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“The major problem—one of the major problems, for there are several—one of the many major problems with governing people is that of whom you get to do it; or rather of who manages to get people to let them do it to them.”
What do we do now?
Bill McKay did not want to govern people. He shouldn’t have to. They told him he wouldn’t have to. This entire thing was a promise that he could do whatever he wanted, without giving up his life along the way. You Lose. They promised.
Congratulations, Mr. McKay. You’re California’s next senator.
He should be giving his concession speech right now. He should be giving his supporters a soft smile and a wave as he acknowledges his loss, thanks the crowd for their support, for a race well-run, and steps off the podium to return to his real career. He would return to legal aid, providing free legal services for those who can’t afford them. A real representative, not one who disappears to the other side of the country every other week to rub elbows with America’s elite. But instead he would spend the next six years doing exactly that. McKay felt his stomach sink as he realized he might never have his old life back again. Six years he would be stuck. Why do Senate terms have to be so goddamn long? But it was only six years. Maybe he could do that. He could spend six years in Washington. He’ll have to. He has no choice.
They promised him he’d lose, and he did.
***
Three months later: Inauguration Day. McKay woke up on the couch with a pounding headache and the taste of whiskey still in his mouth from the night before. Stumbling into the shower, he stood under the cold water and tried to shake off the hangover as best he could.
He turned off the faucet, trying to ignore the dull pain behind his eyes. You can’t hide from this anymore.
McKay thought he was a man of principle compared to his political peers, but was he really? Maybe he was before this. Now he feels like he’s made too many compromises. He'd let things slide, rationalized the little tweaks they made to his speeches, watered down his values so that the voters could digest them.
He pulled his suit out of the closet. It was still in the plastic bag from the dry cleaner; his chief of staff had it cleaned and pressed especially for today. It was the old suit he wore when he’d have to go to the courthouse – the cheapest one he could afford on his meager legal aid salary. He tore off the plastic. Perfectly clean, all the wrinkles ironed out and the fraying seams repaired. He’d never seen it in such good condition. When he put it on, its familiar lived-in quality was gone. It felt stiff and starched.
Why did they choose him?
He looked at himself in the mirror as he tucked in his shirt and fixed his tie. Surely he must have said something that resonated with his voters; or maybe they just looked at him: a pretty face and a charming smile. Who needed to hear what he was saying? McKay wondered which fate he preferred: would he rather be seen–no, objectified–and not heard? But it was almost worse to think that they voted him in because of his message, because it wasn’t his message.
***
I do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same; that I take this obligation freely, without any mental reservation or purpose of evasion; and that I will well and faithfully discharge the duties of the office on which I am about to enter: So help me God.
On January 20th, 1973, Bill McKay, Attorney at Law, dies. Senator McKay takes his place.
***
The first few years, ‘73 to ‘75, were alright. 55-45, with Democrats in the majority, so Senator McKay had the opportunity to dissent when a piece of legislation didn’t sit right with him. There was pressure from the establishment, but not enough to shake him. He convinced himself that maybe the job wasn’t so bad. Just two more years. He would leave at the end of his first term and let someone else take his place. He could finally go home and get back to the life he loved.
Then came ‘76. Democrats took a hit, now teetering at 52-48. Calls and letters flooded McKay’s office, begging him to run again. McKay didn’t want to. He tried to casually bring it up to his staff, but they quickly admonished him. They told him that he couldn’t pass the torch, not now, not when his voters and his employees and his party needed him. Did they really need him? Maybe the stakes weren’t that high. The party could easily find another body to fill his senate seat. That’s all he started out as, right? A body they found to fill a senate seat?
No, Senator, you have to run again–who knows who they’ll get to replace you? It wouldn’t be the same. And what if that person lost? Then the party would lose everything. And it would be your fault.
He talked himself into believing that the country’s wellbeing would be in jeopardy if he sat this race out. So he resigned himself to running again, suffering through the last two years of his first term by convincing himself that he needed to be there. His presence in Washington was helping people, maybe even saving their lives.
***
Welcome back, Senator.
The 1978 election made the newly re-elected Senator McKay the most famous person on the Hill. He was no longer the hotshot maverick from California, who gained a reputation for shaking things up with his quick wit when the older senators tried to check him on the Senate floor. Now he was the Senate’s greatest nuisance. It was 51-49, with McKay as the tiebreaking 51st vote. Without McKay’s assent, nothing would become law.
