The (Almost) Tossed Salad

It was a high-stress day for me. I had a bill on the floor, which meant a long day of watching both Democrats and Republicans spew pre-fabricated talking points, pontificate about policy, and occasionally hear a genuine message of concern about spending and law. I had only been a legislative assistant (an “L.A.” as they’re called on Capitol Hill) for maybe six weeks and I was overwhelmed.

I had never tracked legislation on the House floor. I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I knew that I couldn’t screw it up. This was the Defense Authorization, a biggy for New Mexico and for my boss’s district since we had an Air Force base and a national lab. The bill always passes. And it would be an easy bill to track if there weren’t any amendments. But the amendments–oy! There are always dozens of them–a dizzying array–and tracking them, that was the hard part.

So, while Schoolhouse Rock’s I’m Just a Bill does a great job explaining how a bill becomes a law, it really is just covering the basics. What it doesn’t cover is the staffer crouched at his desk over his TV watching the House floor, listening to all the speeches, making phone calls to other offices and leadership offices and offices of other members from the same state for explanations about amendments, positions on amendments, and how the leadership expects your boss to vote. (Yeah, that really happens.) Add on to that fielding the phone calls from concerned constituents, lobbying groups, other offices, your boss. Remember: this was all before the Internet. No BlackBerries. No iPhones. Mobile phones were mostly “car phones” at that point. The computer on my desk was a green screen, no Microsoft Windows. It was the stone age.

Suffice it to say, it’s a frenzied, tedious day spent at your desk. Potty breaks don’t happen. And food is almost out of the question.

Unless debate starts on an amendment that you know your boss doesn’t care about, then cue the William Tell Overture finale and bolt for the cafeteria. Which is exactly what I did a few minutes after 1-ish (I think) while the House floor spent 15 minutes debating an amendment that didn’t matter to New Mexico.

In that 15 minutes, assuming the debate actually lasted that long and the time wasn’t yielded back, I had to:

• Descend four floors in a crowded, busy office building (sounds easy, but the elevators are packed and the stairs are either granite or marble and slippery in dress shoes when you’re in a hurry);
• Navigate the crowded cafeteria, dodging and weaving through (much like a Gaggle of Geese and a Pride of Lions) the Importance of Congressional Staffers who are either in the same boat as me or pretending to be just as busy to feel like they belong;
• Observe, judge and determine the ratio of shortest food line to appealing food choice;
• Get said food, observe, judge and determine the shortest cash register line (yeah, we still used cash in the 90s);
• Ascend four floors in a crowded, busy office building (again, packed elevators, slippery stairs, this time with food);
• Land back at my desk looking calm, cool and collected in time to see the final vote on the amendment

This makes a NASCAR race look easy. I mean, they get to wear comfortable shoes and a flame-retardant outfit.

William Tell Overture in full swing, I run down the stairs, hit the cafeteria, determine the salad bar is the shortest thing between me, my rumbling stomach and my desk, throw my salad together, get in THE SLOWEST LINE EVER to pay, walk briskly towards the elevators…

…and I see an elevator car with the door open, somewhat crowded, but there’s a spot for me if this one person would just move back a few inches. I began to jog–okay, I began to run–for the elevator (very uncouth in a Congressional office building). For reasons unknown, I had a lid on my Diet Coke, but not on my salad. I reach the elevator just as the doors began to close. I jump in thinking this woman would politely move back a few inches into the open space behind her.

She didn’t.

I lost my balance, my salad (with blue cheese dressing), which was balanced on my upward-facing palm, began to slide towards the woman. It achieved a very precarious -30 degree angle and was mere inches from her chest. I was sure I was going to toss my salad all over this evil woman who hadn’t moved back that ever-important few inches. Why hadn’t I put a lid on my friggin’ salad?? Why isn’t this woman moving back?? Why isn’t this salad making contact and ruining this woman’s shirt and my day?? And why is everything moving in slow motion???

Through some unbelievable skill (read: absolute, pure luck), I managed to steady my salad, compose myself, turn on my heel, and face the front of the elevator. Just in time for us to get to the second floor.

The door opens, people get off, the rest of us shuffle around to reclaim our personal space. And for the first time, I look up to see who this inconsiderate woman who wouldn’t move to give me space on the elevator was and to shoot her a withering look.

And when I do, I lock eyes with Mary Tyler Moore.