Pilgrims Descend on the Potomac, Where Furs Fly in a Land of Titles

The vast drama of a presidential inauguration is a morality play of several acts, many scenes, thousands of players. In Washington this week are men and women who have come to play for a while, or to play for keeps--on stage in the spotlight of the world.

It is a latter-day pilgrimage, Chaucer on the Potomac.

High principle and conviction figure into the performances.

So do pleasure, greed, regret, envy and anxiety. Most of all, perhaps, ego: the wish to be seen, to be admired, to vanquish.

Here follow the First and Second Tale.

The Furrier’s Tale

Fy on possession

But if a man be vertuous withal

All around town, the fur is flying. Mink, fox, sable in profusion, draped upon elegant figures, many of them hurrying in and out of jet-black limousines.

The fur coats and capes do not, as one might expect, belong to Republicans fleeing town. Instead, they are wrapped luxuriously around power-to-the-people Democrats, those pushers of political and environmental correctness returning to the top after 12 years in the wilderness, which may be where they trapped those furs.

“I’m surprised to see so many furs. This is not the symbol I wanted for the new Administration,” moaned Lana Beckett, a Democratic partisan who flew in from San Francisco for the inauguration.

In truth, however, the panoply of pelts should come as no surprise. It merely reflects the way both political parties pay for their inaugurations, not to mention their campaigns. The majority of furs enfold fat cats, those legions of corporate executives, Hollywood nabobs and other big contributors whose $10,000 checks and million-dollar loans keep things humming--and buy them access to seats of power.

Although Commerce Secretary-designate Ronald H. Brown was forced to cancel a party to be thrown by rich friends Sunday night, Democratic Party officials are forging ahead with the “Stealth Ball”--a largely secret affair for major contributors after the inauguration on Wednesday.

Numerous other parties are filling museums, concert halls, hotels and private salons. Possibly mindful of the night from hell eight years ago when hundreds of Republican ballgoers took hours to recover their fur wraps--or someone else’s--from a coat-check counter, Rep. Dave McCurdy (D-Okla.) provided two coatrooms for his contributors at a party Sunday night--one for cloth, the other for fur.

McCurdy well understands the Orwellian truth that even among coats, some are more equal than others.

Local furriers gleefully report an inaugural-related surge in business, some from the real thing and some from wannabies willing to turn their bodies into Potemkin-villages-for-a-night.

“I’ve gotten so many phone calls from people who want to rent furs for parties, I don’t have enough to accommodate them,” said David Kiszely, who has a store in suburban McLean, Va.

Saks Jandel, a Chevy Chase, Md., furrier, advertised a sale in Monday’s Washington Post, from a ranch mink jacket for $1,960 to a Russian sable coat for $24,740. “This Fur Sale Demonstrates the Value of Leadership,” the ad declared--a transparent pitch to Democrats celebrating their new leaders.

“One good thing about Washington is that every four years the inauguration does help sales,” said Peter Marx, the store’s vice president.

The anti-fur people can take heart from at least one development. Hillary Clinton, spouse of President-elect Bill, announced Monday morning that her coat for that evening’s events would be olive-green--and the black fur on the collar is fake.

The Deputy Assistant’s Tale

And therefore, at the kynges court, my brother,

Ech man for himself, ther is noon oother.

The man who is about to leave the White House plays horseshoes, a game of inches, where “close” counts.

Oh, how it counts.

In this great city, at historic junctures like this one, men and women in good neckties and well-cobbled shoes, with degrees from reputable institutions of learning, will grovel for “close”--for that job just a millimeter or two higher up the organizational chart . . . will sacrifice small animals or midlevel bureaucrats to be named an “assistant to” rather than a “deputy assistant to.” Get me in, get me closer, get me higher--get me?

From a title, many things flow: salary, office space (with a window or even windows, nearer to The Man or The Woman), perks (not being put on hold, maybe a seat on Air Force One, A-list dinner invitations).

Just the other night, a couple of gentlemen who now bear the title of deputy assistant to the incoming President were peeved that they, who for months had consulted with Bill Clinton almost daily, were stiff-armed out of a White House meeting that was open only to full “assistants to the President” and above.

“The substantive reason it matters so intensely,” mused a top Capitol Hill staffer on Monday, from a vantage point above the fray, “is not the issues the person works on, but whether you’re at that level to go to the meetings where the policy is decided on and set in motion.”

Without the title, you’re not at the table. “And if you’re not at that table, you’re tremendously disadvantaged. It isn’t just working on the issues--it’s making the play happen . . . creative outflanking--the playground for all that happens on higher levels.”

Louis XIV had all this refined to a Gallic art; his courtiers fought like cornered wolverines over the rank and prestige of who would hand Louis’ handkerchief to the man who would hand Louis his handkerchief.

Subtle distinctions that are lost on anyone 100 miles outside Washington are staggeringly important here. Like whether one has an office in the West Wing of the White House, or in the nearby Old Executive Office Building--the difference, in L.A. real estate lingo, between Beverly Hills and Beverly Hills-adjacent.

One incoming Clintonian of some stature decided this week to ditch the struggle altogether, and take up quarters in the OEOB. “It gets me out of all the politics of who gets what office in the West Wing,” he says. “And anyway, the offices in the OEOB are much bigger. And you get a couch.”

The same Beltway verities hit hard in Hollywood, where some reshaped noses were reputedly out of joint at not being invited for the inaugural, not being invited early, not being asked to perform--choose your slight.

“Their best selves elected Clinton,” a prominent producer told The Times last week. “Now their worst selves are kicking in. . . . Hollywood thinks this party is for them.”

Hollywood thynks not alone.