Senator McKay was now the most powerful man in America. The first pieces of legislation that came across his desk were uncontroversial – he went along with them without issue. But a few months in, the first divisive bill was brought to his attention.
The bill was partisan enough that the Republicans were unilaterally opposed. The bill was liberal enough that the Democrats were unilaterally in favor. McKay stood alone.
What the rest of the Senate didn’t know is that McKay had received a call that morning from a frantic constituent begging him to vote no. Senator, please–it’ll put me out of a job. It’ll put my whole town out of a job. Please try to stop this for us.
McKay needed more time before he could agree to something like this. He couldn’t just slap his name onto it, especially if it might hurt people.
But the party whips descended upon him like a storm. He couldn’t leave his office without a senator or congressman or staffer pestering him, asking him why he wouldn’t sign on to a bill that fulfilled so many of his campaign promises, why he’s turning on his voters, why he’s fucking over the party like this.
McKay became paranoid. He quit walking to work, opting for a cab that dropped him off by the back entrance of the Senate office buildings so he could avoid most of his colleagues’ rabid staffers. When they did catch him, he’d try so hard to explain himself but his voice would get lost in the noise.
Next came the opinion piece in the Post accusing him of failing his constituents. More calls and letters flooded in, but this time from Californians telling him they regretted ever voting for him. His father called the office. Be a man.
He couldn’t take it. The guilt got to him and he surrendered. 51-49, the resolution passed and was signed into law. He never heard from the frantic constituent again.
***
One week later, divorce papers arrived in the mail from California. He didn’t even recognize the address on the return label. She must have moved since he saw her last.
Signed and returned. His townhouse in Washington had always felt empty–had always been empty. There wasn’t much of a change.
***
The party’s pressure campaign had worked. McKay never really dissented after that first tough case. Sometimes, he’d try to tweak legislation before it was brought to a vote. He befriended the right people who had the power to change the language in the bills before they hit the senate floor. He got better at the wheeling and dealing that seemed to come naturally to the men around him. The pressure of their razor-thin majority made him quick on the uptake, ready to critique and argue for changes with the power of the tiebreaking vote behind his back.
Occasionally, he relished the fact that everyone in the room was trying to win him over. He was the center of attention with the power to decide if a bill lived or died. It was a nice feeling, but fundamentally false. The senator knew that when he was pushed he would always give in.
***
By 1982, McKay’s tiebreaking vote wasn’t a problem. A Republican sweep snuffed out any chance of Democratic success. 42-58, Republican majority.
McKay spent the next two years on the offense. This was where he thrived: confrontational, adversarial, like he was back in court defending his clients against biased prosecutors in front of disinterested judges. He’d waste time during hearings, asking witnesses tough questions he knew they wouldn’t be able to answer. He’d argue with the newly-elected conservative senators on the Senate floor, boldly backing them into verbal corners they couldn’t easily evade.
The stakes were low because the Democrats didn’t get a bill passed for over two years. McKay could do and say whatever he wanted to whoever he wanted.
You lose.
By the time the 1984 election rolled around, he was all in for a third term. This was what he was promised.
However, the election of 1984 brought a primary challenger. A young, fresh-faced lawyer, packed with so many good ideas and no real way to execute them. They seemed kind, dedicated, and good-natured. They were shiny, new, and moldable. They dropped out of the race before the first debate — McKay’s polling numbers were simply too high.
***
Back in the saddle for another term. Another four years of nothing. The losing game stopped being fun–maybe it was never fun. Maybe it was just something to pass the time and scratch the confrontational itch McKay couldn’t get out of his system. The Senate floor was just a place where he could pick a fight and try to forget the fact that he was always losing.
And he was so lonely. He couldn’t remember the last time he met someone who didn’t want something from him. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone earnestly called him by his first name. His bed was almost always empty. Even when he did have company, they’d arrive late, leave early, and rarely (if ever) call again. His staffers listened to him and executed his policy goals, but they obviously wanted something too; they had their own political aspirations to tend to, or a letter of recommendation that he needed to write, or they wanted to add the internship to an already lengthy resume.
