jennifer C.-ATO-Louis V. would take me right to…

The Elevator

I had lived in Washington, DC for less than two months before I found myself heading to the U.S. House of Representatives for a job interview with a U.S. Congressman. Being the ripe, old age of 22, I had a few interviews under my belt already, so I knew all the basics: be dressed appropriately, be early, have a copy of your resume with you, smile, sit up straight, relax, blah…blah…blah. What I didn’t know is all that I didn’t know about how a Congressional office works, which is like this:

• They run at a frenetic pace;
• The Congressman’s schedule is absolutely packed with no room for slippage; but,
• The Congressman is always running late and he’s usually not happy about it;
• Votes trump everything;
• The reception area is the combination of a Scooby Doo chase scene and an interstate highway interchange: doors opening and closing, people running in and out, chatter, movement, orchestrated chaos and mayhem;
• The House is a lot like high school in that there are bells constantly ringing (to alert Congressmen and staff to events on the House floor);
• Expect the unexpected.

I learned all of those things very quickly. I was five minutes early to my interview: pressed, dressed and confident. The Congressman was running 20 minutes late. Just as the door to the Congressman’s office opened and he walked out to introduce himself and begin the interview, the bells rang announcing a vote. He looked exasperated. I hoped that my facade of calm collectedness was not chipping away as my frustration mounted.

He looked at the clock. He looked at me. He looked at his scheduler. And looking back at me he said, “you’re with me” and bolted for the elevator. (Votes in the House are open for 15 minutes, which seems like a long time until you consider that 435 people have to descend on the House floor from three different office buildings situated about two blocks away from the U.S. Capitol.)

I followed him to the elevator marked “Member’s Only.” He hopped in the already Congressmen-jammed car, looked at a wild-eyed me and said, “get on; you need to stick with me.”

Smashed into an elevator full of men and women who are elected by people all over the U.S., my guy starts the interview. I couldn’t tell you the questions he asked me. I couldn’t tell you my answers. All I know is that the quick, five-floor elevator ride seemed to take about 3.5 hours. And then we got to…

The Trolley

We unload off the elevator like kids leaving school at the end of the day. The herd descends onto a trolley platform that looks straight out of the early 1960s. I had no idea such a contraption existed.

The questions have stopped for the moment and Congressman is moving fast. A smile, a subtle nod to his Member’s pin on his lapel and a quick (but friendly), “he’s with me” and the Capitol Policeman lets me sidestep security.

The trolley car loads up with Congressmen and Congresswomen and me, the car sputters to life and the questions begin again. Again, I don’t remember questions or answers, but I do remember being in the first seat in the car, facing backwards towards 15 to 20 U.S. Representatives, many of which were very interested in my responses to my guy’s questions. He was to my left and former Rep. Patricia Schroeder (D-CO) was to my right. Staring at me. Absorbing the entire conversation.

What is normally about a 30 second ride under Independence Ave. between the Rayburn House Office Building and the U.S. Capitol seemed to slow to a crawl, much like a snail stuck in molasses. But then we arrived at the other platform.

My God, we’re in the U.S. Capitol! It’s so exciting! It’s so amazing! It’s the basement. And it screams “I was built cheaply in the 1960s.” But there’s no time to reflect. We’re still on the move to yet another…

The Elevator (Redux)

At this point only about 7 minutes has passed, at most. But I’m feeling very seasoned, like I’ve been exposed to this kind of complete craziness for years. Heck, I’ve just ridden down the Member’s elevator (crammed full of members), traversed between buildings in a trolley (crammed full of members) and given an incredible interview (to about 15-20 members).

I’m confident verging on cocky.

We’re in another elevator. Been here. Done it. The rest of this is going to be a breeze. And then we arrive on the second floor of the U.S. Capitol.

The doors open. Members scamper down a small hallway, through a set of open double-doors flanked by two menacing looking Capitol Policemen. Okay…wait…what?!?? I’m standing at the doorway to the floor of the U.S. House of Representatives. The place where laws are debated and made. The room where the President of the United States gives his State of the Union speech. Things have happened here!

The Congressman stops me and says, “stand here, you can’t go on the floor. I’ll be right back.” And he’s gone.

Confidence: shattered. Cockiness: eviscerated.

Minutes pass, Members come off the elevator or off the House floor, take note of me, make funny faces, glance at the menacing Capitol Police and move on. I’m blown away. I’m seeing the machinery of democracy up close and firsthand. And I’m in a job interview.

He walks off the House floor after voting and casually suggests, “let’s go to this small, quiet room just around the corner where we’ll be able to talk.” As I follow him, I’m soaking in the beauty of the Capitol: the small, delicate paintings, the woodwork, the busts, the statues, the marble floors. I am overwhelmed by it all, but I have to keep collected because I’m still in the middle of a job interview.

The Sam Rayburn Room

We come to a room that is neither small nor quiet. It is the Sam Rayburn room just off the House floor where Members congregate to talk to and lobby each other, to make phone calls, to read or to avoid going back to the office. (Staffers can be a demanding bunch.) And at the moment we walked into the room, all of this is happening.

The room is ornate. There’s a (5′ tall) vase that was a gift from Italy. There’s a painting of—I think George Washington (I can’t remember anymore)—above a fireplace. Highback chairs. Carved wood tables. Small, quiet room my left foot!

He chooses two wingback chairs in front of a fireplace. We sit down. He says calmly, “please call me Steve and you have no reason to be nervous. I was in your shoes once, too.”