Second, the Flat Earth Society, with Sarah Palin as its patron saint. These were the hard-core conspiracy theorists. They insisted that President Obama had faked his long-form birth certificate. They were certain that bike-share programs were a world-domination plot fostered by the UN.
Finally, the Holy Warriors. Some of these crusaders were, in fact, religious. Others were more likely to quote The Lord of the Rings than Matthew or Luke. But regardless of where they spent their Sundays, what they shared was a worldview. Where traditional Republicans saw a debate between liberal and conservative, Holy Warriors saw an existential battle between good and evil. They warned endlessly of appeasement. They spoke of “defeating the Left” as though Satan’s minions were amassed along the Pacific coast.
The Holy Warriors pursued Romneyite goals with Palinite fervor. For this reason, they were ascendant in 2013.
If we’re being honest, however, what really put butts in pews was Obama. Nothing united Republicans more successfully than dislike of the commander in chief. And nothing provoked them more than his greatest legislative achievement. To Country Clubbers, the Affordable Care Act was a wealth transfer from rich to poor. To Flat Earthers, Obamacare meant death panels and government takeovers. To Holy Warriors it was the ultimate triumph of leftism—the final step on the road to Mordor.
As you might imagine, the Obama White House disputed its signature law’s evilness. When it came to the law’s importance, however, we couldn’t have agreed more. We were excited by all that Obamacare could accomplish: insuring millions, slowing the rise in health care costs, ending the ban on preexisting conditions. But our attachment went beyond cost-benefit analysis. The most sacred piece of Democratic orthodoxy was that government could improve people’s lives. The most sacred piece of Republican orthodoxy was that it could not. If Obamacare worked the way it was supposed to, the debate would be over. There would be no doubt which was the one true church.
For this reason, both sides looked toward October 1, 2013, as a kind of Judgment Day. For at that fateful moment, Americans would be able to use something called Healthcare.gov to shop for insurance online.
On the surface, this didn’t sound very exciting. A store! On the Internet! Designed by Uncle Sam! But the moment the marketplace launched, millions of people would be newly able to buy insurance. Once that happened, repealing Obamacare would mean robbing voters in every state and district of health care they could finally afford. For the law’s opponents, Healthcare .gov was a doomsday device. It had to be stopped.
Enter Ted Cruz. On paper, the first-term Republican senator seemed an unlikely high priest for the Holy Warriors. According to his freshman-year college roommate, young Ted was so reviled he was said to leave a layer of “cruhz” (rhymes with scuzz) on every surface he touched. But in a party that saw no difference between compromise and betrayal, there were benefits to being bad at making friends. Before long, the jowly Texan had placed himself at the helm of a great crusade. The strategy was simple. If President Obama refused to defund his own health care law before October 1, Republicans would shut the entire government down.
The Country Clubbers whined and tut-tutted, but there was nothing they could do. To protect themselves from Tea Party challengers in their primaries, they had promised drastic action. Now the bill was due. Besides, the 2011 debt ceiling crisis left Republicans convinced that hostage-taking worked. Threaten to harm America badly enough, and President Obama would cave. The idea of a shutdown started out as crazy talk. By September, it was a near certainty.
What followed in the White House was a kind of white-collar doomsday prep. First, employees were divided into two groups. If your job was crucial to national security, or you were senior staff, you belonged to “essential personnel.” I was part of the second category, and if I had been in charge of naming it, I would have been more polite. “Valued personnel.” “Still-special personnel.” Even just “Group Two.” But the federal bureaucracy did not care about my feelings. By decree of the United States Government, I was officially nonessential.
After the culling came the stern legal warnings. During the shutdown, if I sent even a single e-mail from my BlackBerry, I could face a five-thousand-dollar fine. Unsure when I’d be allowed back in my office, I riffled through my desk drawers, disposing of perishable snacks. Last-minute errands in the West Wing were more serious. Staff assistants scrambled to teach their bosses to transfer a call or to choose a printer from the drop-down menu.
Finally, on September 30, President Obama appeared on television like a principal before a nationwide snow day, listing buildings and services that would close. A few hours after his announcement, I left work. I hung my badge deep in the back of my closet. Then, just to avoid temptation, I popped open my BlackBerry, yanked out the battery, and shoved both objects deep into a drawer.
For the next few days, I felt like a third grader whose school has burned down. On an abstract level, I knew the shutdown was hurting people. But on a personal level: vacation!
I wasn’t alone. Washington’s bars and restaurants have always catered to functional alcoholics coping with stressful jobs. With the jobs suspended, we were free to practice our functional alcoholism full time. At a neighborhood bar called the Brixton, four dollars would buy me a cup of something called Furlough Punch. The next morning, I could nurse my hangover at the Daily Dish, where federal employees got free coffee and congressmen paid double. After yet another all-day happy hour at Lou’s City Bar, I could tuck into the “Boneless Chicken, Spineless Congress” special at Nando’s or free nachos at Mango Mike’s.
The fun lasted a week. After that, I became overwhelmingly bored. And worried. The shutdown was the biggest political fight in generations. It wasn’t clear who would win.
Republicans tried everything to sway public opinion. Borrowing a page from the Country Clubbers’ playbook, Fox News rebranded the event a “government slimdown,” as if Uncle Sam were cutting carbs. When no one bought that, Palinites began buzzing about a new grassroots movement, “Truckers Ride for the Constitution.” Organizers painted an epic picture: ten thousand tractor trailers, each driven by a pissed-off patriot, circling the beltway until Obama resigned in disgrace.
“Truckers will lead the path to saving our country if every American rides with them!” their Facebook page proclaimed.
I disagreed with their politics, but what really bugged me was their diction. Paths are fixed objects. You can’t lead them anywhere. Not that it mattered. In the end, only a few dozen truckers showed up. They honked around a bit, inconvenienced a few commuters, and then led the path back home.