If Beacon Hill existed only in a TV sitcom and the politicians working there were an ensemble of actors hired to spoof the machinations of a blue-state legislature, the recent wrangling over a casino bill would be just another hilarious turn in an amusing but very dark comedy.
In the latest episode of our apocryphal TV show, we see our hapless protagonist, Gov. Deval Patrick, wringing his hands with worry. Though he has spent the better part of his first term in office trying unsuccessfully to legalize casino gaming—an effort that has disappointed and alienated many of his liberal supporters—now that the Legislature has finally put a casino bill in front of him to sign, our hero is getting cold feet.
We laugh because we know that Patrick can’t help himself. He is trapped in character, a smug Ivy Leaguer who, despite being sure that he’s the smartest guy in the room, remains utterly incapable of accomplishing anything. That Patrick will find a way to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory is the predictable part of every new plot line; the funny parts come from the tortured logic, the tone-deafness and over-the-top fatuousness of his rationalizations.
So rather than sign a casino bill that would authorize the development of three resort casinos (which our hero wanted all along), Patrick opts to reject the bill because it would also grant licenses to operate slot machines at some of the state’s troubled racetracks. Rather than sign the bill and declare his first and only major accomplishment, Patrick sends the bill back to lawmakers with an amendment: no slots.
“I call on the Legislature to accept the amendment promptly so that we can provide the good jobs at better wages and benefits that we all agree are available in destination resort casinos,’ Patrick says to a gaggle of reporters. “Had they done so two years ago, when I first proposed it, thousands of workers in the building trades and in other fields would be working today.’
We laugh. A number of us also take a sip of beer (or whatever adult beverage we’re having) as part of the drinking game fans of the show like to play: every time one of the characters says “good jobs at better wages”—the oft-repeated mantra of pro-casino pols—we take a sip. Usually we’re well lit by the second commercial.
The next scene opens in the office of Robert DeLeo, the speaker of the House and a benefactor of the racetracks in his district. DeLeo, who hails from the small town of Winthrop and whose district includes two racetracks, is a Democrat, just like the governor. But we’ll see no party loyalty from DeLeo, even when Patrick finds himself in a tough race for re-election. In DeLeo’s view, Patrick is playing to the “liberals” who oppose casinos, tossing them a bone by holding the line on slots.
“He’s probably underestimating the average working man and woman out there who want this,” DeLeo tells reporters.
We laugh at the absurdity of the idea that the casino bill is about serving the interests (or even the desires) of working men and women. The unions, which want casinos, are “outraged” by the governor’s latest move, DeLeo continues. We laugh again, amused at the facility with which DeLeo embraces unions and dismisses liberals.
With a few minutes left in this week’s show, we’re sure the casino bill is done for. Our last scene opens on Beacon Hill, in an empty chamber. The lawmakers have rushed off on summer vacation, ending the session without passing a casino bill. Surely the issue is dead.
Then we see the Senate president, Therese Murray, and her flunky, Senator Stan Rosenberg, a longtime casino opponent who flipflopped on the issue as a courtesy to Murray, whispering in the corner. Murray tried to convince Patrick to sign the bill as is and deal with DeLeo and his slots parlors later, squashing slots through the five-person regulatory board that will ultimately oversee gambling in the state.
A classic piece of cynicism, Murray’s ploy doesn’t move Patrick, who is a novice at hardball politics. Still, the senators may have a way to get two-thirds of their colleagues to vote to hold a special session, to come back to do “the people’s business.” They won’t come back because passing a casino bill is important, because it ostensibly creates “good jobs at better wages.” But the senators know what slop will get their colleagues to the trough: the chance to divvy up millions in federal health care subsidies.
Will Murray lure the Legislature back for one more try? Scenes from next week’s show don’t give the answer away.
