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Authors: Mark Merlis
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questions other than aliens?”
“I think so, some other health stuff. But we haven’t connected all day, so I’m not sure.” She cocked her head. “Oh, I guess he’s in his office.” Joel was always amazed at the way staffers could divine their member’s whereabouts. Maybe if your boss threw things at you, you could sense somehow when he was in his lair.
Harris was on the phone. He must have seen Melanie and Joel come in, but he gave no sign of it, just went on talking. Listening, rather: he frowned and periodically went “Right, right.” His mahogany desk, the size of a Volvo, held no papers at all, just the phone, a nameplate, and a silver scale model of a warplane shaped like some voracious moth. Did they build planes in Montana? Well, they must have built planes everywhere; probably they made one part in each district, so that every member had a little stake.
Harris hung up the phone, but still did not acknowledge Joel and Melanie, who stood worshipfully ten feet from his desk. He stood up and took off his jacket, draped it rather prissily on the back of his swivel chair, faced them again and turned himself on. Smiled as brightly as if Joel had arrived bearing a large check, came out from behind the desk, and held out a hand. “Joe Harris.”
“Joel Lingeman.” They had met the night before. Was it possible? So much had happened. Just the night before and the man didn’t remember him at all.
Harris didn’t exactly shake; instead he offered his hand, flatand firm as a spade, for Joel to grasp. “Really appreciate your coming over,” he said, as if Joel had had some choice.
Harris gestured toward his standard-issue informal area: two wing chairs facing a loveseat. Joel seized one of the wing chairs. He had learned over the years not to sit in the loveseat. If you did, you wound up with two interlocutors, member and staffer, talking down at you from their chairs. Plus you couldn’t sit normally in the loveseat: you had to resist the impulse to cross your legs, and wound up with your knees touching and your hands in your lap, like a maiden lady. Harris took the other chair, leaving tiny Melanie to sink into the loveseat.
Harris looked at Joel for some seconds with an expression of pleasant interest. Then he must have realized that he had asked for the briefing and ought to pose some question or other. He couldn’t remember what the subject was; he turned toward Melanie.
She said, “Oh. Um … we wanted Joel to come over to talk about aliens and Medicare.”
“Right,” Harris said, as if he had just been testing her. He faced Joel, drew himself up and gripped the arms of his wing chair—a posture of dutiful attention.
“Right,” Joel repeated. “Actually, Senator Altman pretty much summed it up. If you’re over sixty-five and you’ve been legally resident here for five years, you can get Medicare by paying a premium.”
“A premium,” Harris said slowly, as if the word were new to him.
“Yes. A monthly …” Joel couldn’t think of another word. “Premium.”
“Uh-huh. So they’re paying for their own costs.”
“Yes,” Joel said enthusiastically, as if Harris were a bright student. “Well, except …” He could have left it at “Yes.” They’re paying for it, it’s no problem, why don’t you just leave these poor old exiles alone? But someone else would explain it to Harris, sooner or later, if Joel didn’t. “Well, they don’treally pay all their costs. First, if they’re poor, the states have to pay their premium. And second—”
“The states, yeah, someone this morning said that. What about the states?”
“If somebody’s below the federal poverty level, then—”
“What’s that?”
“Sir?”
“The federal poverty level.”
“Well, it’s this figure that’s put out by … I guess the Census Bureau every year. It started out—this is interesting—they started out taking the cost of what they called the ‘thrifty food plan,’ and then they
“I think so, some other health stuff. But we haven’t connected all day, so I’m not sure.” She cocked her head. “Oh, I guess he’s in his office.” Joel was always amazed at the way staffers could divine their member’s whereabouts. Maybe if your boss threw things at you, you could sense somehow when he was in his lair.
Harris was on the phone. He must have seen Melanie and Joel come in, but he gave no sign of it, just went on talking. Listening, rather: he frowned and periodically went “Right, right.” His mahogany desk, the size of a Volvo, held no papers at all, just the phone, a nameplate, and a silver scale model of a warplane shaped like some voracious moth. Did they build planes in Montana? Well, they must have built planes everywhere; probably they made one part in each district, so that every member had a little stake.
Harris hung up the phone, but still did not acknowledge Joel and Melanie, who stood worshipfully ten feet from his desk. He stood up and took off his jacket, draped it rather prissily on the back of his swivel chair, faced them again and turned himself on. Smiled as brightly as if Joel had arrived bearing a large check, came out from behind the desk, and held out a hand. “Joe Harris.”
“Joel Lingeman.” They had met the night before. Was it possible? So much had happened. Just the night before and the man didn’t remember him at all.
Harris didn’t exactly shake; instead he offered his hand, flatand firm as a spade, for Joel to grasp. “Really appreciate your coming over,” he said, as if Joel had had some choice.
Harris gestured toward his standard-issue informal area: two wing chairs facing a loveseat. Joel seized one of the wing chairs. He had learned over the years not to sit in the loveseat. If you did, you wound up with two interlocutors, member and staffer, talking down at you from their chairs. Plus you couldn’t sit normally in the loveseat: you had to resist the impulse to cross your legs, and wound up with your knees touching and your hands in your lap, like a maiden lady. Harris took the other chair, leaving tiny Melanie to sink into the loveseat.
Harris looked at Joel for some seconds with an expression of pleasant interest. Then he must have realized that he had asked for the briefing and ought to pose some question or other. He couldn’t remember what the subject was; he turned toward Melanie.
She said, “Oh. Um … we wanted Joel to come over to talk about aliens and Medicare.”
“Right,” Harris said, as if he had just been testing her. He faced Joel, drew himself up and gripped the arms of his wing chair—a posture of dutiful attention.
“Right,” Joel repeated. “Actually, Senator Altman pretty much summed it up. If you’re over sixty-five and you’ve been legally resident here for five years, you can get Medicare by paying a premium.”
“A premium,” Harris said slowly, as if the word were new to him.
“Yes. A monthly …” Joel couldn’t think of another word. “Premium.”
“Uh-huh. So they’re paying for their own costs.”
“Yes,” Joel said enthusiastically, as if Harris were a bright student. “Well, except …” He could have left it at “Yes.” They’re paying for it, it’s no problem, why don’t you just leave these poor old exiles alone? But someone else would explain it to Harris, sooner or later, if Joel didn’t. “Well, they don’treally pay all their costs. First, if they’re poor, the states have to pay their premium. And second—”
“The states, yeah, someone this morning said that. What about the states?”
“If somebody’s below the federal poverty level, then—”
“What’s that?”
“Sir?”
“The federal poverty level.”
“Well, it’s this figure that’s put out by … I guess the Census Bureau every year. It started out—this is interesting—they started out taking the cost of what they called the ‘thrifty food plan,’ and then they
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