The Day Steve Died

The weirdest part about a day that flat decimated the Bizarre-o-Meter was that none of my colleagues or I knew what to do after we’d been given the bad news. So we did what we knew how to do: we worked. And it seemed so inappropriate in that moment, but what were we supposed to do?

We weren’t allowed to make phone calls or send emails about the bad news until key press had been notified, the press release had been published and the Speaker announced it on the House floor.

Once that happened, the phones went bonkers and the emails poured in to our individual work accounts. (We didn’t have a public office email yet.)

Between the phone calls and the emails, my colleagues and I watched the House floor, paying attention to the remembrances and condolences from Steve’s colleagues. It seemed to go on for hours, which was equally as pleasing as it was brutal. And all the while we shuffled through letters, planned meetings and plodded through the mundanity that was the work of a congressional office.

Imagine repeatedly having the wind knocked out of you and having to repeatedly reply and respond to condolence phone calls and emails and knocks at the office door. That’s the irony of those left in the wake of death: everyone wants to extend their heartfelt sympathies. And that’s incredibly nice. But hearing the same thing over and over and over again just keeps the sucker punches coming fast and furious.

Tangent

I haven’t thought about this day in a long time, though there’s honestly not a week that goes by that I don’t think of Steve. And watching the assassination attempt on Rep. Gabrielle Giffords and the brutal murder of her staff and constituents dredged up these memories and emotions.

Unrelated, but oddly intertwined in my life: I lived for several years in the district that Rep. Giffords represents. She replaced Rep. Jim Kolbe, who happened to be a gay Republican and also happened to be one of the key players in establishing the agency where I now work. That’s my six-degrees-of-separation sidebar for the day.

Several Hours Earlier

Congressman Steven Schiff–my employer for three years and my congressman for longer–had been in Albuquerque for several months recovering from cancer surgery and treatment. He had been remarkably open with the local press about it, but things had been quiet recently. Both the staff in DC and in Albuquerque were stressed because working for a member of congress is like working for a close member of your family. You believe in them, their policies and positions, and the way they conduct business. To some degree, you become them as you answer letters, write speeches, follow legislation and meet with constituents. And it’s tough when someone that close is sick.

For some reason, I’d had a salary review that day and was not happy with the outcome. (And, to be completely honest, Steve was fair with salary to the point of ridiculous, so I suspect I asked for more than I knew I’d get.) In an unusual move, I didn’t eat at my desk, rather, I got my lunch and parked myself on a bench in front of the U.S. Capitol. This would give me time to be angry in my own space. And, in a blatant act of passive aggression, I stayed at lunch a little longer than the hour I was supposed to.

As I stepped off the elevator onto the fourth floor of the Rayburn Building, I knew something was wrong.

From the elevator, I could see two Capitol Policemen standing outside the office door. Keep in mind, this was years before Sept. 11, so Capitol Police weren’t quite as “present” as they are now. And to see one standing outside a Member’s office was unusual. In fact, I think they checked my ID as I tried to enter the office.

When I walked it, there was an agitated, sullen silence and a random person sitting in the office.. My colleagues had been waiting for me to be able to declare the DC staff “gathered” so we could start an all-staff meeting. I had clearly chosen the wrong day to be purposefully late.

Minutes later, without mincing words, our Chief of Staff told both the DC and Albuquerque staffs that Steve had died a few hours earlier.

Gasps. Silence. Crying. Sniffling.

Then a knock at the door and a fidgeting with the doorknob.

We were reassured that the Capitol Police stationed outside would keep visitors away, so we ignored the intrusion. Except the intrusion kept getting more insistent. Being closest to the door, I stood up and started walking towards the door to “handle this.” Oddly, my legs buckled as I crossed the office. That had never happened before and has only happened once since. Righting myself against the reception desk, I lurched towards the door and threw it open ready to give the interloper a piece of my mind.

Instead, I found myself staring at the Speak of the House, Newt Gingrich.

