There's nothing exotic or complicated about how phenoms are made in Washington, and, more to the point, how they are broken.
"Andy Warhol said we all get our 15 minutes of fame," says Barack Obama. "I've already had an hour and a half. I mean, I'm so overexposed, I'm making Paris Hilton look like a recluse."
The new senator from Illinois is dazzling another venue, in this case the Gridiron Club. It is early December and Obama won't start his new job for a few weeks. But he comes well steeped in the basic physics of hype.
"I figure there's nowhere to go from here but down," Obama says. "So tonight, I announce my retirement from the United States Senate."
People laugh, swarm for pictures afterward. It is, in other words, the same-old Obama fuss -- a "same-old" for Obama that began for him well before he was elected.
One of the keys to being well liked in Washington is to appear humble, which is why Washington is so full of people who are so unhumble when it comes to touting how humble they are. All of this comes naturally to Obama.
His signature quality is the ease with which he inhabits his charisma. Nothing about him conveys "trying too hard," as one might sense with a John Kerry, who often appears to be burning 500 calories for every hand he shakes. When he works a room, there is no clench to Obama's perma-smile or detectable strain to his small talk. He projects effortlessly, whether being earnest, wonkish or sheepish, and as with so many "likable pols," he applies self-deprecation as a favorite balm against any prima donna conceit.
"I am genuinely somebody who doesn't get caught up in the hype," he says, adding that his wife, Michelle, loves to tease him about his big ears, and that he loves her for that.
"I think me puncturing my own balloon is something that's not only calculated to endear me to others," he says. "But it helps remind me of who I am and where I've come from."
Obama is an exotic figure of many facets -- in lineage (father from Kenya, mother from Kansas), history (the only black person in the Senate today, third since Reconstruction) and scarcity (few species are as rare today as Democratic phenoms).
It's hard enough being a new senator: so many rules to learn, rooms to find, staffers to hire. But Obama's arrival packs the added bother of ridiculous expectations -- in addition to the absurdity of signing autographs for the security guard wanding him at the airport, or being asked during a press conference about his "place in history." (This question came the day before Obama was sworn in.) "I don't think I have a place in history yet," Obama replied. "I got elected to the U.S. Senate. I haven't done anything yet." Which of course is a quaint way of looking at things, harking back to more proportionate times and sensibilities. In the context of "Mr. Obama Comes to Washington," the protagonist's peril is as plain as his face on magazine covers.
Examples abound of people of both parties acting too boldly too quickly. Sen. Rick Santorum is one such commonly cited Republican, as is the late Democratic Sen. Paul Wellstone. In his first term, when Santorum suggested that Senate veteran Mark Hatfield (R-Ore.) be removed from a committee chairmanship, Sen. Bob Kerrey (D-Neb.) famously quipped, "Santorum -- is that Latin for [anus]?" Both Santorum and Wellstone would later acknowledge their early battering ram tendencies. They learned to work more seamlessly within the Senate. Over time, they became respected and even liked by many colleagues of both parties (including Santorum by Kerrey).
It comes down to the same strategy: You don't want to come in too hard, too loud. "Do your homework, show up at committee meetings, keep a low profile," advises Tom Daschle, the Senate Democratic leader until recently, whose former chief of staff -- Pete Rouse -- works in the same capacity for Obama. "You want to make everyone aware that you're a workhorse." As opposed to a "show horse," the likes of whom are inevitably pegged and resented within the chamber.
Obama's first six weeks in Washington have been a study in Show Horse Prevention. In being Sen. Scutwork, downplaying his suddenly best-selling book and his designation as "hottest" senator in an online survey. In passing up an offer to sit in first class on a flight from Chicago to Washington, in case the media notice (which they did). In saying no to Jefferson-Jackson Day dinners in Kansas, Virginia, Indiana, Michigan and South Carolina.
Instead, Obama did a news conference in Moline, Ill., where he said the president's budget proposal would hurt veterans. He did a ribbon-cutting ceremony at a children's hospital in Chicago. He lamented at the confirmation hearing for Veterans Affairs Secretary-designate Jim Nicholson that "Illinois' disability pay compensation system is broken."
All perfect, unglamorous, unheralded stuff! And there are press releases to prove it.