***
In 1986, the young attorney from years before ran for a seat in the House and won. On their first day in office, they knocked on McKay’s door, seeking advice. Another person who wants something. But McKay obliged. The new representative said they admired him and told him that they wanted to know more about his work in legal aid before he became a senator. They shared a bit about themself; McKay’s story wasn’t that different from theirs. The only difference was that they wanted to be in Congress and McKay had not. Not at first. He had lost himself too much to know if he even wanted to be here now.
***
1988: The Democrats were back with another slim majority. McKay knew how to do the dance by now. He executed the steps flawlessly. And it still felt like nothing.
***
1990: he won again. The morning he was to take the oath of office, he awoke with a sense of dread. You lose.
Staring at himself in the mirror, he ran his fingers over the lines on his forehead. He noted the wrinkles under his eyes, the bits of grey hair on the sides of his face. What happened? He hadn’t practiced law in eighteen years. Eighteen years since he got to do what he loved. I never wanted this.
That morning, he ran into the young lawyer again on his way to the Capitol building. They seemed excited as ever, and they should be: they were just elected for a third term. I guess I shouldn’t tell you this, but my campaign manager said I should run for your senate seat next time. I told them maybe. But I won’t if you don’t want me to!
McKay stopped walking and looked into their eyes. Passionate idealism. Youthful strength and perseverance. A belief that things could be better. McKay couldn’t decide whether he pitied or admired them. It didn’t really matter either way.
“I think you should do it,” he said, with a soft smile and a weight lifted off his shoulders.
Senator McKay took the oath of office again, and vowed to himself that this would be the last time.
***
SENATOR WILLIAM MCKAY (D-CA) TO RETIRE; NOT SEEKING FIFTH TERM
***
In January of 1997, the former Senator Bill McKay was free.
After his protégé was sworn in, McKay traded his car for a van and packed up his townhome. He didn’t have much worth keeping. There would probably come a time when he would miss D.C., but not right now. Looking one last time at the bare walls of the house he’d inhabited for 24 years, he shut the door and put the key in the mailbox with defiant clink.
It’s time to take my life back.
He missed being able to choose how he spent his days. He missed being in control. He missed being Bill. He missed just being. It was so rare for him to truly get a day off. Congress was only in session for half the year, but the weeks between were spent rubbing elbows with donors in Sacramento, or meeting with the local unions to make promises he knew he couldn’t keep, or flitting between local senate offices in California to ensure everything was running smoothly. Now, his life stretches out in front of him like the interstate he’s speeding down; the words what do we do now? echo again in his head. But the answer to that question is simple this time. He can do whatever he wants. He decides he’ll just drive, for now – take the long way back to California and relish the fact that there’s nowhere he has to be.
***
Somewhere in the middle of Utah, or maybe Idaho, McKay now sits alone in a booth at a dingy diner, sipping coffee. He’s happy to see that some things never change: the red leather seats, checkered tile floors, and metallic diner barstools seem to be the same anywhere in the States. Putting on his reading glasses (at some point in the last few years, he had to start using them), he opens the newspaper on the table and glances at the politics section. He’s struck with the realization that this is the first time in nearly three decades that he hasn’t scanned the newspaper with a sort of underlying paranoia. It’s just news now.
“Senator McKay?”
The quiet moment shatters at the sound of the word senator. He looks up.
“Senator, hi, I’m so sorry to bother you. Can I talk to you for a second?” The diner patron looks anxiously at him.
“Yes–oh, actually— It’s just Bill now. I’m retired.” He smiles. “Please call me Bill.”
They slide into the booth across from him. “I’m so sorry, again–I guess you could say I’m a bit of a fan–I saw you sitting here and really just wanted to stop and say thank you. I know this sounds crazy, but you authored a bill that saved my mom’s life.”
They proceed to tell him about how a little-known piece of legislation–frankly, one that McKay forgot he even created–had funded the research that cured his mother’s illness. They thank him, shake his hand profusely, wipe the tears from their eyes (while McKay wipes away a few of his own), and return to their seat at the counter.
McKay – no, just Bill – stretches back on the cushy diner booth and takes another sip of coffee. He runs his hands through his blonde curls, unable to remember the last time they weren’t slicked back with every strand in place. He scratches at his face, a five o’clock shadow starting to show – he skipped shaving the last few days. He takes a deep breath, exhales, tosses a twenty on the table for the waitress, and walks out of the diner.
“To summarize: it is a well-known fact that those people who must want to rule people are, ipso facto, those least suited to do it.”