A Capitol Hill workout

It's a good thing Florida's junior senator is in shape, because, as a day as his shadow proves, politics is exhausting.

By JOHN BALZ

© St. Petersburg Times, published May 27, 2001

Editor's note: Democrat Bill Nelson was sworn in in January as the junior U.S. senator from Florida. Earlier this month, Times staff writer John Balz spent a day with Nelson to see how he is getting along in the job. Here is his report.

WASHINGTON -- Today, like every day, is a sea of a thousand faces.

[Times photo: Kevin White] Sen. Bill Nelson visits the home of Glenn and Dolores Claytor in Timber Pines recently to speak about his senate experience and answer questions.

You'd prefer to mix it up with them in small towns down on the Panhandle, but for now, this cavernous, black walnut-paneled room in the Capitol will have to do. It's 9:15 a.m. You are Bill Nelson, Florida's freshman senator, and they're crowding the tables to meet you.

You've been here 60 seconds, and already seven folks have grabbed your elbow, spun you around and gotten a friend to blind you with an indoor flash. Sure, taking photos and shaking hands isn't as rigorous as, say, space travel, which you've done. But what folks don't realize is how nimble your mind has to be. You have to be knowledgeable and articulate about everything, and you've got to be quick.

Take this group of Florida Realtors in town for a conference. They want to discuss the federal banking situation, the marriage penalty, the Mortgage Relief Act of 2001, contaminated land and affordable housing -- in 15 minutes. You know you don't know everything about these topics, so you're going to need some fallbacks.

Luckily you have 29 years of public service experience, during which you've accumulated a few stories. Some fall flat, but that's no biggie. You've got a rep for apple-pie earnestness, and nothing seems to get you down, not even when you feel the faces staring blankly like you're a substitute teacher doing roll call. Besides, the key isn't just convincing folks; it's connecting with them.

So you start talking about old industrial sites saturated with toxins and telling this story about a Pensacola lumber yard. These areas need to be cleaned up now, you say. Unfortunately, while Realtors are all "save the earth too, man," they're also down with a special tax break that makes all clean-up costs paid by developers tax deductible.

The chat runs long -- and don't they all? -- so your 9:30 coffee with another set of constituents has barely started before you have to bail for an Armed Services Committee meeting. You double-time it down a white marble hall, a ball of human flesh in pursuit. A middle-aged woman with glasses introduces herself at the elevator. Her husband is a Honeywell engineer and she wants to talk to you about. . . .

Well, you'll never know because this lumpy gentleman, who actually knows you, extends his right arm and shouts your name. You got this guy into Yale. No joke. You went to Melbourne High School a few years ahead of him, and while you were at Yale you found out he had turned in some application forms late. You knew he was smart as a whip, so you helped him get a late exemption. You've forgotten his last name, though, so you call him "Judge" and ask if Washington is treating him well. Great, great, good to see you.

As the day wears on you recognize even more faces, like that of Katherine Harris, who spins into your office as if she were the Florida Secretary of Fine Suits, iced out all over the place -- diamonds on her hands, her arms, her neck.

She wants to talk about how the state benefits from free trade, but you already agree with her, so there's no punch or counterpunch. The policy briefing quickly melts into small talk -- the Florida Legislature, Washington real estate prices, office redecoration. Speaking of which, you can't wait till that space memorabilia arrives from the Smithsonian. It'll look sweet next to your three space shuttle paintings.

Things are too hectic for you to eat the chicken at the Democratic Party fundraising lunch, so when you get a minute, you sneak a couple of slices of chocolate cake in a back room just off the Senate floor.

Now you head for the floor for three education votes. You like to tell people that you never daydream down here, not once has your mind wandered, that when you're on the floor nothing could interest you more than whether Title I funds for local schools should be used for the interest on lease purchase agreements or for construction bonds.

The freshman senator who shares your last name and your first initial walks past. Ben Nelson is a Democrat from Nebraska, and you like to kid him about how Florida has three great college football teams to Nebraska's one. You don't look alike, but since you share a last name the press mixes you up a lot. Usually it's no big deal, but one time somebody reported you had broken with other Democrats to vote for President Bush's attorney general nominee, John Ashcroft. That was a problem.

Everyone's milling about and slapping each other around in that awkward, old-guy country club sort of way. You seek out Robert Byrd from West Virginia. He's your mentor. You both resent Republican efforts to shove the president's $1.35-trillion tax package through the Senate.

This whole tax thing is weird because you've always been known as a moderate. You even voted for the Reagan tax cuts back in '81 when you were in the House. But this time around you're an organization man, voting for just about anything that will push the tax cut down to $1-trillion.

You know deep down the Republicans are going to stick it to you, but boy, you and Byrd sure are going to try to make their lives miserable. See, Byrd, who looks a bit like the emperor from Star Wars, is the master of parliamentary procedure. He can make this whole place come to a standstill whenever he wants. Like right now, someone's telling him he can't make a speech or something, but that's just ticked him off and he's going to show them. He pulls out all these obscure bylaws and holds up the vote for 15 minutes. You're laughing along, thinking you've got to learn his tricks.

Before departing, Byrd gives you a small gift, a pocket-size copy of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. It's kind of funny, getting this thing from a fellow Dem, because it is published by the Cato Institute, and that's about as right-wing a think tank as you'll find in Washington.

[Times photo: Kevin White] Sen. Bill Nelson chats with constituents Glenn Claytor, second from left, his wife, Dolores, and Dominic Paolillo.

After scarfing down two bags of Georgia peanuts, you escape the chamber. You're working on hour 12 today, but you're feeling okay thanks to that exercise program. Even at 59, you slim those thighs at dawn and squeeze the deltoids in the evening. A few years back, you were at a big charity dinner, and this lobbyist bid $1,000 for every push-up you could manage. Hah! Try 75. You'd have sent that guy to the poorhouse if they hadn't stopped you.

You call the office to tell an aide that you're going to have to push back a flight home on Thursday because the Senate has scheduled more votes. This is one part of the job you don't like because it throws your weekend plans into limbo and puts some stress on your wife.

From here you'll be off to a seaport officials mixer and then another $2,500-a-plate Democratic fundraising dinner. More food you won't get to finish. More faces you won't recognize right away. Deep breath. You love this.

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