Obama hosted "town meetings" in Lockport, Waukegan, Evergreen Park, Springfield, Woodstock, Naperville, Kankakee and Rock Falls. In Naperville, Obama joked to a crowd of 1,000 constituents that his Senate colleagues gave him a toothbrush on the first day and made him clean a latrine.
Obama was the only member of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations who sat through an entire day's hearing on Iraq -- a feat noted by committee chairman Richard Lugar. "Now let the record show that Senator Obama has been here from the beginning of the hearing," Lugar said to laughter, according to a transcript of the hearing (provided by Obama's staff). "And I appreciate your patience, Senator."
Obama is sitting in his new office in the basement of the Dirksen Building, which has not yet been re-christened the "Obama Building," although it's still early. "I'll leave that unanswered," he says, grinning. No trips to New Hampshire or Iowa, either, for what it's worth.
His basement office suits his campaign for workhorse status -- remote, unfurnished and windowless. It befits the senator who is 99th in seniority, and who likes to remind you that he's 99th in seniority. (And that he would be 100th in seniority, except that Illinois is a bigger state than Colorado, whose freshman senator, Democrat Ken Salazar, gets to be 100th instead.)
Obama is a few minutes late for an interview because he got caught up at a White House ceremony to mark Black History Month. He would have been on time, he says. But as he was plotting his "escape," Obama realized that his driver, David Katz, had never been to the White House, so he took him back into the reception. This is one of those small gestures that aren't so small when you're a celebrity.
"I told him it cost me 15 more pictures," Obama says. Even in jest, this is a rare instance where Obama lets slip with something that could be construed as immodest: volunteering a description of his celebrity force field, so big it breaches the White House.
No, Obama clarifies, this really wasn't such a big deal. "It wasn't like Laura was saying, 'Hey Barack.' "
Obama comes forth with all the right and humble bromides: "I'm here to do a job," "I've been elected to improve people's lives," "Everyone's been incredibly gracious."
And such.
"This is not a glamorous existence," Obama says. "I didn't expect it to be." He has the advantage of having been through this adjustment process before, he says, as a state senator in Illinois. It's not as if he's a former governor, accustomed to a big staff, constant attention and a bully pulpit. "I've been through the process of nobody paying attention to what you're doing," Obama says.
"He seems to be keeping his head down and doing everything right," says Sen. Ted Kennedy (D-Mass.), a celebrity senator from the outset of his 42-year career.
Colleagues are always quick to notice otherwise, says Thomas Mann, a congressional scholar at the Brookings Institution. They did when Al Gore, the son of a senator himself, was elected in 1984 and spoke out on high-profile issues such as arms control. He then ran for president in 1988, at age 39.
Obama, 43, is following what is known in Hill parlance as "the Hillary model," named for the former first lady whose transition into the Senate is considered a prototype of how celebrity senators should proceed.
"The idea is to capitalize on your celebrity while downplaying it at the same time," Mann says.
Sen. Clinton, he says, was good at picking speaking and fundraising venues, particularly to the benefit of her home state or caucus. She turned down most national media requests and speeches "where her presence would have elevated her over other elected leaders," Mann says.
"This star power is still going to be there in two months" for Obama, says Democratic strategist Howard Wolfson, a longtime aide to Clinton. In the meantime, Wolfson offers the standard prescription for Senate newcomers, variants of which Obama has heard himself from the dozen colleagues he's sought advice from: tend to his office and state, help colleagues when they ask, and wait on the Sunday shows.
"Offer to do extra work that will benefit the caucus," Daschle says. This will lubricate the relationships that Senate careers are built on. Also, Daschle says, "stay in coach class when you're flying somewhere."
He invokes a favorite line: "Those who travel the high road of humility don't face heavy traffic."
At interview's end, Obama takes another silly question about whether he'd run for president in 2008 (no) or whether he'd accept an offer to be someone's running mate (non-responsive). He is a few minutes late for his next meeting, with Sam Nunn, the former senator from Georgia who is sitting outside his office.
As Obama leads a reporter out, he pauses to chitchat in the waiting room. Obama stands just inches from Nunn, who is seated stone-faced, and whom Obama either doesn't notice or recognize. Finally, Nunn rises, extends his hand and greets Obama, who jumps onto his tippy-toes in surprise.
"Oh, Senator, I apologize," Obama says in deference. "I didn't realize."
No problem, Nunn says. Obama's a busy man. They small-talk into Obama's office.
"You know, so far so good," Obama says, closing the door.
