Jim Beem’s Jokes Go Down Well in Capitol

Officer Jim Beem creeps up behind an unsuspecting teenage visitor to the Capitol and whispers into his police radio.

“Green jacket?” he asks. “Yeah, I’ve got him right in front of me.”

The student looks anxiously over his shoulder, wondering what he could possibly have done wrong.

“Gotcha!” Beem declares.

It’s only midday, but Beem already has played dozens of jokes on visitors. For more than a decade, his neighborly greetings, lame jokes and tidbits of history have warmed those who troop up the Capitol’s cold marble steps.

“There are people here making six figures who are miserable. They’ve got headaches, ulcers,” Beem says. “I have fun. They have fun. They smile. I’m smiling. I love this job.”

Regulations will force the 58-year-old Beem to retire in October at the end of his 20th year on the force. But until then, Beem will be beaming on the Capitol beat.

Most of the time, he roams the third floor, shepherding visitors into a House viewing gallery so they can gaze down at the place where laws are made and presidents expound on the state of the union.

The three shiny corridors that surround the gallery are his stage.

“Where are you from originally?” one woman asks.

“State of confusion,” Beem jokes.

He’s really from Norfolk, Va. A Marine at age 17, Beem did two tours of duty in Vietnam during a 22-year military career that ended one Friday in 1977. The next Monday, he joined the U.S. Capitol Police.

He’s been one of 1,100 officers on the Capitol force ever since, helping protect the lawmakers and more than 7 million people who visit the Capitol each year.

With his intense hazel eyes and bushy white eyebrows, Beem can be hard to ignore.

Like a sergeant barking orders to new enlistees, the 6-foot, 2-inch, 200-pound Beem tells a group of students what items they can’t take inside the gallery.

“No cameras, calculators, hair spray, aerosol cans, flash attachments, radios, batteries, whistles, extra shoes,” he says in a rapid-fire manner. “No food, binoculars, umbrellas, backpacks, beepers, Mace, tear gas or cellular phones.”

It’s too much to absorb; The visitors exchange looks warily. Beem promises to run through the list again--this time backward. His listeners expect to get the same rundown in reverse order; instead, Beem turns his back on them and runs through it again from the start.

A few minutes later, Beem pretends to be a school truant officer and stops 9-year-old Reid Shortridge from Phoenix. Reid doesn’t buy the shtick, so Beem resorts to an old standby.

“Want to see my pride and joy?” he asks, pulling out his wallet.

Reid and his parents are poised for a snapshot of a grandchild. But Beem whips out a photo of Pride furniture polish and Joy detergent.

“He’s a joy to know,” says Rep. Jon D. Fox (R-Pa.), who always steers visitors by Beem’s post. “He’s one of the most informative, energetic, entertaining, patriotic Americans I’ve ever met. He really personalizes the Capitol.”

On weekends, Beem, a father of three grown sons, entertains in piano lounges. And sometimes early in the morning, he can be heard crooning Sinatra through the quiet Capitol corridors.

“The summer wind, came blowing in, across the sea . . . ,” Beem warbles in a Capitol coffee shop, giving patrons a sample rendition.

A few minutes later, he’s doing John Wayne--the walk and the talk--for a janitor. He boasts he once did it for Wayne’s son, Michael, who visited the Capitol.

“Well, you’re looking good, big guy,” he drawls.

Even his badge--No. 1200--fits the part.

“High noon,” Beem explains.