I meet my congressman

I noticed in the news the other day that congress is in session for only 109 days out of 365. I realized that this meant my congressman must be very accessible, being in his office working for us voters all that extra time.

I headed right down to see him, but his receptionist told me that he was out sick.

He was sick the next day, too. Google provided his home address and I sent a get-well card. No response. My favorite online poker site mentioned that Representative Smith was in Vegas for the week. Unwise, to be out working for a better nation while ill like that, especially in a venue where crowds of people are present, many from the congressman’s state, all anxious to press their private political concerns upon him.

Finally, on Monday, he was well enough to return to his office. As I entered, another of his constituents was just leaving. Representative Smith is truly a man of all the people, not just the rich and influential, for I recognized this woman on her way out, rather washed out in daylight, as one of my favorite strippers at a local club.

“Did he listen to your concerns?” I asked her in passing.

She laughed.

“He’s always a sweetheart,” she said.

A man of the people.

Unfortunately, the receptionist told me that he wasn’t able to meet with me, as he was on an important call. I told her I’d come back when he was free. She smiled at the word “free.” Patriotic.

There were still weeks left before Representative Smith was to return to Washington. I saw in the paper that he was scheduled to visit a ladies’ tea in Upper Brockton. I drove over to that tree-shaded community of mansions. Valets were handling the automobiles of arriving matrons. They wouldn’t touch mine, calling it a “rattletrap.” I pointed out that I was a voter. They pointed out that they were working strictly for tips, that I was in their way, and that there wasn’t one actual American citizen among them. I thought about warning the representative that a bunch of rude illegals were working the tea, or about calling the INS, but I don’t have a cell phone and none of the valets would lend me theirs. They might be working for tips, but I saw more than one of these handsome young men drive off with the old bag still in the car, so I have a hunch they were parking more than the automobiles. Depriving women of the chance to exchange views with their man in Congress. A shame.

Tired of my fruitless attempts to meet Representative Smith, I parked down the street from his mansion the next evening and waited and waited until his limo pulled out through the iron gates in the wall surrounding his grounds, and followed him down to the Lampligher on Broadway. His limo parked in an alley behind the restaurant and two big lugs, probably secret service agents, waited beside it while he entered the restaurant through the kitchen with a briefcase in his hand. Another limo arrived and an Asian gentleman got out, again with two muscular dudes, and went in through the kitchen with a small duffle in his hand, while his men waited outside. A third limo arrived and a Mexican gentleman emerged from it, along with two mean-looking greasers. He went in too, with a stuffed backpack in his hand. A fourth and final limo arrived, this one with a Pakastani or Afgan fellow in it, with his bodyguards. He carried in a picnic basket. After a while, all four men came out again. The Asian, Mexican, and Afgani were empty-handed, though their pockets were bulging with envelopes. Representative Smith was wearing the backpack on, the duffle in one hand, picnic basket in the other, a big smile on his face, and with a white nose. His men ran to help him. All four limos took off. I followed the congressman.

I know that he sits on several important sub-committees pertaining to international commerce and drug enforcement. Even on his evenings off, he is on the job, working with the representatives of our allies in other countries for justice and the American way. What a guy.

I followed the limo back to his mansion. When it stopped to wait for the gates to open, I pulled in behind, jumped out, and ran up and tapped on his tinted window.

“Congressman! Open up!”

The window slid down.

“I’ve been trying to meet you all week,” I said. “I’m a big fan.”

“Good evening,” he said. Both of his men were out of the car and behind me by now. “How can I help you?”

“I just wanted to tell you how much I admire you and all the work that you do,” I said.

“I appreciate that,” he said. “It’s citizens like you that make my work worthwhile. I’ll remember you in my prayers.”

The window slid up.

“Me, too,” I said. “I haven’t been saying my prayers lately, but I’ll start tonight.”

“Good idea,” said one of the men behind me.

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