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They’re only trying to help

Still determined to block passage of health care bill, GOP tries to exploit divisions between House and Senate Democrats.

--Ripped from the headlines

Along the banks of the Potomac River, in the tiny village of Washington, the talk is often of important things. When important things are discussed, the sages tell us, strong feelings may arise, feelings that can turn even the sweetest of relationships sour. And it came to pass, one day in the early spring of a certain year, that these feelings rose up and threw a dark shadow across the Capitol Hill home of Harry and Nancy.

Harry and Nancy were not unlike other couples who had spent many years together. The normal ups and downs of matrimony were their lot, and more, for theirs was an arranged marriage, which (in those years, at least) was still quite common. Fate had joined them, and they would make the best of it. So it was that Harry had charge of one end of their home on Capitol Hill, and Nancy the other.

This was an arrangement—and arrangements, as the saying goes, are like rye bread in a rainstorm.

When the knock came at their front door, it was Nancy who went to answer. There she found waiting for her the pinched and familiar face of McConnell.

“Good evening, Madam,” said McConnell, who rented rooms at Harry’s end of the house, but who seldom came to visit.

“Good evening, McConnell. What brings you to our door?”

At this greeting (which was, if truth be told, less a greeting than a sentry’s challenge), McConnell shuffled his feet from side to side but made no move to go.

“I understand, madam, that you and your gentleman…” and here McConnell’s right hand fluttered vaguely in the air—“have been discussing health care. I further understand that these discussions have been rather…awkward.” (This last word appearing after a suitable pause, and through lips straining to suppress a smile.)

“What’s that to you?” said Nancy, who was suddenly ill at ease at the thought of other people minding her business.

“Perhaps I can be of some assistance,” said McConnell, reaching deep inside his overcoat and offering up a card.

“McConnell,” it announced, in bold red letters. “Settler of Disputes. Adviser to the Fractious.”

“But I…” Nancy began, and caught herself. “But we don’t need anyone’s help. Whatever differences we might have, and I’m not saying we do have differences, but even if we did, we’re well on our way to sorting them out. Ourselves.” (This last word, in turn, emerging with somewhat more heat than was absolutely necessary.)

Now McConnell affected an expression of deep concern, an expression he had been practicing for the better part of an hour.

“Ah, yes,” he sighed. “No one wishes more than I that you and the gentleman”—again, the fluttery hand—“could resolve these matters all by yourselves. But Madam…”—and here McConnell leaned in closer, his voice a whisper—“can Harry really be trusted?”

At this insolence, Nancy recoiled. She reached to shut the door against her neighbor, but McConnell had already placed a sly foot in its path.

“What I mean, Madam, is this: Is Harry as good as his word? Can he deliver on his promises on this health-care business? Or will he leave you holding the bag?”

“Harry would never do such a thing!”

“Can you be certain, Madam?”

“It’s true he doesn’t like deadlines,” Nancy murmured, as much to herself as to McConnell. “And he hates it when I push him. But he’d never…”

“Perhaps the wisest course, Madam, is not to give him the opportunity.”

“But…”

“I speak as a friend.”

“Of course.”

High above Washington, the moon was swallowed by a cloud.

Rick Horowitz is a syndicated columnist. You can write to him at rickhoro@execpc.com.