Makin' the Sausage

“These seats are saved,” the big guy says to me, his jowly neck jiggling as he motions with his head to the two empty chairs beside him. The room is packed with lobbyists, concerned voters, state legislators and me, and all I want is a seat. But he’s not budging. He stares forward, unwilling to make eye contact, breaking the unwritten rule that the only people who’re allowed to save seats are mean girls in middle school and dads at dance recitals.

I lean against the wall to the back, the room filling up with more and more people. Two high school kids with funky sneakers and studded bracelets stand to my right, with what looks like their teacher hovering near them, flipping through a packet of papers. Two women whisper to each other about how much money they really need for their programs, and a young woman from Governor Lynch’s office intently texts on her fancy phone. Everyone is waiting to begin.

I’m here in the Legislative Office Building in downtown Concord, spending a day with the state legislature, listening and learning, watching the sausage get made up close. When I learned that New Hampshire’s state representatives earn only $100 a year, I decided that any job that pays less than what an apprentice carny makes is worth experiencing for a day.

My guide is Democrat Jessie Osborn, who’s in the first year of her fourth term. Jessie’s been in the news of late, but I don’t know much about her. I met her a few days before Election Day, and what struck me was not Jessie so much, but her opponent. Jessie ran and beat a college student, Garret Ean, whose campaign flyer caught my eye. In it Garret smiles into the camera, an American flag behind him; atop his head rests a fabulous mound of well-groomed curly hair – like Sideshow Bob from The Simpsons. Garret’s libertarian stances and hairdo didn’t win him the election, so I’m spending the day with Jessie instead.

I’ve accepted the fact that the big guy isn’t changing his mind, so I stand. We’re in a House Ways and Means Committee session, its seventeen members seated around a giant U-shaped table. Jessie takes a seat front and center at the table facing the representatives. She’s here to present House Bill (HB) 166, a proposal to raise the tax on every gallon of beer sold in the state by ten cents. Just before Jessie begins, my seat-saving nemesis is joined by two others, the three of them wearing bright orange name tags with the words, “Lobbyist” in white letters. At this point, I’ve walked the hallways of the Legislature for almost three hours, long enough to know you don’t need orange name tags to spot the lobbyists. Just look for the eager people huddling in corners, whispering into cell phones, furtive and focused. Almost to a person, the lobbyists are younger, walk faster and wear expensive shoes.

As Jessie starts, I notice my lobbyist pal and his buddies represent the Beer Lobby, holding documents with titles like, “The Real Truth about Drunk Driving” and “Raising Beer Taxes will not Reduce Abuse!” and they pass around committee seating charts and legislator bios, getting their bearings before the discussion starts. The group to my right is prepping as well, the teacher whispering to the two teenagers and pouring over notes. This is shaping up to be a fight!

Jessie presents her bill, and when she says things like, “epidemic” and “racketeering,” the beer lobbyists scribble things down and shift in their chairs. Fellow supporters now speak, and committee members ask questions. Just when I think it’s time to see the real debate, Jessie stands and heads to the door, motioning for me to follow her. Even though she’s started this elaborate conversation, she’s not sticking around to see what happens; she has other state business to attend to, so we leave. She mentions to me more than once, “This is not a typical day for me.”

When it comes to governing ourselves, Granite staters have no equal. We boast the world’s third largest legislative body, rivaled in size only by the US Congress and the British Parliament. What we lack in people, square miles, tax revenue and night life we make up for in legislative representation. We have a state rep for every 3,200 citizens while states like Texas (150 reps, or one per 160,000 residents) and California (80 reps, or one per 460,000) have fewer legislators than they have enormous stuffed jackrabbits and ancient tar pits, respectively.

We began this day with members of Concord’s delegation and the city’s School Board. I’m expecting something light, like maybe a second grade class presenting its petition to make the raccoon the state varmint. Instead, within minutes, we’re up to our necks in doom and gloom scenarios about empty coffers, unshoveled sidewalks and uncut cemetery grass. Concord’s mayor, Jim Bouley, enters and launches an impassioned plea for money. “Even if I close the library, eliminate the recreation budget, lay off eighty city workers, and don’t open any pools this summer, we still won’t have enough money!” he says. He adds, “This is absolute desperation. I’m pleading for your help.” A School Board member ends the discussion, saying, “Let’s pick a number and work to get there.” The Mayor thanks the group and dashes off to vanquish anti-Concord sentiments wherever they linger.

Jessie’s a member of the Municipal and County Government committee, and after the mayor’s departure, her fellow committee members file in to start tackling more Concord School board business, and I’m struck by the committee’s average age. Let’s just say that this is an experienced group, one that may enjoy leaf peeping, posing for daguerreotypes and mid-morning water aerobics. Considering the job’s volunteer wage and flexible schedule requirements, I see why our retired citizens make up a sizeable portion of our state’s 400 representatives, or at least of this committee.

The chairman bangs his gavel to bring the session to order, and we begin. Everyone is engaged, even when statements like, “The tax cap belongs to the entity on the ballot,” and “A charter commission needs to be voted on by the constituents,” fly about the room. I’m doing my best to follow along, but for the hour I sit, probably fifteen minutes is real substantive conversation - the rest is clarifications on rules, laws and procedures. I suspect many of the members haven’t done their homework, and most of the discussion is dedicated to making sure everyone clarifies what they’re trying to discuss. We finally start hearing the pros and cons from the crowd, but Jessie and I leave to head off to present the beer tax bill across the hallway.

Later in the day, we’re sitting on a bench outside the committee room when I ask Jessie about the emphasis on formal structure and rules. She tells me, “The rules prevent really bad bills with serious consequences from becoming law, and that’s a good thing. Don’t get me wrong, “she adds, “There’ve been a lot of bills I haven’t liked, but they’re properly vetted.” Just then a slender woman approaches in knee-high leather boots, her face holding the remnants of a tan. She gives Jessie a warm welcome, and then she’s gone. “A lobbyist,” Jessie says, stating the obvious.

It’s after lunch, and Jessie’s again in front of the Ways and Means Committee, this time to reintroduce HB 642, designed to create a state-wide income tax tied to property values. The room buzzes with anticipation. The committee pays close attention, except for the one rep whose eyes are closed and the other who’s combing his hair and dusting dandruff off his lapels while supporters quote numbers and revenue gaps. It’s time for questions, and one member does his best to mask his distaste for income taxes, his smirk leaking out from behind his Abe Lincoln beard as he peppers Jessie’s co-sponsors with questions. Another legislator then asks what appears to be an 8th grade math word problem involving a retired couple, tax rebates, property values and a train leaving Minsk headed for Paris. The question stumps everyone, and all the committee members, speakers, opponents, supporters and lobbyists flip through their notes to find corrections to fiscal notes and figures. I’d be lying if it’s inspiring confidence. Again, it seems like everyone’s waited until just now to get informed.

Then one state rep, the only one I’ve seen the entire day younger than fifty five, saunters in late and takes his seat. He pretends to pay attention, taking notes and nodding at the right time, but he isn’t. He waits a few minutes, takes a deep breath, then slowly gathers his things, pauses, and hightails it out of there.
In another hour I do the same. The discussion is getting heated, the passion on both sides palpable, but it’s time to go. I’ve seen enough to know that the life of a state representative is a busy one. With so many members, so many bills and so many issues facing the state, it’s amazing anything gets accomplished. And as I head outside and make my way home, I spot the legislator who snuck out before me. He’s standing across the street with a group of young people, shaking hands and posing for photos rather than listening to dry tax discussions back inside. He’s no dummy - he’s up for reelection in less than eighteen months, and every minute counts.