My Congressman doesn't exist. I am convinced of it.
In 1985, the late George Plimpton wrote a well-researched feature for Sports Illustrated about an eccentric pitching prospect at the New York Mets spring training camp. Among other readable details, Plimpton related that this guy, Siddhartha "Sidd" Finch, could throw a fastball 168 mph, more than 60 mph faster than the fastest fastball any human had ever thrown. I was a teenage subscriber to SI back then, and I not only read the Sidd Finch story, but, as a baseball fan, I devoured it. What was this going to do to baseball? What happens when Pedro Guerrero or Andre Dawson faces this guy? Will the commissioner change the rules or something?
Two weeks later, Plimpton and Sports Illustrated revealed that the story was a clever April Fool's Day hoax. (The issue in which it was printed was dated April 1, among other clues.)
On paper, it says that Howard Berman has been my congressman since he took the oath in 1983. In reality, I've never seen this man except for a picture on his Web site. There is a voting record for a guy named Howard Berman, but I can't get him on the phone. George Plimpton isn't around to fess up to any possible fraud. And as absurd as this may sound, I can't believe my congressman really exists because, unlike other area representatives, I've never seen him on television.
He could be Sidd Finch.
L.A. is a politically left-leaning town, and we are expressive about our left leanings. We attended the anti-war rally downtown en masse several weeks back. We have lots of anti-Bush bumper stickers on our otherwise pristine cars. It is considered de rigueur in L.A. to align with other lefties to bitch and moan about how shitty life is. Some of us can't throw away a beer bottle at a party without hunting down the hosts to ask if they recycle.
I'm a proud rider of that bitch 'n bottle bandwagon, and I've decided the über-cause of our times is the impeachment of the president. (I won't go into the reasons why here. There are plenty of books on the subject by people far more respected and well-versed than I.) To that end, I contacted my congressman, Howard Berman, Democrat, this summer, to see if he could impeach the president, please. The man has been my congressman for over twenty years and I've never asked him for anything. I figure he can do something about this one request. Seems fair, no?
I sent an email to Mr. Berman asking him to impeach the president, please. He responded right away. I mean, within minutes. I was thrilled. Oh, boy. My congressman's gonna impeach my president. I opened the email. It read:
"Thank you for your message to Congressman Howard Berman. To ensure delivery, if you did not include your name and address in the email, please resend the message with this information. Congressman Berman will get back to you shortly. Thanks again for sharing your thoughts."
I sent him two more emails expressing the same sentiment. I got back the same message. A goddamn auto-reply. A mechanical answer from a person who may not even exist.
So I called his Washington, D.C. office once. That got me an intern thanking me for my call—and telling me that no one, to his knowledge, had called to request that Mr. Berman impeach the president, please. Then again, he did say, "But I'm new here."
Finally, about two months ago, I got a more personal response from Howard Berman—or someone claiming to be Howard Berman. It was another email, a nice, bland, harmless, politically hedged email, explaining why he can't impeach the president. He rattled off the reasons I expected, namely how it was impossible since Republicans control everything in Congress. He added that restructuring Iraq, homeland security measures, and fighting the Bush tax cuts "require all of our attention now." Maybe he meant it requires everyone else's attention because on his Web site, he congratulates himself for securing money for local projects and he trumpets his appointment as chief liaison to the entertainment industry. There's even a picture of him with our mayor.
At this point, I gave up. I figured the only way to get through to him would be to meet him in person, and according to his Web site, the only way to meet him in person is to be the mayor of Los Angeles. If it weren't for that picture, I'd be 100% sure that he didn't exist. I mean this guy is never on television.
Every week, as the news gets worse for George W. Bush and the political climate keeps leaning to the left, the more tempted I am to ask Representative Berman if his feelings had changed. But still I refrain. I know he's not going to jump on the impeachment horse unless the Democrats gain control of the house in 2006, and I have no other requests for him. Not even to ask if he could use his show business liaison gig to get my latest screenplay to Paul Giamatti's people.
Fast forward to Tuesday, our state's special election. I waltzed up Laurel Canyon Boulevard towards the neighborhood convalescent home after parking almost a block away. As I passed Shakey's Pizza, a guy was coming at me the other direction. I slowed down and gawked. That white hair and gentle face reminded me of someone. Despite the nondescript dress shirt and tie, he wasn't just some day trader who'd dashed in to vote after a day of trafficking in mutual funds. He wasn't a celebrity. He didn't remind me of a friend's dad or former coworker.
He didn't slow down. He didn't look at me. He walked past me and turned towards the parking lot between the convalescent home and Shakey's Pizza, down that too-narrow driveway.
It was him. My congressman. The guy on the Web site.
I ran back after him. "Excuse me?"
He turned around.
Me: "Are you Howard Berman?"
Berman: "Yes."
I raced up to him and we shook hands.
Me: "Hi. Joe Dungan. I'm one of your constituents."
Berman: "Thank you for voting. I'm very curious to see what happens today."
I didn't even have my "I Voted" sticker on yet. What is this guy? A mind-reader?
Me: "I'm the guy who keeps sending you the letters asking you to impeach President Bush. I mean, I know you can't, really, because Republicans control everything, but I just want you to know I want that guy out of there."
Berman: "I tell you, I think he's overreaching."
Me: "Thank you for being a loyal Democrat and just know that when it's time to impeach the president, you have the support of many people out here."
Berman: "You're welcome."
That's all of the conversation I can reconstruct. I remember him talking plenty more, but strangely enough, I don't remember much of it. I don't even remember if he said goodbye. That wasn't some actor pulling off a ruse in public. Nobody but a politician could improvise such forgettable chitchat so eloquently.
Jesus, he exists. At least, the man I ran into matches the picture on his Web site. I have a congressman!
In my fit of disbelief—you'd think I'd met Paul McCartney or something—I neglected to hand him a business card. I didn't even bother to send him a follow-up email until the next morning. I made clear in the header of the email that I was the guy who ran into him in the Shakey's parking lot. He can't possibly run into too many people at Shakey's. He'd have to remember it was me. In the email, I reminded him who I was, that it was a pleasure to meet him finally, reiterated my distaste for the president, and asked if he has a speaking schedule or something for his in-town visits.
True, that was only 48 hours ago, but I haven't received an answer.
Not even one of his instantaneous auto-replies.
L.A. Nuts is a weekly look at the cast of characters that make up this city.
