I stood outside the Capitol Lounge reading the free Express and waiting for a friend. I was there to conduct journalism on D.C.'s Comey-hearing carnival.
I could have ended my day there on the sidewalk, although I didn't know it yet. Two men walked by and told me what I was going to see. They were talking about the pre-released Comey statement.
"Did you read it?" asked the tall one.
"Yeah. Absolutely nothing. There is nothing," said the short one. They passed the bar and went into the Starbucks.
My friend, a high school theology teacher, arrived shortly thereafter and we entered the bar. It was 9:32am.
There were already two camera crews setting up when my friend and I settled at the bar. My friend ordered a glass of water and I ordered coffee. We waited for 10 o'clock.
By the time the taps opened, no fewer than six camera crews had taken up positions in odd corners where they would be just barely tolerated by the servers. The print reporters showed up close on their heels, led by a harried-looking man working for a prominent wire service.
"Are you here for the happy hour?" he asked. His eyes were very wide.
"Yes. I'm a journalist."
"Oh." He walked away. I ordered Jameson.
Later, by the second round of whiskey, we had made friends with an attorney who was in the midst of making amusing legal observations when a short internish-looking person in a jacket and tie walked up to us. His face was round and pink like a small child's, and beads of sweat gathered in his mustache stubble. He was smiling broadly.
"Can I interview you for a piece I’m working on?"
"You don't want my interview. I'm a journalist, too."
"Oh, I can still talk to you! When did you get here?"
"9:30."
"What do you think of the hearing so far?"
"It’s a lot of nothing—hey, listen, son there's nothing happening here. Calm down and get a drink."
He stopped smiling. I turned back to the attorney, but the boy-man with the notepad didn't go away.
"Okay," he said. "Thanks." His expression lifted and he raised his pad, pen poised. "What are you drinking?"
"Coffee," I said. I turned back to the TV and glowered until he went away.
The theology teacher went to prepare himself for a lunch meeting, leaving the attorney and me to fend off the increasing numbers of my fellow-journalists in the bar. We hid our faces from cameras and talked about the former Soviet Union with increasing animation. We occasionally returned our attention to the TV to make fun of the former FBI director’s facial expressions and the speaking tics of senators. The hour was growing late when a bald man walked into the room, yelling at a camerawoman in Russian.
"Oh God," said the attorney. "Let's go."
I decided it was time to go to the Union Pub, which had promised free rounds for every presidential Tweet about the hearing. Investigating this was, in my eyes, a crucial linchpin of my journalistic project. The attorney and I settled our tabs and wandered up toward the Union, enjoying the weather and the two cigars I had brought. We talked about modern American political culture, and as we approached the Union we came to the agreement that, while modern American political culture is terrible, the cigars were pretty good.
The Union was in a state of high pandemonium. Camera crews were lined up on the sidewalk beside the bar’s outdoor seating pavilion. The pavilion itself was overcrowded with beery patrons, many with pads, laptops, and iPhones in evidence. Journalists loudly read other journalists' Tweets. The hearing was being shown on a small TV and a large projector screen. The attorney and I walked up to a man in a black t-shirt standing outside the entrance. He watched our approach with interest.
"Hello there," I said.
"Lemme smell that cigar," he said. I duly held it up for inspection. The bouncer wrinkled his nose.
"It's a Camacho," I said. "It's pretty light."
"It's first thing in the morning," explained the attorney. The bouncer did not look impressed.
"Are there any seats outside?" I asked.
"Would you look over there? Now you tell me."
The attorney and I stepped away and surveyed the scene. Every table was full. People talked and laughed. The image on the projector screen was almost invisible; on the television, a pink dot with Sen. John McCain’s voice was asking questions that were just barely audible over the noise of the crowd. People looked at each other; some looked at me (one or two coughing theatrically, staring malignly at the cigar); a few looked at the TV. Outside the pavilion cameramen jockeyed for vantage points over the crowd.
In a final effort to execute my Journalistic duties, I walked up to the bouncer again. "Is there a smoking section inside?" I asked.
He scowled. "No, you can't have that thing in there, man."
"Okay."
"You're gonna kill my boss."
"Okay."
"You're gonna kill my boss."
"Yeah, okay." I walked away.
At this point the attorney took his leave. After we parted, I turned back to the pavilion. It was half-past noon and I was due back at the office at 1; further, I was hungry. The question: abandon my cigar outside and try to eat at the Union, or leave?
As I pondered two more camera teams showed up, precipitating a sudden decision. I walked to the Metro and returned to the office, where I could watch other journalists watch TV without any annoying cameras watching me.