He walked in, put his arm around me like a father comforting a son and walked with me back into Steve’s office where we had assembled. I remember thinking to myself, “I just don’t know how this already surreal moment could get any surreal-er, but the third most powerful man in the United States has his arm around me, is walking with me and is consoling me.”

Back in Steve’s office, I crumpled back into my position on a sofa. The Speaker said some very nice things about both Steve and us. And love him or hate him, in this moment, he was incredibly genuine and I was very moved that he came to give us his condolences.

After about ten minutes, he left and that’s when the stranger started talking. He explained that our jobs were safe, that we were employed by the House for three months and that our responsibilities were to prepare Steve’s things for archive and continue the work of the First District of New Mexico until a new member was elected. At the time, I thought that it was all incredibly insensitive, but looking back, I feel like knowing that I had a job and that we would be responsible for the disposition of Steve’s history gave me some comfort.

That One Phone Call

Flash forward to the muted chaos of handling press inquiries, condolence calls and emails, my personal phone line rang and I hear the voice of one of the best friends I have ever had (and still have to this day), “whatever you need, whatever you want to do, whatever…I am here for you tonight, tomorrow, whenever. I’m really sorry about Steve.”

“I need to buy a suit,” I responded. “Tonight.” (It was my first thought and to this day, I find the practicality of it astonishing.)

He worked for one of Steve’s colleagues on the Senate side, so he knew how tough this day was. I don’t think he will ever know how much those simple, elegant words meant to me. And it’s absolutely what I needed to hear. I don’t think I ever thanked him for that.

Leaving the Office

I don’t remember what time I left the office that day, but I do know it was later than normal. I didn’t want to leave. And neither did any of my colleagues. It felt to weird to leave, like leaving would somehow validate all the bizarre and sad happenings of that afternoon and make them real. But finally I did.

My good friend gave me a ride home and promised to come back in a hour or so to go suit shopping.

I got out of the car and walked into my house. One of my roommates was home and upon seeing me said, “I’m really sorry about your boss. I bet this was a tough day.” I was surprised he knew because he was in grad school and not particularly plugged in to politics.

I schlepped up the two flights of stairs into my bedroom, threw myself on my bed and stared at the ceiling, reflecting on everything that had just happened.

I heard my other roommate come home, noted some hushed talking, then heard him stomp up the two flights of stairs. He stopped, pushed my bedroom door open and said to me, “so your boss died. Get over it. It happens.”

And turned and walked into his room.

My Final Words to Steve

Each staff member wrote a remembrance of him. I have not read mine–until tonight–since 1998. But I wrap up this entry with it as it truly captures what it was like to work for him.

As I sit in the room where we met for my interview — just off the House floor— I feel just as anxious as I did that day.  It is time for me to say goodbye to you and I struggle to embody the emotions I feel into words that will properly express how deeply you have affected my life.  I hope I can find them.

I came to this room for inspiration, for focus, and maybe even for closure on an adventure I always dreamt of and an adventure you allowed me to live.  As the adventure comes to an end, I reflect on those things that constantly amazed me about you:  your memory of things about me and other staff;  the patience you displayed for my continued nervousness and idiotic mistakes I made as a legislative assistant;  the chance you took on hiring and uneducated, inexperienced young man; the encouragement you gave me to return to school; the accommodation of my school schedule.  Steve, you never overstepped your bounds and I took all your advice to heart.

It is all the things that you never said, but did, that will live the longest within me.  Your integrity is unmatched and honorable.  Your unflinching fairness and allegiance to objectivity always gave you a clear and unique view of a situation.  Your impeccable intellect and intelligence caused me great trepidation, although unfounded through your patience and ease of manner.  I see Congress — and life — through the unique perspective provided by a man unaffected by his power, yet whose power affected so many.

Thank you Steve.  Thank you for giving me my adventure.  Thank you for taking me on the tough roads of integrity and objectivity along the way.  And most importantly, thank you for the chance.