220

 

Being blessed with good health, my annual physical tends to be a routine affair. So this past December nothing much was different with the exception of my doctor wearing his mask throughout the appointment. Obviously some of our banter centered around Covid and how the vaccine, which was just rolling out to health care workers, was going to change things. Almost to himself, my doctor asked, “Once people are vaccinated, what are they going to do with the millions of tests that they won’t need anymore?” Five months later I got the answer, and it wasn’t what I was expecting. Tests were helping the most elite institutions and hurting those who needed help the most.

While late-April baseball is always something of crapshoot weather-wise, when you get an invitation for the luxury suites at Yankee Stadium, the possibility of a rain out is soothed by guaranteed overhead cover and a private bathroom. And so my wife and I were the beneficiaries of generous friends and off to the Bronx we headed. But first, I had to get a Covid rapid test that morning to prove I was not infectious. Beyond the limited seating capacity requirements that are common in the region, New York requires attendees of these kinds of events to show proof of full vaccination (I had only had my first shot) or a negative test. As annoying as it was for my nostrils, I passed with flying colors and handed over my insurance card to the urgent care clerk for processing. I had no idea what it might cost, but I figured even if it were a $50 deductible, I would still be way ahead against the $150 bottle of Grey Goose our hosts had ordered for the suite.

It would be a couple of weeks later when I opened my explanation of benefits that I realized how wrong things were going. The “billed rate” was $350 and I figured, like any other test, the payout would be along the lines of 10-20%. How wrong I was. The “negotiated rate” ended up at $220. I didn’t have to pay a thing, but either my company’s policy did or maybe they and the government shared the bill. But stop and do the math. Even with only 10,000 fans allowed, that’s $2.2 million a game just for the fans. Multiply that out over 81 games and it’s larger than the GDP of many countries. While the season progresses and more fans get vaccinated there won’t be a need for as many tests, but you can be sure that staff will have to get tested regularly, if for no other reason to try to protect the team should somebody allege that they got Covid at the game.

And more to the point, to what end do we need this testing, if indeed the efficacy of the rapid test is to be trusted? Even if somebody came down with Covid, there wasn’t any way to trace the fact I was there: My name wasn’t on the ticket, I never used my credit card, and my ID was never recorded. Sure, we went through the kabuki of social distancing (well, those in the general stands did). We played nice and wore masks as we entered the stadium, but soon after most fans’ masks, like the Yankees offense that afternoon, never showed up again.

So why the anger at what seems what sounds like a 1% of the 1% problem? The suite attendant. In casual conversation I asked how things had been during the season. While not complaining, he said that he usually worked one suite and it kept him busy all game. Now, he hustles five suites and barely makes a payday. When you think that the stadium sometimes needs upwards of 4,000 people to work a game, and you cut that by 80%, you don’t have to guess how many families are struggling. And while Democrats have always belittled “trickle-down” economics, they might want to ask the people for whom the stream has run dry. Yet it is Democratic governors who are creating the greatest inequity, this time through a “vaccine gap,” that is hurting the people who need the most help, the ones who can’t work from home, or the ones who don’t have Giancarlo Stanton’s astronomical, guaranteed contract.

While the CDC gave its updated “recommendations” last week (and it’s telling that they phrased it in terms of can/can’t and not should/shouldn’t), other states such as Florida are ending the class, err, vaccine, wars by barring businesses from even asking about vax status. Given that over half a million Americans have died from Covid, it is abundantly clear we were never going to protect ourselves in some bubble wrap of lockdown, partial capacity, or as a neighbor in my building still does to this day, pressing elevator buttons with your elbows. Risk is a part of life, and if we aren’t going to try and move forward, we are going to bankrupt our country. $220 at a time.

© 2021 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

The Ides of May

 

The Old Roman Senate, Scene of Caesar's Demise 

Friends, Republicans, countrymen, lend me your ears; I come to explain Liz Cheney, not to praise her. Today Republicans ousted their Chair of the House Republican Conference, the number three leadership position. Over the last few weeks, like any Shakespearean drama, the foreboding was clear. But how did we get here, and what does it mean?

In Congress there are various types of members. Some see it as a steppingstone to executive power—be it Governor or President. Some wait patiently over years, sometimes decades, for a committee chairmanship. A few are just there for the publicity—seemingly (or in their own minds) owing nothing to party leadership. Think AOC for the Democrats and Matt Gaetz for the GOP. Their importance in the legislative process is inversely proportional to the time they spend on TV, Twitter, and people talking about their time on TV and Twitter.

And then there is House “leadership,” starting with the Speaker and their mirror in the minority, and then some combination of deputies and whips on each side. They come from districts that, absent indictment (although not always) or catastrophe, are so safe they don’t even have to campaign for themselves. Tom Wolfe in The Bonfire of the Vanities spoke of certain political types as having “favor banks”; House leaders are a combination of the Treasury printing favors and the Federal Reserve distributing them.

Against this backdrop Liz Cheney falls into the scene. Fall isn’t quite the right term—more of moving slightly from behind the curtains to the stage front. Make no mistake, Liz Cheney is whip smart and well spoken, putting her ahead of about 95% of her Hill colleagues. During the Bush 43 campaigns and administration she and her sister were a powerhouse duo supporting and defending their father in the fiercest of ways. And to add to her superpowers, she and her husband are raising their five children. At age 54 she was poised for a long run to the top, but of all things couldn’t grasp what should have come naturally—leadership.

Part of the party leadership deal is giving up some of your passions, absent anything that would hurt your constituents, for the greater good of the party. You slug out Sunday morning talk show appearances simply because you have to, not because anybody cares. You make deals between members to keep them happy, not because the greater good of the country is served. You also signal what you want, ultimately to be Speaker, and forgo other electoral temptations. While hardly monastic, the reward for this life is immense political power and national influence. So, and improbably in just her third term, Liz Cheney staked her claim.

I can’t say I agree with Liz Cheney’s vote to impeach the President either on fact or as a leader in the party, but so she did. And while riling many feathers, she defended herself in front of her conference, winning a confidence vote mere weeks after having been voted into leadership in the first place. And here is where it all goes so wrong. Instead of using that second vote to secure her power and become politically untouchable she…persisted. Why? Leaders don’t make gratuitous power grabs in public—it’s a quiet takeover that even the vanquished acknowledge was inevitable when it is over. Strength accumulates by not flexing it in public. Yet for whatever reason Liz Cheney seemed to think that the Trump fight needed constant, and public, flogging. Was there some ancient grudge break to new mutiny between the Trumps and Cheneys? Who knows. But what also became clear was that, like it or not, the Trump show remained popular within the party and it needed to be stage managed since it wasn’t closing anytime soon. So like another well-known Italian drama, Casino, the bosses had had enough with Liz Cheney. And while not buried in an Indiana cornfield, her long-term political future is hardly a sure bet.

The irony here is that Liz Cheney’s behavior of battling, battling, and battling, unable to let go, unable to see the bigger picture, was just like Trump. It’s also what brought her down.

Et tu, Donald?

© 2021 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.