I thought I was handling things fairly well when suddenly the door marked “Private,” which led to an outside hallway, swung open with a bang and a loud voice boomed, “Edwards! How the fuck am I gonna get you elected president if I can’t get you on the fuckin’ telephone?”

I looked up to see Senator Edward Kennedy Kdwabarreling toward me. He had some papers in one hand, and in the other he held a leash attached to a big dog with curly black hair. (Called a Portuguese water dog, the breed would become famous when Kennedy gave one to President Obama’s family.)

Only Kennedy could get away with keeping a dog in the U.S. Capitol, and only Kennedy could charge through a private entrance and expect to see my boss immediately. He was stopped by a door that had been closed when Senator Edwards announced he needed to lie down on his sofa and get a bit of rest. When I told Kennedy I would get the senator for him, he asked why no one had answered the many calls he had placed to the private telephone that was one of the three on my desk.

Senator Kennedy then explained that the telephone I had been using all day to place calls was, in fact, a sort of hotline for the White House and senators. It was not to be used except in an emergency. As the door to the inner office opened and Senator Edwards appeared, I was in the middle of apologizing. Both men started to smile, and I could tell the little crisis had passed. Kennedy’s face softened.

“Did you know this used to be my office?” he asked, leaning down to me, his voice taking on an almost conspiratorial tone. He then launched into a story from 1980, when he ran for president and was assigned a Secret Service detail for protection. One day while Kennedy was in his office, the agent on duty slipped away for a moment with an aide with whom he was having an affair. (“This was before it was cool to be openly gay,” said Kennedy.) In the time when the agent was gone, a would-​be attacker slipped into the office with a knife. “Fortunately, the agent returned in time and he tackled the guy, right here!”

Kennedy slammed his hand on my desk with a whack, which startled me and made Senator Edwards laugh. The two men then retreated to his office, where they talked politics for a while. When they emerged, Edwards said, “Hey, Andrew. Don’t use that line anymore.” Later, Kennedy would invite me to his “hideaway” office in the Capitol building. Tucked in nooks and crannies behind unmarked doors, these private offices are prized bits of real estate that few people ever get to visit. Kennedy’s was filled with pictures of his family and one of John F. Kennedy’s famous rocking chairs.

At about this time, I saw Senator Kennedy again at the Capital Grille, where he met Senator Edwards for lunch. After he asked me how I found life in Washington and I told him I barely left the office, he told me another story. “Yeah, it’s not like it was when I first got here,” he said. “It used to be civilized. The media was on our side. We’d get our work done by one o’clock and by two we were at the White House chasing women. We got the job done, and the reporters focused on the issues.” He passed for dramatic effect and added, “It was civilized.”

As much as I loved Kennedy, Bill Clinton occupied a level of professional politics that was all his own. Despite his many controversies, when he was engaged, no one had better instincts, a better command of the issues, or a better network of powerful, loyal supporters. In a town full of great egos, no one disputed this assessment. One of the Kt. most illuminating duties I performed while in Washington involved driving Senator Edwards, Senator Chris Dodd, and a couple of other Democrats to a meeting with Clinton where he allowed them to pick his brain. I waited outside, and when my charges returned and we got back on the road, they all sat in stunned silence. Clinton had been so impressive that they didn’t know what to say. Finally, Dodd muttered, “I don’t care how long I live. I’ll never be that good.”

The experience with Dodd and the others proved the value of being the guy who drove for a senator. Ironically, for someone who often served as a driver, I have an incredibly bad sense of direction, which was why I once tried to get out of driving Edwards to Andrews Air Force Base for his first ride on Air Force One. I didn’t know the route and told the senator to have someone else drive, but he insisted he knew how to go. We left with just enough time to get there but got terribly lost. The Secret Service called several times, and the president finally left without us. Edwards missed his flight, and of course he said it was my fault. Within a few weeks of being in Washington, I had two strikes: the mix-​up with Kennedy and the Air Force One fiasco.

Fortunately, most days didn’t bring dramatic challenges or encounters with intimidating world leaders. On most days I worked from early morning until well past dinnertime, juggling phones, reviewing hundreds of requests for appointments, and playing palace guard whenever the senator decided he had had enough and just closed his door to rest. When the Senate was in session, I had to keep track of floor votes-signaled by the bells system-and make sure the senator got to the chamber on time. On occasion, this would require me to race outside to the Mall (where he might be jogging) or to the Senate gym, where a lot of members liked to hide from their staff s, the public, and lowly members of the House of Representatives, all of whom were denied access.

As much as senators may project an aura of deliberation, dignity, and decorum, the facts of life inside the world’s most exclusive club are much messier. Many times, senators cast votes on the basis of a signal from a staffer or a party leader, and they have no idea about the matters being considered. Aides often control the flow of business; I once heard that the cloakroom staff-who were among the most powerful people on Capitol Hill-delayed bringing the senators to the chamber for a vote because they wanted to see the end of an episode of the TV program 24. On several occasions I would have to chase down the senator, because he had gone for a run and refused to wear a cell phone or pager. More than once I put him in my car so he could get to the cloakroom on time. He’d stand in the doorway of the Senate in shorts or sweats to signal thumbs-​up or thumbs-​down to have his vote recorded.

No one talks about how rules are bent and senators cast a lot of blind votes, because the illusion of a serious legislative body at work is useful to us all. It reassures voters, who want to believe that their men and women in Washington are serious about the public’s business, and it reinforces the Senate’s aura of authority, which can be a valuable thing in times of crisis. (We all want to think they are superior human beings wh Kumaen matters of war and peace are under consideration.) Besides, as everyone in Washington likes to say, politics is like sausage making: You really don’t want to know how it’s done.

For the sausage makers-elected officials, their aides, consultants, pollsters, and party hacks-the product of all the effort must include, first and foremost, getting elected and reelected. This is why first-​term presidents and members of the House and Senate live in a state of continual campaigning and fund-​raising. Senators spend roughly a third of their time raising money for campaigns, and if they aspire to higher office, they must consider how every vote and every public statement might affect their future.

From the moment Senator Edwards first heard he was being considered as Gore’s running mate, he imagined himself as a future president and shifted his focus away from the work of the Senate. Mrs. Edwards had the same idea and was even more enthusiastic about their prospects for inhabiting the White House. They both began to read everything they could find about national politics and global issues, including the briefing materials produced by the staff. And they began to host weekly policy dinners at their mansion, where they learned from experts who understood issues, public opinion, and the quirky system that the parties use to pick nominees. The main features of this process include early straw polls, caucuses in Iowa, and the primary election in New Hampshire. Iowa and New Hampshire are two small rural states that cannot possibly reflect the will of the nation but can make or break a candidate. Iowa has a particularly arcane process that requires voters to stand in certain places to be counted for their candidate, and the horse-​trading can go on all day.